Syd March (Antiviral) x Fem reader
This was a request made by @hrrysweetcherry ♡
hurt/comfort, manipulation, toxic relationship, addiction, implied nonconsensual drugging, blood!
She knew what Syd was doing to himself. She could see it in how his body withered away and he would wake up in the middle of the night and throw up blood in the toilet. His eyes were hazy with fever as his face pinked and sweat slicked his brow.
But she never did anything to stop him. A sick smile would spread across painted lips, and her manicured nails would brush through his hair, pushing it away from his face.
Her voice was always soft as she pressed kisses to his cheeks and face, careful to stay away from his mouth, which was speckled with dry blood. Her lipstick left stains. Grim marks of love as she whispered for him to get better while sliding another needle into his hands. She understood what he needed. He needed the disease, to feel the burn of illness and the spinning nausea of fever.
She loved him though. Her soft comfort as she laid his head in her lap, a towel down to catch his cough and save her skirt. "Oh, honey..." She would murmur as his chest wracked with ragged coughs and wheezing breaths, but she never once stopped him.
She always cleared away the trays, the linen, and the blood stained clothes. She made sure that he bathed and ate, even though he coughed it all up later. She made sure he was hydrated, even though he would sweat it all out in his sleep. She made sure he could breathe at night, that the sickness wouldn't get too far. She did it all with a sweet smile on her face.
She doted on him, smothering him in love as he ate the contaminated food and pushed needles full of disease into his arms. The scars were constant now, and the bruises never had a chance to heal. They were stark against his pale, freckled skin. Some days, he looked as white as snow.
On the bad days, when sleepless nights stretched and the bruises under his eyes grew dark, she would take care of him. Humming to him and petting his hair until he fell asleep. Never mind that she always made him eat a special meal. It was full of drugs. Drugs to make him sleep. Drugs that made him better and crave the illness more. Drugs that kept him dependent on her.
He loved her. He loved her warmth and the scent of her perfume. He loved the feeling of her hands in his hair and her lips on his feverish skin. Loved her smile and her eyes and how she was the center of his world. He loved how she spoke softly, whispering words of comfort. "Oh, honey..."
And she never stopped him. And he always loved her. After all, what was he without her? He was just a sick man, lying in his own blood and vomit.
And he never noticed her sweet, psychotic smile as she looked down at him, his head in her lap while she pet his hair and wiped the blood from his lips.
summary: You enter a world that treats you as an omen, yet one man sees you with a softness that borders on hunger. Your bond rises like mist from the earth, trembling between fear and desire, and the village’s ruthless scrutiny.
Walter Thirsk (Harvest, 2024) x female!reader
tags: smut with feelings • breasts fondling • nipple sucking • outdoor sex • p in v sex • from behind • unprotected sex • first time
chapter 3
You kiss him.
Your kiss lands full and deep, acting on the truth your loins already know. Walter inhales sharply through his nose, and his hands find your hips with a surety that stops your breath for a moment. His fingers curve hard into your flesh, steadying you, drawing you flush against the heat of him as though he means to fuse your bodies together, right here, right now.
The grass bows beneath your knees as the two of you sink into it. The blades bend in a long, soft sweep that releases the scent of crushed earth and late-summer sweetness. Walter follows you down without breaking the kiss. His mouth is hungry now, and made bold by the urgency in yours. His lips move against yours with a deepening pressure, his breath warms your cheek, and when he parts his mouth to you, you can’t help but mirror his action. The kiss is sure and steady as his hands sliding up your sides, as his thumbs caressing the edge of your ribs before returning to your hips with a grip that tells you exactly how long he’s wanted this and how tightly he is holding himself back from taking too much too fast.
“I could feast on you every night, to lull me to sleep,” he giggles from between your breasts. Soon, he takes them both in each warm hand, and closes his mouth on your nipples—first the left, then the right.
You shiver at the soft suckling and kissing; at how he alternates between caressing you with his tongue and gently puffing at the peaks that he’d dampened and kissed raw.
Your bodies press together. The sun-warmed air moves over your skin, cooling you in streaks and patches, while the rest of you burns from where his chest finally meets yours. His legs shift, bracket your hips, and the light friction of his thigh against your own makes your breath hitch. Walter hears it, of course he does, and he answers with another of those low sounds that vibrate against your lips.
He pulls you closer with a steady, hungry intention. His hands slide from your hips to the small of your back. His palms feel broad and hot as he draws you up into him, closing the last sliver of distance left between your bodies. Your skin meets his in a long, unbroken sweep of warmth, and you stay there; belly to belly, thigh to thigh, chest rising against his chest. The contact sends a slow shiver down your spine, and your breath catches again against his mouth. The grass crackles under the shifting weight of your bodies. It is now a wild bed of green bending low around you as if making space for you both.
Walter soon kisses you harder, and his lips shamelessly claim yours. He tastes of the lake, of sunlight, and of the breath he’s been holding since you mirrored his own eagerness. His stubble scrapes your cheek, and it makes your thighs tighten around him instinctively. When you do, his breath breaks, and his grip on your hips tightens with it. One of his hands slides lower, cupping beneath the curve of your backside, pulling you against the full, unmistakable length of his arousal.
The contact steals a sound from your throat. It sounds raw and involuntary, and Walter answers with a rough exhale that lands hot against your ear. He buries his face briefly along your jaw, kissing the line of it with a fervor that has nothing polite left in it. His mouth moves down to the tender hollow beneath your ear, then along your throat. His lips drag slowly over your skin as though he needs to taste every centimeter of you.
The wind moves across your bodies, dries the last beads of lake water on your skin, and lifts strands of hair that brush across Walter’s cheek as he lowers you deeper into the grass. The earth beneath you is warm, softened by the sun, and the smell of it rises up around you. It tastes of loam and crushed stems, and the intoxicating sweetness of meadow flowers, all mixing with the hum of insects and the distant cry of a bird overhead.
No one checks for breath or pace.
All you can feel is the sure, hungry press of Walter’s body against yours and the heat of his mouth taking everything you offer.
Each movement sends a ripple through the field. The slender stalks drag lightly along your thighs and across the curve of your hip, tracing the length of your bare skin with touches so fine they feel almost like fingertips, brushing in places Walter’s hands haven’t reached yet. Every time the two of you shift, the grass leans with you, whispering through its own small language; one of heat, and friction, and the quiet surrender of earth under flesh.
Warm dirt clings to your elbows where they brace into the earth, grounding you to the land that holds your weight. The smell of the sun-baked soil and crushed green rises around you as your back presses deeper into the grass. Walter moves above you with a steady notion, his knees sink into the loose earth on either side of your hips, and the dark grit smears across his skin as he shifts his stance, knees pressing deep enough to leave impressions. When he slides closer, the rough warmth of the ground pushes up against the backs of your calves, dirt catching on your damp skin in flecks that glitter in the sunlight.
The sun itself feels different now, as if it knows exactly what it is gilding. Light pours over your shoulders in slow, molten drifts, turning each droplet of sweat on your skin into a shining bead before it slips down the slope of your collarbone or the curve of your breast. Walter’s arms glow with the same gold; the fine hairs catch the light as he leans down. His chest moves above yours in long, deep breaths. The sunlight traces each rise, keeping time with the deeper pulse building between you.
A breeze slides through the field, threading fingers through your hair until a long strand lifts and drapes itself across Walter’s cheek. He pauses, and then his hand comes up with that same rough gentleness you’ve already learned to recognize. His fingers slip into your hair, find the root of it, and curl firmly. He gathers a handful and draws your head back just enough that your throat arcs toward the sun. The kiss he gives you then is deeper than any before, made urgent by the offering of your mouth, his lips sealing over yours with a hunger that seems to pull the wind itself into stillness.
The world around you hums woven into the heat between your bodies. Birds call from somewhere in the pines, their voices carrying over the field in bright, scattered notes that fall into the space between you. Insects croon their low summer chorus closer by. The lake, just beyond the rise, laps gently at the stones like a steady heartbeat of water answering the heartbeat thudding against Walter’s ribs where his chest brushes yours.
You feel like you’re about to explode.
Every sound, every breath of wind, and every movement of light folds itself into the moment. Grass presses into your spine, dirt warms beneath your calves, sunlight stains the curve of your shoulder, Walter’s hands claim your hips, and all of it moves together. Nature and flesh, breath and soil, hunger and heat all woven into one pulsing, living thing that holds the two of you in its center.
It feels like the whole world has paused just to witness the joining.
Soon, Walter’s hands roam your body with a need he no longer tries to hide. His palms slide over your waist, your ribs, and the curve of your backside, gripping wherever he feels the shape of you shift under his touch. His fingers tighten just enough to steady you, to claim the place where flesh meets his hand, and each time he does, heat blooms in your belly.
He presses his mouth to your jaw. It’s a kiss that lands hard and open, dragging heat along your skin. His breath comes rough against your neck. It’s hot enough to make you arch into him, and he follows that curve instinctively; his lips keep moving down to the hollow beneath your ear. He kisses you there, wet and messy, before moving lower, across the slope of your throat where your pulse beats quick and frantic, and he breathes you in like the scent alone could undo him. When his mouth reaches the top of your breast again, he kisses it with his lips full and open. His breath catches as his mustache scrapes across your sensitive skin. It steals a gasp from you, and Walter answers with a sound deep in his chest.
Your hands grip his shoulders automatically in response, and your fingers dig into the hard line of muscle beneath his skin. You feel the strength of him there; the real, working strength, the one that comes from mending fences and hauling wood and weathering long winters, and you cling to him like a starved lover. Your nails rake down his back, leaving tracks along his shoulder blades, and the sensation drags a broken exhale from him.
Oh, how much you need him.
He shifts above you then, guided by the raw pull of his body toward yours. One of his hands finds your hip, and the weight of it makes your breath falter in your chest. He urges you forward with a silent pressure, guiding you onto your belly. The grass accepts you first, and you feel its cool blades touch your chest and stomach, bending beneath the heat of your skin. Walter keeps your hips high with one hand. His thumb traces a stroke along the bone, possibly to reassure both of you that he knows exactly what he’s asking for, and what he’s about to take.
You brace yourself on your forearms. The earth is warm beneath them, and the dirt clings to your elbows where your weight presses down. The shift in position sends a shiver through your spine, and Walter sees it, and feels it, and his other hand comes to steady your thigh. It’s a touch so sure and sweet it almost contradicts the roughness building in the air around you.
Then his hand stills, and he lowers himself behind you. You feel the shift in his breath before you feel his touch.
He doesn’t kiss your wetness gently; not with you so open beneath him. His mouth finds you with a heat that startles. It’s a full, unhesitating press right where you feel the softest. His lips land wet and certain, and the contact is so sudden and intimate that your whole body jolts, and your elbows buckle into the grass. Your breath leaves you in a sharp, helpless sound as your head drops forward.
Walter hears it and answers with a sound almost too raw to be called a moan, and the vibration of it hums directly against you. His face fits between the swell of your buttocks. His soft stubble brushes your inner thighs, and his breath warms the place where you need him most. His hands slide up to grip your hips. You feel his thumbs spread you with a tenderness that makes the whole position feel unbearably exposed. You can feel how openly he sees you, how nothing is hidden in this angle; not the heat, not the natural slickness between your delicate folds, not the first hints of your arousal gathering there, begging to be loved on.
His tongue follows the first kiss, unashamed. It’s a stroke that parts you and leaves his mouth slick against your skin. He licks you again, broader, and you feel the drag of his tongue from the base of you upward, towards the small circle of your opening. The tip of his tongue soon enters you there, prodding gently, drinking on your juices.
The heat inside of you blooms so fast that your knees slip further apart in the grass. You don’t think for your body simply yields.
He holds you lower, guiding you open with a sure pressure of his hands, until his nose is nearly pressed against you and you feel his breaths in humid bursts across the hot wetness he’s creating.
Then comes the sound. It’s wet, the soft pull of his mouth drawing at you with uncivilized hunger. You hear it as much as you feel it: the quiet, greedy seal of his lips; the smack when he shifts; the low, satisfied noise he makes in the back of his throat that vibrates through the tender center of you.
His tongue grows firmer. He licks you deeper, tasting you with a consuming intent. Each stroke pulls heat from a place so hidden it makes your spine curl downward, and your fingers dig into the dirt. When the tip of his tongue circles the most sensitive part of you, you feel your breath stutter and then disappear entirely. Your thighs tremble around his head. Oh, how he is taking his time with you.
“Sweet… like the morning dew,” he whispers.
He drags you closer with both hands and pulls you back onto his face. His thumbs spread you wider so he can taste you without obstruction. You hear the soft suction as he draws you in again, and the breath he loses when you shudder around him.
The pleasure rises bewilderingly fast. The wind moves across your back, lifting your hair while his mouth drives heat higher and higher until your vision blurs.
When he closes his lips around your clit and sucks heavily, the sound you make is far from civilized. Your hips lunge forward, then backward, caught between fleeing the intensity and pressing into it. Walter growls against you. The vibration is deep enough to split you open, and his grip tightens at your buttocks so you cannot pull away even if you wanted to.
You collapse onto your hands, and your fingers claw into the grass as your body convulses against his mouth. Walter doesn’t let go of your hips. He’s squeezing you there while he licks you through every trembling shudder, chasing every last ripple with patient stroke of his tongue against your opening until your thighs begin to loosen and your breath returns in quivering pulls.
Only then does he lift his mouth from you; breath ragged, his face wet with your essence, his hands still cupping your hips for he can’t quite bear to stop touching you. You then feel his strong fingers prodding at the mess he’s created, coaxing you to open wide enough for him to fit the hardness of his inside the softness that is your pulsating core.
And it welcomes him, and so does your whispered plea.
When he enters you a moment later, it is slow only for a moment. His breath catches in a gasp so soft you almost miss it, and then the sound that follows; a low, broken groan torn from his depths, makes the world tilt on its axis. You feel him shudder behind you, feel the way he tries to steady himself with a hand pressed to your hip.
He begins to move, at first with a slow thrust, and it makes your mouth fall open because the fullness of him steals all ability to speak. But the restraint doesn’t last. Need sweeps through him fast. It’s now unstoppable, and the next thrust comes deeper; the one after harder; the one after that a surrender to everything he has been holding back. His pace builds from hunger, from the overwhelming truth that he has wanted you long enough for the control to break the moment he feels you beneath him. He sees you so open and willing against the crushed grass.
Each movement pushes your body forward into the earth. Dirt warms your knees, grit clings to your belly, and the smell of soil fills your lungs with each breath. The grass bends beneath you both in long whispers, swaying with the rhythm his hips drive into you. Each thrust matches by the rustle of stalks giving way under your combined weight. Walter’s breath grows uneven and ragged, falling in warm bursts against your back, and every sound he makes tightens your core around him.
Your fingers tangle in the grass, clutching it like it might anchor you against the force of him. In your head, the world narrows to the heat of his hands gripping your backside, to the the press of his thighs against yours, to the the rough slide of his breath along your spine, and to the relentless, pulsing connection where your bodies meet with a slap.
Nothing exists outside this moment; not the lake, not the sky, not even the wind or the village. What remains is the feel of him taking you from behind with a need so raw it borders on animalistic.
Walter’s pace then falters only for a breath, and when he leans over you, bracing one hand in the grass beside your shoulder, the other still locked tight around your hip, he says your name in a tone that startles you. It comes out rough, and it’s dragged from his chest, cracking slightly on the last syllable as if the force of wanting you has scraped it raw. Hearing it like that, shaken so loose by pleasure, by need, and by the truth of having you under him out in his beloved nature, makes your body tighten around him in a way that steals his breath entirely.
He slows, grounding himself inside you. You reach back immediately, and your hand fumbles for his cheek. He leans into your palm, pressing his face to your touch like a man starved for gentleness. You turn your head enough to meet him halfway. Your fingers slide along the soft line of his jaw, tracing the coarse stubble, the heat of his skin, and you feel the small tremor that runs through him when your thumb finally grazes the corner of his mouth.
He shudders and lowers himself until his forehead meets your shoulder. The contact sends a rush of warmth down your spine; sweat gathers between your skin and his, slick and salted by exertion, and his breath mingles with yours in short, unsteady bursts that fog the air between your lips. His nose brushes your skin. His mouth grazes your cheek. His hips keep moving, and each thrust is sinking deeper still.
Your fingers cradle his face and you feel him fall apart under the gentleness of the gesture. He lifts his head just an inch, enough to look at you properly. You notice that his eyes are blown wide; his pupils look dark and desperate. The blue is nearly swallowed whole. His lips part like he’s trying to speak; like words are fighting their way up his throat faster than he can catch them.
What actually comes out is barely a roughened whisper.
“God… you feel right.”
The sentence fractures as he exhales. His voice is painted by disbelief and painful hunger. His hips press forward again, deeper this time, and the movement drags another soft gasp from you, which in turn makes him groan low in his chest. He presses his temple harder against your back. His fingers flex on your hip. His body is stuttering with the force of the feeling of your warmth.
You stroke your thumb across his lower lip, feeling it tremble beneath your touch, and he closes his eyes like the sensation alone is too much, like being seen in the heat of this moment is more intimate than the act itself. His breath catches again. It’s a small, broken half-sound, and by the time he manages to speak the next words, they’re so quiet you’re not sure if he meant them for you or for himself.
“I need you.”
Your breath falters at that. He feels it, responds to it, and moves with it.
His hips quicken just a notch. It feels like a helpless addition to the truth he’s just given voice to. He buries his face against your cheek as though he can’t bear the distance of even looking at you while admitting something so bare. Sweat slicks the line of his spine, his chest presses fully against your back, and the rhythm between you tightens despite the roughness of his breath.
You turn your head toward him, seeking his mouth, and he meets you with a kiss that is far from the hungry ones before. This one lingers, and the touch of his mouth is tender, for a change. You cup his face in both hands now, holding him there, learning the ridge of his cheekbone, the heat of his brow, the hardness hidden in the soft line of his jaw, and the way his mouth gives beneath yours when he whispers something against your lips that sounds like it escaped him involuntarily.
“Been waiting for this…”
his voice breaks, then steadies again, barely,
“…without knowing it.”
The words fold around you as surely as his arms, as surely as his body driving into yours, and as surely as the earth rising warm beneath your knees.
They’re instinct. It’s truth pulled straight from the center of him.
And as he moves inside you, his forehead resting against your neck, breath and sweat and heartbeat tangled between your bodies, you realize the roughness has given way to the raw, unguarded truth of a man who didn’t mean to fall this hard, this fast, and is now too deep to hide it.
The rhythm between you unravels slowly at first. The careful pace Walter had been fighting to hold is now slipping by degrees until every movement becomes driven by feeling rather than thought. His hips meet yours with a force that shudders through both your bodies. The air thickens around you; it’s summer-heavy and trembling with heat, and each thrust pushes a broken sound from your chest. Your breath is shaking through the blades of grass crushed beneath you. Walter’s fingers clamp harder around your chest, the warmth of his palm spreading through your skin like a brand, his thumb digging into the soft place just above your nipple as though he’s trying to root himself in the feel of your body, trying not to be swept under your spell.
The grass no longer bends softly to match you. It flattens in wild, frantic arcs around your bodies. The long stalks shiver under each hard roll of Walter’s hips, and the rustle of it is loud enough to sound almost like rainfall, like a dry crackling rush of summer stems breaking and giving way. The earth beneath you trembles, the dirt shifts under your knees, and the grains cling to your skin in warm, gritty flecks while the smell of crushed meadowgreen rises around you in sharp, sweet bursts. Walter leans into you with a rough, unsteady groan. The sound is vibrating against your back as he thrusts deeper, harder into your core, his breath coming in ragged pulls that brush the shell of your ear, the side of your neck, and the damp line of your shoulder where sweat has begun to gather in a thin sheen.
His hands roam without finesse now, sliding up the slope of your hip only to seize your waist again, gripping so firmly the warmth of his hold pulses through your flesh. It’s a spreading heat that will mark you long after this moment ends. When he reaches for your thigh, drawing it up and back to open you wider for him, the movement steals a gasp from your throat and sends a crackling wave through the grass beneath you. The stalks are whipping against your skin as he drives into you with power that makes your fingers curl into the dirt.
The contact is raw and staggering, and each stroke of his length lands deeper than the one before. You soon feel his pace lose its rhythm entirely as pleasure overtakes restraint and the movement becomes a frantic, hungry mating; an old wordless language written in the meeting of bodies and the breathless sounds pulled from both of you.
Your body rises to meet him out of the same primal pull that has taken hold of him. Your hips tilt back with every thrust, seeking him with a need that burns through your veins and leaves you whimpering. You reach for him blindly, your fingers slide up the hard ridge of his spine until you find the broad span of his back. Your nails dig into the heat of his skin as though you’re afraid the world will rip him away if you don’t hold fast enough, hard enough. The pressure of your hands makes him groan, and he lowers himself over you.
He braces one forearm in the grass beside your head. The other is slung tight around your waist as he pulls you back into him with a strength sharpened by desperation. His chest presses fully against your back. Sweat dampens his skin and yours where they meet, and the slide of his breath down your neck grows uneven. You feel him everywhere now; at your hips, pulse, chest, thighs, breath, blood, heartbeat, gasp, and core.
When it hits you, it strikes like heat flaring up through your spine. It’s a sharp, overwhelming surge that pulls your voice from somewhere deep and spills it against Walter’s shoulder. Your mouth finds grass because you have nowhere else to breathe. Your body clenches around him in a hard, rippling wave, and your hips push back helplessly into the force of his thrusts as the pleasure rises too fast to hold, and your fingers claw into his thighs. Walter feels your release instantly; feels the way you shudder around him, feels the way your gasping breath breaks against the ground.
He groans into your neck. It strikes you as a deep, rough, startled sound that reverberates through his entire body, and his hips stutter against your backside as though the force of your climax has nearly thrown him off balance. He clutches you harder, his hand slides from your waist to splay over the lower curve of your belly, pulling you firmly against him as he thrusts once, twice, a third time. Each movement feels heavier, and is edged with the wild urgency of a creature chasing the peak without the ability to slow himself now.
His release hits with the full weight of his body crushing into yours. It feels like a hot, trembling shudder that runs the entire length of him. His breath breaks in a harsh, staggering exhale against your neck, and he buries his face there. His mouth is open against your skin as his hips press tight to yours in a final thrust. The sound he makes is unguarded.
His back flexes, his muscles grow taut and trembling as pleasure works through him in deep, pulsing waves, and you feel every shiver, every gasp, every tightening of his grip on your thigh as he rides the crest of it. He pants against your neck, his breath is hot and uneven, and his forehead is pressed to your shoulder while his arms encircle you. Soon you feel your bodies strain toward the same breaking point.
For a long moment after the final shudder moves through him, Walter doesn’t move at all. His breath drags in rough pulls against your shoulder, and his body is heavy and trembling as though the pleasure has emptied every last bit of strength from him. Then, reluctantly, he lowers himself fully over you, collapsing in a half-sprawl that presses the weight of his chest to yours. His legs fall on either side of you in a tangle of warmth and sweat and soft, exhausted strength. His hips settle against the curve of your backside with a quiet, instinctive claiming.
His hand, the same one that gripped your waist hard enough to leave a bruise, softens completely as it rises to the back of your head. His fingers slip into your hair with a gentleness that steals your breath more surely than the roughest thrusts of his middle had. He curls his hand there, caressing you. His thumb brushes the base of your skull, and his palm warms the crown of your head as he breathes you in. His other arm folds beneath your chest, cradling you in place.
The grass around you settles in a wide, flattened cradle, no longer rustling or fighting the movement of your bodies but sinking down in a long, gentle sigh beneath your weight. It lies bent in arcs around your hips and knees, it’s pressed smooth against the dirt. A few fine strands cling to your damp skin, stuck by sweat along your thigh and across the slope of your ribs, but the rest lies quiet, bowed low.
The warmth of the ground seeps into your spine, and into the place where Walter’s chest lies heavy against you, and into your core now filled with his essence, and for the first time since the moment began, your breath begins to level out.
Walter’s breathing slows at the same pace as yours. His chest rises and falls against your back in long, exhausted pulls. The sound of it mixes with the quiet lap of the lake just beyond the rise, and the soft push of water against the stones send a muted hush through the field. The breeze shifts, cooler now, sliding across your bare skin and drying the sweat in thin, whispering strokes that flutter the loose strands of hair across his cheek. He nuzzles his face closer, pressing his mouth to the warm junction of your neck and shoulder, breathing deep again.
You lie there together with the heat still humming between your bodies. Your limbs are tangled, and Walter’s weight feels like a comfort rather than a burden. His hand rests at the back of your head, holding you protectively. There is no shifting toward what comes next. What remains is the soft thrum of your shared breaths finding their way back to calm.
🌾🌾🌾
The sky changes first. The blue deepens into a dusky violet at the edges while the last of the daylight gathers itself into wide strokes of pink and soft bronze that stretch across the horizon. The sun hangs low, just skimming the tops of the pines, and the light turns warm and honey-thick, spilling over the field in long golden ribbons that catch on the flattened grass and the damp skin of your shoulders. The world seems to glow from the inside out, and so do both of you.
Walter shifts only when the light touches his back, as the warmth coaxes him into a small movement. It’s a breath drawn a little deeper, a soft exhale against your neck, and a loosened curl of his fingers in your hair. He lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded and still dark with the remnants of everything he felt. He then he lowers his mouth to your bare shoulder to plant a kiss there.
It is soft and so grateful.
It is lingering and certain.
His lips rest there a bit longer, breathing against your skin, letting the heat of his mouth bleed into your shoulder until your whole body sighs beneath it. He doesn’t rush the moment, or break away quickly; he holds the kiss as though it is the only way he knows to say what his voice isn’t ready to speak. When he finally lifts his head, his nose brushes your cheek, and he exhales a slow breath that shakes just so.
You feel grounded, not floating, not lost. The land holds you with its warmth, Walter holds you with his body wrapped around yours, and warmth settles in your chest with a weight that feels right, like this place, this moment, and this man right here, has steadied the ground under your feet.
Walter’s mouth then moves close to your ear. His breath is still uneven, still warm, and when he speaks the words are roughened by emotion:
“Stay with me, my land.”
The words brush your skin like another kiss, carrying the weight of a man who does not often let confessions slip from his tongue but cannot hold this one back.
The grass bends low around you in a wide ring. The lake shimmers, shifting to silver and gold under the low sun, and the field hums a song with the last insects of the day.
The world, the light, the night, and the heat between your bodies feel newly made, as the two of you lie intertwined in the cradle of the land.
summary: You enter a world that treats you as an omen, yet one man sees you with a softness that borders on hunger. Your bond rises like mist from the earth, trembling between fear and desire, and the village’s ruthless scrutiny.
Walter Thirsk (Harvest, 2024) x female!reader
tags: fluff • emotional bonding • undressing • skinny dipping • breast fondling • implied nipple play • first kiss • intense kissing • cliffhanger implying sexy times (to be continued)
chapter 2 | chapter 4
You step outside with your shawl pulled tight, expecting another day of careful steps and tense silences, when you see Walter already waiting at the edge of the path.
He stands half in shadow, half in sunlight, the early glow catching in his reddish hair. His hands rest loosely in his pockets, his shoulders are relaxed, but his eyes brighten the moment they find you.
“Morning, miss,” he whispers not to disturb the quiet. “If you’ve got no task pressing on you today… there’s a place I’d like to show you.”
You pause and blink. “What place?”
He nods once at that.
“Best place the village keeps.”
Your heart gives a small, surprised flutter. What could that be? And where?
“And you’d take me there?”
“If you want it.” His voice softens further. “It’s… quiet. Safe. Thought you might need something like that.”
There’s no pressure in his invitation, but warmth, and the steady sincerity that has slowly become your refuge. The idea of walking anywhere with him loosens any apprehension and stress within you.
“I’d like that,” you say.
His smile shines through his freckles, and he gestures toward the woods that fringe the edge of the fields.
“Come, then.”
🌾🌾🌾
You fall into step beside him, and the two of you move toward the narrow path that slips between the trees. Moss carpets the forest floor in deep green sheets there, softening your footsteps, and the air changes the moment you pass under the first arching branches.
Sunlight filters through the canopy in thin, trembling rays, landing on Walter’s face in patches of gold. He glances back at you every now and then, making sure you’re still at ease and ready to follow wherever he leads.
“You walk lighter than last week,” Walter says after a few minutes, and his tone sounds thoughtful. “Less weighed down, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
You duck your head and brush your fingers over a fern as you pass. “Maybe it’s because the forest doesn’t stare at me.”
He huffs a soft laugh, which surprises you.
“Aye, well. Trees aren’t much for gossip. They’ve got better things to do.”
“Better than judging strangers?” you manage to tease.
“Better than judging anyone,” he says, shrugging in that quiet, earnest way of his. “Trees mind their own business. Folk could stand to learn from them.”
You laugh gently, earning his glance. A small pleased light sparks behind his blue eyes.
“Good to hear that,” he says.
“Hear what?”
“You sound… free.”
He clears his throat, looking ahead again, and his voice dips low. “Free suits you.”
You feel that warmth beneath your ribs; the same one he’s been nudging awake day after day for two weeks now.
“And you?” you ask softly. “Do you always sound so gentle when you walk in the woods?”
Walter smirks, a bit bashful, and rubs the back of his neck. “Woods bring it out of me, I suppose. Or you do.”
Your steps falter. “Me?”
“Surely.” His voice is quiet in its honesty. “Folk don’t talk easy around here, not without suspicion crawling into their words. But you… you listen like you care what someone’s saying. Makes a man feel calmer, I guess.”
The admission steals your breath for a moment.
“I haven’t felt calm in a long time,” you confess.
He glances at you again and his eyes soften; blue turns warm as midsummer sky.
“You look it now.”
🌾🌾🌾
The woods open into pockets of mossy clearings where roots twist, and the two of you step over them carefully. Sometimes Walter offers a steadying hand as an instinct. It feels like a reflex of kindness, and each time you take it, you grow aware of the warmth of his palm, the roughness of his skin, and the way he lets go slowly, clearly reluctant to break the contact.
Birdsong echoes between the trees. A stream murmurs somewhere nearby. Your shawl brushes your hips in a rhythm that syncs unconsciously with the sway of his stride.
After a while, Walter speaks again, quieter than before.
“Hope you don’t mind me showing you this place,” he says. “Feels different taking someone with me. I don’t usually share it.”
“Why not?”
He blows out a slow breath through his nose. “Because folk bring noise with them. Worry. Sourness. All kinds of heaviness. But you…”
He shakes his head, and his cheeks pink faintly.
“What about me?” Your voice is barely a gasp.
“You don’t bring any of that,” he says simply. “You walk gentle. Like you’re part of the place, not against it.”
You swallow, feeling your pulse flutter where his words settle.
“I feel gentle around you,” you admit before you can stop yourself.
Walter stops walking for a heartbeat and turns his head as though your words pulled him off balance in the softest way. Then he smiles.
“I’m glad,” he admits.
The path widens ahead, the sunlight brightens, and somewhere beyond the next rise you hear the hush of water moving, like a promise of a place untouched by the harshness you’ve been living under.
Walter notices your curiosity and his smile deepens.
“We’re nearly there,” he says. “Best part of the whole valley, if you ask me.”
Your chest tightens with anticipation. For the first time since you arrived in this wild, suspicious village, you feel lightness and true excitement.
You follow him deeper into the dappled light.
Trust, trust, trust.
🌾🌾🌾
The path narrows until it becomes little more than a soft depression in the earth, lined with the last blooms of summer wildflowers. Their colors are abundant; pale yellows, soft purples, the occasional daring splash of red, and a hint of blue here and there. Walter walks ahead only a step or two, pushing aside low branches so you can pass easily.
Then the trees open, the world widens, and the lake appears.
It’s still, glass-bright, with the surface so smooth it seems to hold the sky in a delicate balance. Tall grasses fringe the shoreline, bending in the breeze. Wild irises bloom at the water’s edge, their pale petals trembling under dragonflies flitting above them.
The beauty of it all is almost painful.
Walter watches your expression intently.
“Told you,” he chuckles. “Best place the village keeps.”
You turn toward him. “It’s… untouched.”
He nods, and his dreamy gaze drifts over the water as if he’s greeting an old friend.
“This is where I come when the world feels too heavy,” he says quietly. “A place to breathe different. To feel small in a way that’s good.” He steps closer to the shore and crouches to skim his fingertips across the cool surface. “Out here, I can become part of the world again instead of walking outside it.”
The confession settles gently inside you. You know it’s a piece of truth he shares with you alone. You kneel in the grass beside him, letting the cool scent of the water wrap around you.
“I’m glad you brought me,” you whisper.
Walter stands then, wiping his wet hand on the thigh of his clothes. He looks toward the sky, then the water, then back at you with a small smile.
“You ever swim in a place like this?”
You shake your head, feeling your heart beat faster. “Never.”
“Well,” he says and steps away from the grass, and toward the open bank, “you’re about to.”
Before you can ask if he’s serious, he reaches for the hem of his tunic and pulls it over his head in one shamelessly unselfconscious motion.
You freeze and swallow.
Walter’s body is soft and strong for a man carved by work. His shoulders, you notice not without admiration, are also sprinkled with freckles where the light touches them. His chest is dusted with hair the same shade as the reddish curls on his head, tapering into a narrow line that disappears beneath the waist of his underwear. Faint muscles and soft rolls move beneath his skin in smooth shifts. His arms are soft but powerful from lifting, his torso isn’t too defined, but shaped by a lifetime of farm labor and long walks; his belly is rounder than you expected, but beautiful regardless.
He stands barefoot now, taking off the bottom part of his tunic with calm practicality, and when he steps out of it, you catch the sturdy lines of his legs that look strong and undeniably perfect in their ruggedness. And then there’s also a tuft of fair hair covering what you think no town gentleman would ever reveal to you under such circumstances. Then again, you’ve never found yourself in a similar situation before; standing in front of an unashamedly naked man, whose presence doesn’t bring you any sort of discomfort, regardless of his attire or rather a lack thereof.
Heat rushes to your face so fast it makes you dizzy.
You turn your gaze to the water, pretending you hadn’t been staring, pretending your pulse isn’t thundering in your ears, pretending the sight of him hasn’t awakened softness within your chest.
Walter wades into the lake until the water reaches his hips, then glances back at you as the sunlight catches in his wet curls like fire made gentle.
“You coming, miss?”
Your throat goes dry. “I—”
“You don’t have to,” he adds quickly, sensing your shyness as he always does. “Only if you want it.”
You swallow hard. The cool breeze brushes your bare arms. The water gleams like polished glass. And Walter waits patiently.
You step back, and your fingers tremble at the ties of your dress. Then, slowly, you begin to undress.
Your shawl falls first, then your dress slips over your head in a soft sigh of fabric. You keep your chemise on, though. It clings to your body. It’s modest yet thin enough that you feel exposed. The air kisses your skin coolly, and the sensation makes your pulse jump high.
Walter looks away when you step forward, though you catch the spark in his eyes. It speaks of the respectful effort not to stare mixed with the soft glow of someone painfully aware of beauty and trying not to show how deeply it strikes him.
When you reach the water’s edge, he turns back, and his smile is quiet and encouraging.
“Easy now. It’ll be cold at first.”
You step into the lake.
It steals your breath with its cool, wrapping around your ankles, then your calves, then the hem of your chemise as you wade deeper.
Walter comes closer enough that his presence steadies you.
“That’s it,” he offers. “Just breathe.”
You reach a depth where the water lifts you, and he dips under, resurfacing with a gasp and a laugh that brightens the whole lake.
“Come on,” he calls, splashing toward you. “It’s good once you’re in.”
You follow, submerging fully this time. The cold shocks through you, then blooms into warmth as you break the surface, laughing breathlessly. Walter’s answering laugh is boyish and unguarded.
The two of you drift, float, and splash like children. He sends a wave toward you with one sweep of his arm; you send one back, smaller, more playful, and he grins with unabashed delight.
“You’ve got spirit,” he says as he wipes water from his eyes.
“And you’re a terrible influence,” you reply, laughing.
For a while, there is no suspicion, no village, no weight pressing on your shoulders, but only the lake, the glimmer of sunlight on water, the echo of laughter, and Walter’s form moving through the depths.
When you float on your back and stare at the sky, he circles near, not too close, not too far, watching you carefully.
“You look…” he begins, then stops. His words get caught somewhere deep.
You tilt your head toward him. “What?”
He shakes his head. Droplets fall from his hair.
“Like you belong with me in water. Like you’re part of it.”
You feel it stir low in your belly; not desire exactly, but its first quiet breath.
The lake continues to hold you both for a while, suspended between sky and earth.
🌾🌾🌾
By the time the two of you wade back to shore, droplets trail down your skin in cool rivulets and catch bits of sunlight as they fall onto the trampled grass at your feet. Walter shakes the water from his hair, sending bright arcs into the air, and you laugh again, breathless from swimming, and from the nearness of him by your side.
The sun hangs warm and forgiving above the hills, touching the earth with a late afternoon glow. The tall grass beyond the lake is thick and golden, humming with life. Grasshoppers leap between blades, bees lazily drift toward wildflowers, and the wind curls around the stems in slow waves.
Walter gestures toward the slope with a tilt of his head, and when he speaks again, his voice is smoothed by laughter.
“Come sit a while,” he says. “Let the sun dry us.”
You follow him onto the hill, and he finds a patch where the grass is flattened enough for you to lie without prickling. He lowers himself first, leaning back on his elbows. Then he shifts and pats the space in front of him. It’s an invitation gentle enough to refuse, though you do not want to.
Before you think twice, you settle between his legs, easing back against his bare chest. The moment your spine touches his warmth and your hips graze against his exposed middle, something deep and wild in your body melts.
His soft arms come around you slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. You lean into him instead, your breath is softening, and your heart adjusts to the beat of his own.
Walter then rests his chin near your shoulder, close enough that you feel the subtle scrape of his mustache when he exhales. His skin is warm from the sun and smells of lake water, clean sweat, and something green—crushed grass perhaps, or the sharpness of wild mint.
Your hands settle on his forearms that you notice are trembling with the residue of swimming. You run your fingers over his skin and watch as the fine hairs glisten with droplets. His arms tighten minutely around you. They feel like warmth circling your ribs.
You notice the dirt under his fingernails. It’s a testament of earth from this world he knows so well, clinging to him faithfully. The sight softens you and makes your chest ache.
The grass shifts around you as you settle comfortably. The lake murmurs as small breezes break its surface. The sun hangs lower, spilling liquid gold across the sky.
You tilt your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder.
“Does it always feel like this?” you ask quietly.
Walter’s voice is a warm vibration against your skin.
“Like what?”
“Like… the world is gentler here.”
He hums, and it comes out as a thoughtful, low sound.
“The world’s only as gentle as you let it be,” he says. “Folk will fight it. Make noise, break things that never meant harm.” His arms squeeze you a little, offering a subtle reassurance. “But nature doesn’t rush. Doesn’t judge either. Gives you room to breathe different.”
You exhale slowly, letting your body soften further into his. “I’d forgotten what breathing felt like.”
He takes a moment with that, so long you feel the silence deepen, but when he speaks, his voice is softer than silk.
“I forget too,” he says. “Then I come here. And it reminds me I’m part of something bigger than the hard edges of life.”
“Does it fix the loneliness?” you ask before thinking.
His chin shifts against your shoulder. The breath from his nose brushes your neck.
“Sometimes,” he nods. “Other times it just makes the loneliness clearer.” Then, after a heartbeat, he adds: “But not today.”
Warmth surges through you slowly and deeply. “Not today?”
He shakes his head, his lips almost brushing your skin. “No. Not with you here.”
You swallow at the lump in your throat that’s too warm to be sadness. “I didn’t know nature could be this beautiful,” you say softly. “Not like this. Not in a way that… eases the storm inside.”
Walter shifts, just enough to see your profile, and his cheek brushes against your temple.
“Beauty can save a man,” he says. “Save a woman too, if she lets it. It’s the only thing that stays honest. One cannot fake it.”
You turn your head and meet his gaze from the corner of your eye. His blue eyes are softened by the low sun, and the freckles on his cheeks glow in the warm light. You suddenly wish to count them all.
“Do you believe in fate?” you ask with your heart unsteady.
He takes a slow breath, thinking deeply, as if your question roots itself into the earth beneath him.
“I think fate is just the name folk give to the things that pull at them,” he says finally. “Things they don’t understand, but feel all the same.”
“And what’s pulling at you?”
At this, his arms tighten around your middle.
“You,” he whispers. “You’re what’s pulling at me.”
You don’t pull away.
🌾🌾🌾
The sun rests just above the line of hills now, low enough that every blade of grass glows at the edges. Walter’s arms remain around you, and each breath he takes lifts gently against your back, offering a slow, steady rhythm that calms the beat of your own heart.
You watch a dragonfly skim the surface of the lake, leaving brief ripples that spread out in widening circles.
“Walter,” you murmur.
“Miss?” His chin shifts near your shoulder.
“There’s something I should tell you.”
Your fingers curl into his forearm, and you’re gathering courage. “Something about my past.”
He doesn’t brace himself for terrible news. Instead, his arms soften a little more around you, as if to say go on.
You take a slow breath.
“I was meant to be married,” you say, and the words taste strange in the open air. “To a wealthy man from the towns. Older than my father, with gray hair, a heavy hand and a voice that always sounded harsh, even when he tried to be kind.”
Walter says nothing, but his cheek presses just a touch closer to your temple, steadying you.
“It was arranged,” you continue, looking down at your hands. “Not asked of me. Decided for me. A match to bring security to my family and comfort to him. Or so they said. But there was no love in it. None at all.”
The admission hangs between you.
“He wanted a wife who would sit quietly beside him,” you add with voice quieter a notch, “and I wanted… I don’t even know what I wanted. Freedom, perhaps. Or a chance to choose something for myself.” You swallow. “But choice wasn’t a word people used with me.”
A bird cries somewhere in the trees. It’s a sad, long note that echoes across the lake.
“He died suddenly,” you whisper. “A fever that took him quickly. And I…” Your throat tightens. “I felt guilty for not mourning him more. But I couldn’t mourn a future I never wanted.”
Walter’s hands shift on your waist, his calloused fingertips running against your ribs.
“And I felt… relieved,” you admit, with your breath unsteady. “Relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend my life sitting in a parlor pretending not to feel trapped.”
You close your eyes.
You expect judgment or pity, or some muted version of both, but Walter only breathes against your body.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. His voice feels warm as sunlit soil. “For telling me.”
You turn your head enough to glimpse at his profile. There is only understanding carved into the strangely handsome lines of his face.
“What about you?” you ask gently. “Has there ever been someone?”
He is silent long enough that you fear you’ve made a wound of your question. Then he exhales, looking like he’s reaching into a place he’s kept closed for years.
“I was married,” he says.
The words come softly, but each one is weighted with memory. “She was… good. Gentle-hearted. A bit shy. Not much for crowds. We lived quiet together. Didn’t need much else.”
You feel the ache in his voice before you hear it. His arms tighten just a fraction. It’s more reflex than thought. He swallows, and you can tell that his pain is tucked deep but not hidden from you.
“Gone too soon.”
Your chest tightens. “Walter…”
He shakes his head, as though warding off your sympathy.
“It’s alright. Been over a year now. Enough that I can remember her without it cracking my ribs open. Enough that I can speak her name without the world falling apart at my feet.”
You lean deeper into him. Your back fits to the curve of his chest.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
He rests his forehead near the crown of your head.
“So was I,” he breathes. “Then it quieted. But I never much felt the urge to start again. Felt easier to stay alone. Let the days pass without expecting anything of them.” A quiet sigh escapes him.
“But lately…”
Your heart starts beating faster.
“Lately,” he says slowly, “I don’t feel so alone. Can’t rightly say why.”
He nudges his nose gently against yours.
“Or maybe I can.”
You turn your face toward him.
“And does it frighten you?” you ask softly.
His answer comes without a doubt.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Not with you.”
You wipe your brow with the back of your wrist, only then lifting your eyes to the distant patch of sky above the far fenceline.
The moon hangs there, almost transparent; its pale disc rests in the bright blue.
“Perfectly round,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Walter, but he hears it anyway. Your voice carries soft over the drift of the breeze.
Walter follows your gaze and squints. “Huh,” he says with an easy breath, “look at that.”
But then his attention shifts subtly. He lets out a small chuckle, low in his chest, and before you can wonder what it is that he finds so amusing, his hands slide around your waist.
He soon lets his rough, warm palms ease upward slowly, and then his fingers cup your breasts from behind. They’re gentle and full, and he fills his hands like he’d been thinking about doing it for longer than he’d admit.
“Like breasts?” he says in a voice that sounds too tired for casual tease but cracked with shy delight near the end.
You jolt with a quick gasp. His touch is so unexpected and intimate that your knees soften beneath you. Your face goes hot. You turn your body halfway as if to see whether he’s serious, but he’s already grinning at your blush, his own cheeks turning red to match.
Then, quieter but still mischievous, he adds: “Squishy.”
You choke on a laugh. It’s an involuntary sound that slips out when embarrassment and pleasure tangle together. Your shoulders shake.
He lets out a laugh, too. The moment feels ridiculous and tender at once, like sharing a private joke.
The breeze brushes past you, cool, and you shiver before you can catch it. Walter feels it immediately; you know he does by the way his hands still in concern, and then he moves again, careful.
He releases your breasts from underneath your chemise, and rubs them gently, warming you. He brings them together with a soft pressure before letting them part again. He touches you like he’s tracing the edges of your comfort, testing the shape of what is allowed.
His thumbs make slow, absent circles around your reddened nipples before he takes both between his fingers and pinches them playfully. You close your eyes for a breath, letting the sensations roll through you. The earth beneath you holds steady; the hum of insects rises and falls in the tall grass around your bodies.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers into your hair.
“Only a little,” you whisper back.
He then presses a kiss just above your ear. His fingers continue their exploratory path over your breasts, lifting them lightly, compressing tenderly, sweeping in slow strokes that coax another thin shiver down your spine. The way his hands handle you is almost hypnotic: bringing you close, then easing off; teasing warmth, then letting you cool just long enough to crave the next caress.
You lean back against him without thinking, letting your weight rest against his chest, and you feel his breath catch from the quiet, stunned happiness of it. His hands adjust to hold you better, his palms are spreading wider over your skin.
The field around you moves. The moon watches over you, pale and unblinking, and blessing this strange new tenderness between you both.
Walter lets out a soft hum, close to a sigh, and presses his cheek to the side of your head.
“Feels nice,” he gasps, and it feels like a request for you to say the same.
And you will, but not yet. Not until you can breathe again.
You reach up, your hands trembling just a little, and touch his arms where they circle you. His skin is warm, and you let your fingers trace his freckles, slow as his own touch is on you. He sucks in a tiny breath at that.
You turn your head instinctively, wanting to see him, to read the truth in his face rather than guess at it from the sound of his breathing. Your cheek brushes his jaw, and the touch startles both of you into stillness. He draws in a short breath, sharp at the edges as though caught unprepared.
There is no fear in him, or smugness, but no certainty either.
All you can see is wonder and aching softness.
His lips part a notch. “You alright?” he asks. His voice is quiet, and nearly hoarse.
You nod, though the motion barely makes it past your shoulders. “Are you?”
He gives a breath of a laugh. It is shy and astonished. “Not sure,” he admits. “Not sure at all.”
The honesty unsettles deep inside you, loosens your apprehension, and warms you to the core. Before either of you fully understands who’s moved first, the distance closes.
His mouth meets yours, and the kiss is taken.
It finds you the same way water finds the shore. So slow, so warm, so inevitable, so good. His lips press softly into yours, brushing in small, testing motions. His breath mingles with yours in a tremble of intimate air. His hands shift to steady you, sliding subtly higher along your ribs, and you realize—he’s learning the shape of your breath. You place your hand on his forearm in return, and your fingers curl around the warm, sun-browned skin, guiding him closer.
His lips part just enough to deepen the warmth without breaking the shyness, or losing the sweetness that hovers between you.
The world, oh the world blurs for once.
Grass rustles around your bare calves, pressing against you as the wind moves through it. The lake glimmers at the edge of your vision. The light trembles on its surface, and you nearly feel the water reacting to the touch you share with your companion. Birds call softly from the woods, and their distant cries weave into the hush of your joined breaths.
So urgent, so wild, and primal as the land.
Walter’s hand then slips further upward. His fingers graze your shoulder, the softness of it, the lingering damp from the lake. His thumb brushes the curve of your collarbone with a feather’s hesitation.
You turn in his embrace, angling your body toward him, and he follows instinctively. His knees shift in the grass to cradle you closer. The warmth of his chest meets yours, skin to warm skin. His hand then finds the small of your back, spreading wide and supporting you.
Your own hands rise to his face. You trace the line of his jaw and feel the roughness of stubble softened by the golden light. He exhales and leans into the touch.
He doesn’t waste much time before he kisses on you again, deeper now. You answer without words, pressing closer into him. Your fingers slide into his damp hair and find the curls warm and heavy from the sun. You tug at them gently.
The kiss grows warmer like a natural deepening of two people who had been circling a treasure for days without touching, until finally—finally, the stars have aligned.
“Didn’t expect that,” he says softly.
“Neither did I.”
His thumb lifts as he brushes a stray droplet of water from your cheek.
“You’re… something else,” he says wonderingly.
“So are you,” you whisper.
“Perfect body, pure soul,” he continues. “You’re soft. Almost too soft for a man like me.”
“Don’t say that…,” you whisper. “I want you here.”
The tall grass keeps swaying around you, caressing your hips. The blades catch against his calves as he draws you closer, and both of you settle more comfortably into the cradle of each other’s arms. The warmth of the earth rises beneath you. The moon looks pale but watchful above, and the long hush of the late afternoon wraps around your bodies as if holding you both in cupped palms.
And soon, nature finds its way towards your hearts.
“I wish to kiss more of you. Reckon the day’s not done,” Walter soon murmurs. His voice is husky with the weight of everything that might happen next, once you let it.
Your pulse answers before you do. You turn your head just enough that your lips skim his hair. “No,” you reply. “It isn’t.”
summary: You enter a world that treats you as an omen, yet one man sees you with a softness that borders on hunger. Your bond rises like mist from the earth, trembling between fear and desire, and the village’s ruthless scrutiny.
Walter Thirsk (Harvest, 2024) x female!reader
tags: mutual learning (non-sexual) • slow burn • dirty talk (not main characters) • fluff • bonding • subtle flirting • they’re cozy in this one
chapter 1 | chapter 3
Cold.
The morning begins with a brittle cold that settles into the joints of the cottages and makes the thatch whisper above your head. You wrap your shawl closer and step outside, and you feel the chill biting the edge of your breath. It should feel refreshing. It is clean air, open land, and the sky wide enough to swallow the world, after all, but the memory of yesterday’s stares follows your every step.
Your purpose didn’t vanish overnight, and you have work to do. So you gather a small basket of your sample fabrics, dyed linen squares, threads wound neatly around polished spools, and make your way toward the washing green where the women gather daily.
The sun has barely crested the hills, but already they are there, sleeves rolled up, skirts hitched, their hands raw from lye and labor. Buckets clatter, boards slap wet cloth, and steam rises in thin strands from basins of heated water. The smell of soaproot and cold river stones fills the air.
You approach slowly, offering a polite greeting, holding your basket like a shy offering you hope won’t be turned down this time.
“Morning,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice steady and warm, and a bit more local. “I brought the materials I mentioned yesterday—the new dyes, the stitching patterns. I thought perhaps—”
A woman with thick braids and arms like carved trunk turns her head and fixes you with a stare so flat it might as well be a door shut in your face.
“We work fine without town tricks,” she says, plunging a sheet into the basin with a force that sends droplets smacking against your skirt.
Another woman, older one, with deep lines carved around her mouth, leans in toward her companion and murmurs something under her breath. You catch only a few words: silly goose doesn’t know her place… gaudy little thing…
Your cheeks are warm despite the cold.
You swallow and lift the top fabric from your basket with a soft square of rose-colored linen, smooth beneath your fingers, previously dyed carefully with cochineal. You smile, though it trembles at the edges.
“This shade holds well,” you offer gently. “Even after washing. It might make your work easier; fewer re-dyes, less fading. And the patterns here—”
That’s when a sharp bark of laughter cuts you off.
It comes from a broad-shouldered man passing by with a stack of firewood balanced in his arms. He glances at your basket, then at your hands, and smirks like the sight of you is a private joke only the villagers understand. Now, isn’t that the truth?
“That stitching?” he scoffs. “Pretty enough for dolls, maybe. Won’t last a week in a house with real work.”
Heat floods your throat. It’s unbearably thick and humiliating.
You open your mouth in response, but he’s already moved on, leaving the echo of his derision hanging in the air.
One of the younger women, barely older than you, looks from your basket to your face with pity. Almost. She wets her lips, gathers a bundle of linen to her chest, and then steps closer out of obligation to say what the others won’t.
“You shouldn’t bring that sort of color around,” she warns, and her eyes shift toward the cottages. “Men start looking too long. Wives start fretting. Trouble brews faster than bread rises.”
You blink, stunned.
“I’m not—” You shake your head, trying to steady your voice. “I’m not here for anyone’s husband. I’m here to—”
“To what?” the woman cuts in. “Change things? Make us dress like folk in the towns? That’s not your place, miss. And walking about in pink ribbons and bright thread while the men are splitting wood only stirs their minds toward foolishness.”
The absurdity of it nearly knocks the breath from you.
You glance down at yourself. You’re wearing a simple dress, a modest shawl, and a single ribbon in your hair that’s hardly scandalous. The idea that these small touches could “stir” any man seems almost laughable. But the stern set of her jaw tells you it is no jest.
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” you say, voice steadying with effort. “I only came to help. To teach something useful. That’s all.”
The woman exhales slowly and shakes her head.
“You’re not from here. You don’t know how things settle. Best keep quiet, keep still, and stay clear of menfolk unless spoken to.” Her gaze softens, as if sparing you grief. “You’ll be safer that way.”
The older woman with the deep lines chuckles without humor.
“Or go back where you came from. This isn’t a place for a girl with baby hands.”
You straighten, gathering your dignity like a cloak, though it feels thin and threadbare right now.
“I have every right to be here,” you say quietly, though your heart beats too loud in your ears.
“You have every right to leave too,” another woman mutters, rinsing a sheet in the cold water. Her wrists keep working with unhurried rhythm. “Would save the rest of us the whispering.”
The sting is sharp enough to make your stomach drop. You feel it in your ribs and in your pulse. The hurt is not just personal; it is disorienting, as though the very earth beneath you has crumbled, making you unsure of your footing.
A gust of wind lifts the corner of your shawl, flapping it. The women turn back to their washing. They resume their conversations as if you never stood among them at all.
You clutch the basket to your chest, as its weight feels suddenly too heavy. The dyed cloths you once loved now feel garish in your arms. It feels like they betray you by catching the morning light alone.
You step back, breath trembling, and you feel the air thickening with the harsh truth: they don’t want what you bring.
As you retreat from the washing green, the world feels colder, and the distant fields too quiet. The wind pushes at your back, urging you forward or away; you can hardly tell which.
You blink hard, swallowing down the hurt that threatens to rise like a tide. You will not break this easily, you promise yourself.
But the village, with all its silence and suspicion, has already begun working its way beneath your skin, leaving you raw and unsure of where to place your feet next.
🌾🌾🌾
The afternoon settles over the village with stillness. After the bitter exchange with the washing women, you retreat toward the edge of the fields, your basket held too tightly against your hip, and your breath still heavy with bruised pride. You tell yourself you simply want fresh air, but the truth is simpler and more painful; you don’t want anyone to see your eyes burning.
You stop near a low stone wall bordering the barley fields. The golden stalks sway in soft, restless waves as a light wind threads itself through the valley. The sound is soothing like the sea turned pale and grassy. You lean into that gentleness, trying to let the rhythm ease the ache lodged beneath your breastbone.
Behind you, footsteps soften in the dirt. You stiffen instinctively, prepared for another cutting remark or a stare that feels like a blade drawn across the surface of your skin.
But when you turn, it is Walter.
He stands a few paces away, with his hands loose at his sides, and his posture unassuming, looking like he wants to give you room to step away if you need it. His reddish hair catches the late-afternoon light. Freckles dust his cheekbones, his nose, and even the bridge between his blue eyes. The eyes that hold none of the hardness you’ve seen everywhere else today.
“Afternoon, miss,” he says quietly, and his voice carries that same gentleness he’d shown yesterday beside the firewood cart. He studies you a moment, with the cautious concern of someone who’s lived long enough to notice when another’s spirits have been trampled. “Thought I might find you here. You walked off quick this morning.”
You swallow, unsure how much to say, or how anything you say might sound.
“I… needed some air,” you manage.
He nods, and the corners of his mouth tighten in recognition. He looks at you as if he understands more than he intends to reveal. He shifts his weight, glancing toward the fields before returning his gaze to you.
“They can be a sharp lot,” he says gently, scratching the side of his jaw with one thumb. “Folk here… well, they keep to what they know. And anyone who brings change feels like a nuisance. Makes a stir, even if it does no harm.”
Your chest tightens, for the truth of his words sinks deep.
“I didn’t mean to stir anything,” you say with your voice soft but edged with exhaustion. “I only wanted to help.”
“I know,” he answers simply. Not maybe, not I reckon, but I know. The certainty in his tone strikes warmth in your chest. “And they’ll know it too. In time.”
You sigh shakily, and his expression deepens with quiet empathy. The barley moves around you like a living thing.
Then Walter takes a small step closer.
“Come,” he says softly. His voice vibrates with that same low, calming cadence you heard when he spoke to his goats. “Let me show you the real village.”
You blink, uncertain what he means.
“This is the village,” you stutter out.
He shakes his head, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth. It’s sad, and playful, and everything in between. “No. This is the part that snarls when it’s uncertain. There’s more to it than suspicious eyes and hard tongues, miss.” He gestures toward the far path leading around the barley. “Walk with me, if you like. I’ll show you what the land looks like when it’s not bracing for strangers.”
You hesitate only a moment, and it’s long enough to remind yourself you barely know him, to question your own judgment, but the quiet steadiness in his face and the absolute lack of demand in his voice make your caution soften.
“Alright,” you say.
His smile widens just a fraction, enough to warm his freckles and soften the shape of his mouth. He falls into step beside you. The path curves away from the cottages, letting the wide open fields swallow the sharpness of the village behind you.
The barley brushes against your skirts as you pass. Walter moves easily. His long stride is steady, his boots sink slightly into the soft earth. From the corner of your eye, you study him; you notice how his shoulders roll gently beneath his shirt, how the freckles across his forearms shift as he gestures toward a distant oak.
“That’s the old tree,” he says in that quiet, thoughtful way of his. “Been there longer than any of us. Folk say it remembers things.” He throws you a glance. “Don’t know if that’s true, but it’s a fine place to sit when the sun’s out.”
You follow the line of his gesture. The oak stands alone, tall and wide, and its branches twist skyward like reaching arms. It looks ancient, strong, and steady in a way that reminds you of him.
“And there,” he adds, pointing toward a hedgerow buzzing with life, “you’ll find more bees than you’ve seen in your whole life, I’d wager. They’re gentle if you are. Keep the fields alive.”
He’s talking to you like you are worth the breath it takes to explain these things. And the more he speaks, the more you hear the quiet pride beneath his words, the way he loves this place even with its faults, even with its harshness.
You find yourself relaxing, bit by bit, because the very rhythm of his footsteps steadies yours.
“You know a great deal about this land,” you say softly.
He shrugs, though the gesture is modest, and not one bit dismissive.
“Lived here long enough. Walked most of it on foot.” He pauses, then adds: “Feels right to share the good parts with someone who’s trying to understand it, for a change.”
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He glances at you quickly, then returns his gaze to the fields.
“Reckon you needed a friend today,” he says. “If you don’t mind me being that.”
The words strike you deep, unexpected and tender.
A friend?
After a morning of suspicion and scorn, the idea feels like a helping hand.
“I wouldn’t mind,” you say quietly.
His smile returns. You see small but adorable it is.
You walk on together, side by side, into the golden sweep of barley. The world around you softens with each step you take. The air is filled with the hum of bees and the whisper of wind.
In Walter’s presence, you begin to see the village through gentler eyes.
🌾🌾🌾
The barley fields open into a softer landscape as you and Walter walk further on. The hedgerows here are thick with summer growth, patches of wild mint bend under the afternoon sun, and the distant roll of hills fades into a bluish haze. The air smells of earth warming after a cold morning; it rings sweet and sharp all at once. Walter leads the way without hurrying, turning back every so often to be sure you’re still comfortable and following steady.
“Figure if you’re to stay here awhile,” he says gently, “ought to know a thing or two the village won’t bother teaching you.”
His tone is light and even playful, though his eyes remain serious in their own quiet way. He stops beside a low-growing cluster of plants with thin green stems and small pale leaves. Its scent rises as you brush past. It reminds you of smoke and sap.
“This one here,” he says, kneeling down to pinch a leaf between his fingers, “soothes burns better than anything we’ve got. Crush it a bit, lay it on the skin, and it draws the heat out quicker than river water.”
You decide to crouch beside him. Your skirts brush the grass as you lean toward the plant with curiosity.
“It smells… strange,” you say.
“Strange is often useful,” Walter replies, and his lips curve as he hands you the leaf. “Town folk forget the land speaks, just not in words.”
You smile despite yourself, glancing at him.
“And what’s it saying now?”
He tilts his head, scanning the fields with those hauntingly clear blue eyes.
“That you’re safe here. At least as long as I’m with you.”
The warmth that rolls through you is immediate and unsteadying. You look away quickly, pretending to study the herb. His chuckle in response is soft, carried off by the wind, and he rises to his feet with an easy grace.
“Come on,” he says. “There’s more to learn.”
🌾🌾🌾
He brings you to a small cottage roof sagging under the weight of last winter’s storms. You notice ladder leaning crookedly against it.
“Now, I’m not putting you up there,” he says, amused, “but you ought to know how it’s done, so you can see if your own roof starts complaining.”
“Roofs complain?” you echo, laughing at his unusual wording.
“Aye. In their way.” He picks up a bundle of straw and shakes it loose. “They sag, they groan, they drop dirt in your hair at night. A right nuisance.”
You laugh again, surprised by how easily the sound escapes you in his presence. Walter’s answering smile is warm enough to make your stomach flutter. It’s broad and genuine, and it deepens the freckles along his cheeks.
He shows you how the straw is pressed and layered, how to tuck it beneath the heavier reeds, and how to judge by sound whether a section is loose.
“It’s like stitching,” he says thoughtfully as he’s glancing down at you. “Different materials, same idea. You bind what’s weak, tighten what’s fraying. Keep the weather out.”
You blink, realizing he’s right. “It is like stitching.”
“Aye,” he murmurs. You hear how his voice carries a note of pride that isn’t for himself. “Told you—you’re not as out of place as you think.”
Your heart stumbles at the gentle way he says it, as though he sees something in you the others refuse to.
🌾🌾🌾
You walk on toward a stretch of land where the earth has given way to muck after recent rains. The mud is thick there, deceptive, and it swallows footprints whole. Walter touches your elbow before you step into it.
“Careful. Mud’ll eat your feet if you’re not clever about it.”
You steady yourself as you look up at him.
“How does one walk through something determined to… you know… swallow them?”
He grins, and the expression transforms his face entirely.
“Same as you walk through this village, miss. Light, steady, and not in a straight line.”
He demonstrates, stepping into the mud with a dance-like shift of his weight; heel to side, side to toe, never giving the muck too much of his boot at once. You mimic him, wobbling, nearly tipping forward before he catches your hand.
You gasp in surprise, and Walter steadies you with both hands now; one on your arm, the other tight against your wrist.
“Now, easy on those pretty boots,” he cackles.
You laugh too, trying again, this time managing not to sink. When you reach solid ground, he lets go slowly, making certain you won’t topple.
“See? Told you,” he says and his smile looks more forgiving now. “You learn fast.”
Your cheeks heat at the praise. “Only because you show it well.”
His eyes linger on you longer than before.
“Land likes you,” he observes quietly.
You blink. “The… land?”
“Aye,” he says, nodding toward the fields. “Some folk walk here like they’re trespassing. You don’t. You’re careful. Like a bird choosing where to land.” His gaze drifts to your hair, catching the way the breeze tugs at loose strands. “Or like one of them wildflowers the wind scatters in spring.”
You feel the color rise warm beneath your skin, and you know it’s a flush you cannot fight.
“I’m just trying not to fall,” you say a bit flustered.
“That too,” he answers, and his voice is laced with quiet amusement.
🌾🌾🌾
You reach a small rise overlooking the village. Walter stops at this point and squints at the clouds gathering over the western hills. They’re thin and drawn like charcoal across the sky.
“Storm later,” he says to himself.
You follow his gaze.
“How can you tell? They look soft to me.”
“Soft clouds carry hard rain,” he replies, shading his eyes with one hand. “See how they’re low but stretched wide? That’s weather building behind them. Give it an hour or two, you’ll hear the wind argue about it.”
You stand beside him. The two of you are now framed by tall grass and open sky. There is only the hum of bees in the hedgerow, the whisper of barley, and the outline of a man carved against the land he understands in ways you wish you could.
Walter turns to you then, and when he speaks, his voice is calmer, carrying a sincerity that runs deeper than his earlier ease.
“You look different out here,” he says.
Your breath catches. “Different how?”
He studies you a moment, and when he speaks, his words come slow.
“Like the land’s not fighting you anymore,” he elaborates. “Like it’s taking to you.” His eyes dip briefly to your flushed cheeks, then back up again. “And I suppose I’m taking to you a bit too.”
At that, heat rushes to your face. It’s bright and unhidden this time. You try to answer, but your voice is strained somewhere deep in your throat.
Walter’s only response is a smile.
That’s when you learn that in a village absurdly determined to mistrust you, he has become the first piece of truth you can hold now dear.
🌾🌾🌾
The sky has begun to thin into the palest shade of blue by the time you and Walter drift toward a patch of soft grass near the old oak. The tree’s shadow stretches long across the hill, and Walter lowers himself onto the ground with that easy, fluid heft of someone whose body belongs outdoors. You sit beside him, smooth your skirt, and you put your basket of fabrics between you.
Walter glances at it with cautious curiosity.
“Mind if I…?” he asks, gesturing toward the basket.
“Go on,” you say. Your voice rings lighter than it has been all day.
He leans in, and his large hands move with surprising delicacy as he lifts the first piece of cloth. It’s a square of dyed silk in deep indigo. Walter holds it between his fingers.
“Feels like water,” he observes, rubbing the silk gently between his thumb and forefinger. You watch as the freckles on his wrist shift with the motion. “Never touched anything like it.”
“It’s silk,” you explain, pleased by his awe. “Woven tighter than linen. It takes color differently too. You can dye it with a fraction of what you’d need for, say, wool.”
He looks up at you with wonder.
“You made these?”
You nod. “I dyed that one myself. The threads here, too.”
“Threads?” he repeats. His brow is knit in curiosity.
You reach into the basket and bring out a small wooden spool wound with a warm, sunset-rose thread. The color catches immediately in the sunlight, making Walter’s eyes widen.
“That can’t be natural,” he says, staring at it as though it must be somehow enchanted.
“It is,” you say and smile. “Cochineal beetles, crushed and mixed with mordant. Only takes a little to get a shade like this.”
“A beetle made this?”
He turns the spool between his fingers.
“Small thing to make such beauty.”
You flush at his phrasing; not because he meant it about you, of course, but because the softness in his tone doesn’t fail to make you blush one more time. You clear your throat and reach for your kit, opening it carefully.
Inside lies a world entirely your own: tiny polished scissors that catch the light; needles in neat rows; chalk for marking patterns; strips of silk; cotton bobbins wound tight; scraps of lace; a small thimble the color of pewter.
Walter stares at the array as though you’ve opened a chest of jewels right before his eyes.
“Reckon I’d prick every finger clean through with those,” he says, pointing to the needles.
“You’d be surprised how quick you can learn,” you say.
“I doubt it,” he laughs.
You pick up a plain linen square and thread a needle with soft blue thread, letting him watch the motion of your hands. The familiarity of the process steadies you. The thread glides through the eye, forming the first stitch. You then hand the needle to him.
“Here,” you offer. “Try.”
Walter takes it like a child holding a bird feather for the first time. He’s clearly unsure about how much force might break it. His fingers, roughened by rope and work, look almost comically out of place holding something so fine. He bends over the cloth, concentrating fiercely.
“That’s it,” you encourage. “Just push it through.”
He then attempts his first stitch.
It curves immediately. It’s awkward, slanted, and generous where it should be delicate.
“That’s crooked,” he mutters.
“A little,” you admit and your lips twitch. “But hey, it’s always a start.”
He tries again, and what comes out is worse than the first. It’s zig-zagging like a drunken insect crossing a path.
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the sound escapes anyway.
Walter straightens, squinting down at the linen in theatrical despair.
“Looks like I’ve stitched a snake,” he declares.
At that, you burst into warm, genuine laughter, and your hand flies to your mouth. Walter watches you with a delight. You notice his own smile spreading slowly, shyly, as though your laughter is a gift of its own he hadn’t expected.
“Least it’s a lively thing,” he comments. “Has a spirit to it.”
“A questionable one,” you say between laughs.
Your shoulders shake, and Walter watches the motion with a soft, steady fondness, as if he’s seeing your real self come alive in front of him. The wind shifts then, carrying the sweet scent of grass and the smell of pine from the distant woods.
“You look different when you laugh,” he says suddenly.
You blink, caught off guard.
“Different?”
He nods, and his gaze fixes on your face.
“Like a color that wasn’t there before.” He pauses. His cheeks look warm beneath his freckles. “Bright. Like that thread of yours.”
Your breath hitches. You feel the heat blooming across your cheeks. You look away, but his compliment hangs in the air between you. It feels so utterly earnest and lacking in manipulation. No man in your town ever spoke like that. No man in this village, you’re certain, would dare.
Walter clears his throat softly and hands the needle back to you. He appears sheepish.
“Best leave the sewing to you, miss. If I stitched a shirt, it’d fall off the poor lad wearing it.”
You take the linen from him.
“That’s alright,” you say softly. “You taught me the land. I can teach you this.”
His eyes then meet yours.
“A fair trade,” he decides at last.
🌾🌾🌾
The days that follow take on a quiet rhythm and a gentling of your hours, despite the village’s lingering suspicion. You wake to the hiss of wind through the thatch, to the far-off calling of crows and the creak of wagon wheels on the morning road, and almost every day—to the soft knock of Walter’s knuckles on your cottage door.
It is never loud, or abrupt. It follows a simple pattern that begins quiet tap, then his voice; low and already awake.
“Brought you a bit of wood, miss.”
Or, “Thought you might need herbs for that scratch on your hand.”
Or simply, “Morning.”
He never stays long at the door. He sets what he brought near your threshold, like bundles of firewood tied with twine, sprigs of healing plants, or a small loaf he “happened to have extra of”, and then steps back. But the look in his eyes, warm and uncertain all at once, lingers longer than his footsteps on the path.
You begin to look forward to those mornings, all because he chooses to come to you.
Walter seeks you out during your errands too, though he does it with a shy subtlety that would be easy to miss if you weren’t paying enough attention. He appears beside you while you’re examining fabric against the sunlight and offers quiet thoughts about which direction the clouds are moving. He joins you when you’re returning from the stream with a pail of water, and takes half the weight without asking. And when you sit beneath the old oak to mend your shawl, he settles nearby. He’s always close enough that you can feel the homely warmth of him through the air.
And though the villagers’ eyes still follow you, their stares no longer cut as sharply as before, because Walter’s presence softens the storms in them, and ultimately—in you.
You begin to feel safe beside him. You hadn’t felt so since leaving the towns. His steadiness becomes a harbor, and his quiet humor a balm.
One afternoon, as the two of you walk along the path skirting the barley, you take note of few men loitering near the smithy, leaning on fence posts and ale barrels as they talk. Their conversation stops abruptly when they spot Walter walking with you. Their gazes dart between the two of you in an instant. They remind you of crows catching sight of a glittering trinket in the grass.
A broad man with soot smeared across his forearms calls out first. His voice is thick with the lazy drawl of someone who likes to watch others.
“Well now, Walter Thirsk,” he says, grinning around the stem of his pipe. “Men talk you’d taken on a shadow.”
Walter slows but doesn’t stop. He offers the man a small nod, the polite kind, though his eyes remain forward.
Another man laughs, shaking his head. “Shadow? Looks more like he’s adopted himself a pretty young lass to keep him warm through the cold months.” He lifts his brows pointedly in your direction. His tone is slipping into that rough-edged teasing so common among men who live by their hands. “Not surprised, mind you. She’s a soft one. Walks with those… swaying hips the old mothers always said meant good childbearing.”
Your breath stutters, and the heat climbs at your throat. You look down quickly, and your fingers tighten around the strap of your basket. The men’s laughter rises. It’s crude and startling in its bluntness.
A third voice chimes in. It’s definitely louder and bolder.
“Aye, and breasts full enough for milking, I reckon!”
The laughter erupts again. The men slap each other’s shoulders, cackling as though they’d made the finest joke in all the valley.
Your heart hammers so violently you almost miss Walter’s reaction.
He glances at you, and then turns toward the men with a slow smile spreading across his face. A chuckle leaves him. It sound low in his chest, roughened by experience. But he neither agrees nor denies. He simply lets the laughter wash past him like it always does.
“Reckon you lot have too much time and not enough work,” he says mildly. The corner of his mouth curl with amusement. “Or maybe you’re just jealous.”
The men hoot louder at that, one of them raising his hands in surrender. “Fair enough, Walter! Fair enough!”
Walter only shakes his head, amused but distant, and gestures for you to continue walking. You do, though the heat in your cheeks feels like it could light the road beneath you.
When you’re far enough that the men’s voices blend back into the daily noise of the village, Walter speaks softly, and his tone with you is gentler.
“Don’t mind them,” he says. “Men of their kind talk first and think after. If at all.”
You swallow hard, trying to steady your breath. “They shouldn’t say such things.”
“No,” he agrees. “They shouldn’t. But they don’t mean harm. Just talking like fools do.”
You glance at his profile in the slanting light. You notice the freckles scattered across his cheek, and the calm strength in his jaw. “And you?” you ask quietly. “Do you… mind walking with me? After what they said?”
He meets your gaze then and there is no hesitation in his blue eyes, no embarrassment, or second-guessing.
“I don’t mind at all,” he says.
Then, softer: “Not one bit.”
The wind shifts through the barley. The stalks brush softly against each other like hands clasping. Hugging. Calming.
🌾🌾🌾
Shadows stretch long over the fields, the sky bruising purple and gold before surrendering to the soft dim of night. By the time you and Walter reach your cottage, the air carries a thin bite of coolness. Walter notices that it promises rain sometime before dawn.
Inside, the small hearth crackles with the last of the afternoon’s wood. You light a lamp, and the cottage shifts instantly, intimately, the low table taking on a gentle sheen.
“Come in,” you tell Walter, and he ducks through the short doorway. He stands for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, then settles onto the small wooden stool near the hearth. He places his elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped loosely, and his posture looks unassuming and open.
You sit opposite him, closer to the lamplight, gathering your sewing kit onto your lap. The flame catches the polished metal of your scissors and the fine silver of your needles. Without speaking, you begin to stitch, letting the familiar movements calm the leftover tension coiled inside your chest.
Walter watches like a man watching water ripple in a riverbed or a bird settling onto a branch, noticing the smallest things simply because they matter.
His gaze moves with the care of someone cataloguing details; your fingers looking nimble and precise; the way your wrist moves in smooth arcs; the rise and fall of your breath; a loose strand of hair against your reddened cheek.
At times, you feel the weight of his eyes on you so keenly you almost forget your stitching. It settles warmth beneath your skin that hums in a place you hadn’t known was quiet until he filled it.
The lamplight gilds your features, softening every line. Walter’s gaze drifts towards your jaw, where tension has collected throughout the day; your throat, slender and pale in the golden glow; your chest, rising and falling beneath your shawl, your breaths slow and even; your hips where your skirt pools, their shape outlined in the shifting light; your legs curled neatly beneath you, where the hem of your dress brushes your ankle.
He takes all of it in with the worship of a man who rarely allows himself to look at anything beautiful for too long.
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks but you keep stitching, trying to focus on the fine thread slipping through cloth. The air between you grows warm again.
At length, you glance up.
Walter’s eyes meet yours instantly. They’re clear, earnest blue, and softened further by the firelight. He doesn’t look away, not even when he realizes you’ve caught him studying you. A flush then creeps across his cheekbones, disappearing into his freckles, and his mouth curves into a small, self-conscious smile.
“Didn’t mean to stare,” he apologizes.
“Didn’t mind,” you answer before you can think to soften it.
Walter inhales subtly and steadies himself in the process. His voice drops low to match the nearest lantern’s glow.
“You look peaceful when you sew,” he says. “Like everything’s right close enough for you to touch.”
You lower your eyes, and a smile shows up at the corner of your mouth. “And you,” you say quietly, “look like you’re thinking of something.”
He huffs a soft breath.
“I suppose I am.”
The fire pops and neither of you moves, yet the space between you feels humming, and charged. The closeness is not physical, not yet, but a recognition blooms between two souls who have wandered through suspicion, loneliness, and hard-eyed judgment with a mission to find one gentle moment at a time.
You return to your stitching slowly, aware of him in every breath. Walter watches a moment longer, then leans back, his elbows still resting on his knees, and his eyes still affectionately fixed on you.
summary: You enter a world that treats you as an omen, yet one man sees you with a softness that borders on hunger. Your bond rises like mist from the earth, trembling between fear and desire, and the village’s ruthless scrutiny.
Walter Thirsk (Harvest, 2024) x female!reader
tags: introductory chapter • implied public scrutiny • customs and tradition
prologue | chapter 2
You’re one of the others.
That’s what they’ll call you long before they ever bother to learn your name. A town girl, a tradeswoman, a seamstress with soft hands and bright eyes who doesn’t understand how the wind works here or why the earth seems to breathe under your feet. You feel it the moment your boots cross from the road onto the narrow track that leads between the barley fields. The air changes, takes on a different weight, and the silence deepens, as if the land itself is listening to your strange footsteps.
Your pack is heavy on your shoulder. You’ve got spools of dyed thread, neat bundles of cloth, and shears wrapped carefully in linen, yet the weight is known and nearly comforting. It’s everything else that isn’t.
Ahead of you, the village sits like a cluster of stubborn stones set into the earth, thin coils of smoke rising from their chimneys and drifting low through the still air. The smell of peat hits you before anything else: dark, rich, and ancient. It settles into your clothes, your hair, your nose, as well as in the lining of your throat.
You slow your steps. You feel like you need to.
It is beautiful here, and achingly so. There’s no denying that. The barley bends in long, rippling waves as the wind glides across it, the stalks catching the pale morning light and turning it into a soft gold that looks unreal. Wildflowers flash like scattered jewels at the edge of the track, and beyond them, hills roll quietly into the horizon. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to belong to such a place. Oh, to wake each morning to a world that smells of smoke and loam instead of city dust and iron wheels.
But the spell doesn’t last, because the silence is watchful.
As your boots reach the first fence post, you feel eyes before you ever see faces. An elderly woman pauses mid-stride near a well, and you see her hand tighten on the rope as she stares. A boy carrying a bundle of sticks slows and turns his head to follow your movement. A pair of older men stop speaking altogether, as their conversation is neatly severed the instant you appear in their line of sight.
No one smiles or nods. Their stillness is its own kind of question that gnaws at you.
You swallow and adjust your pack higher, trying not to let your unease show. Towns have their own flavors of scrutiny, but this is different. This is quieter and almost animal. The village feels like a living creature, one that has stopped breathing for a moment to consider whether you are threat or oddity or bad omen. Your heart flicks against your ribs. It feels too quick for the pace of your steps.
You walk on anyway.
Children appear at the corners of houses, and their steps are quick and furtive. A girl with a smudge of soot on her cheek peeks from behind her mother’s apron, and the mother’s hand drops protectively to the child’s shoulder. The way she looks at you makes heat rise under your tight collar.
And yet the landscape itself remains breathtaking, even under all that scrutiny you’re currently facing.
Crows hop along the low stone walls, their feathers glinting blue-black in the light. The sky stretches wide and pale above everything. It looks like an enormous bowl overturned on the world; so open it makes your chest feel hollow. Every sound is magnified here; the rustling of barley, the distant creak of a cart wheel, as well as the soft tap of your own boots on packed earth.
You breathe in deep. Peat smoke, damp straw, cold morning air.
It feels like a different century altogether. A different life.
It is.
Your stomach knots. You remind yourself why you came: to teach, to demonstrate, and lastly to persuade these people that the new ways of sewing could ease their burdens, brighten their clothes, and open their doors to trade. You were sent because you’re patient, because you’re skilled, and because you’re young enough to learn and confident enough to present new methods.
But now, surrounded by eyes that do not blink, you feel the trembling anyway.
The track narrows as it draws deeper into the village, passing close enough to homes that you could touch the rough daub walls if you reached out. You don’t. A dog growls from behind a half-open gate. A man splitting firewood pauses mid-swing, sweat shining on his brow, and his arms seem as tense as the handle he grips.
Your throat goes dry.
Still, you keep on walking.
A brief gust of wind ripples the barley behind you, and the sound is rising like a whispered warning. Or maybe a welcome, that you can’t tell yet. You only know that the land is vast, the people are wary, and you are very, very small in the middle of both.
And somewhere within the village, though you don’t know it yet, for how could you? someone has already noticed you with a quieter, more curious kind of gaze. Someone who will not flinch at the sight of a stranger. Someone who will eventually say your name like it belongs here, at all times.
But for now, all you have is the weight of your pack, the smell of peat, and the golden sway of barley at your back as the villagers stare on in silence.
🌾🌾🌾
You remind yourself why you came the moment you feel your resolve beginning to waver beneath the weight of their stares.
You are here for work, for a purpose that had seemed clear and simple when spoken in the small council room back in the town. Teach them the new ways, they had said. They are good people, traditional, but they’ll listen if someone patient shows them advantage. And you had believed it. You had believed them. Believed yourself.
Now, standing in the middle of a village that feels as guarded as a tight fist, the certainty unravels like an old thread.
Still, you try.
You square your shoulders gently. It’s nothing bold, or nothing that might read as pride, and you offer a cautious smile to the nearest cluster of women gathered near a line of washing hung out to dry. Their linen shifts in the breeze. It looks pale against the dark wood of the cottage wall. You clear your throat, you introduce yourself with a small gesture to your pack, and mention that you’ve come to share new sewing techniques sent from the towns. You point to the dyed threads, to the polished shears, and to the folded patterns tucked beneath your arm.
The women don’t speak at first.
Their eyes move to your clothes, your bright ribbons, and the bit of color at your cuffs. Their gazes follow like the quick warning flash of a bird’s wing, passing from one face to another. It strikes you as a silent communication moving between them as fluidly as morning breeze. A few lean together, whispering behind hands worn rough with washing and work.
You hear snippets.
“…too bright…”
“…her kind brings trouble…”
“…men’s eyes wander…”
“…tempting fate, coming dressed like that…”
Heat floods your cheeks though you stand still as the stone wall behind them. You glance down at yourself. You’re not garish, not indecent; it’s merely a town girl’s attire, after all. A little color to brighten the days, soft wool dyed with cochineal, a ribbon chosen because it reminded you of apple blossoms in spring. Nothing meant to provoke or threaten, you assume.
You try a second time. You go for a softer voice, and a gentler tone, explaining that the new techniques would make their work easier, stitches stronger, and their garments longer-lasting. You speak of fitted silhouettes, of gussets designed to save cloth, of dyes that resist fading. You speak of usefulness, not vanity.
But their expressions do not change.
If anything, their distrust deepens and settles more firmly across their features like a dark veil.
One woman pulls her young daughter closer. You observe her fingers curl protectively around the child’s thin arm. Another folds her arms across her chest, her stance hardening, as if bracing against some oncoming storm you carry unknowingly in your pack. A third merely shakes her head, not unkindly but with the immovable certainty of someone guarding her hearth.
You step back, managing a nod, murmuring that you understand, that you’re here to help, nothing more. Your voice feels too small in the wide air.
When you turn away, the men’s stares are waiting for you instead.
They stand near the smithy and the carts; wherever the morning has gathered them. Their bodies are marked by labor, their faces are streaked with soot or sweat and windburn. They look at you as if you were a creature washed ashore by some strange tide. They’re curious in a way that makes your skin prickle beneath your clothes. A few lift their chins, even.
One lowers his pipe and watches the steam curl toward the ground.
Another shifts the weight of the sack over his shoulder, still staring.
You quickly decide that it is not admiration or a sign of desire. It feels like suspicion wearing the mask of interest, as though they’re waiting to see what sort of trouble a young woman walking alone might bring. It’s obvious that women here don’t wander without purpose; girls don’t work trades unless born into them, and wives don’t leave their husbands’ sides. The fact of your presence unwinds every expectation these men hold, and they regard you with the wary calculation reserved for the unpredictable.
Improper. That’s the word that sparks in their eyes, even if none speak it aloud.
Improper to come alone, bring color, or teach them anything at all.
Your heart knocks once and hard against your ribs.
You pull your gaze away, trying to compose your expression into one that’s smooth and unthreatening. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your pack. You remind yourself to breathe, that you are not here to challenge anyone, that you have done nothing wrong, and that a bright ribbon is no crime.
Still, the pressure of the watching crowds tightens around you like a wall. Every step you take feels too loud, and every movement of yours is too noticeable. You try to keep your pace steady, and your chin lifted just enough to avoid looking frightened. But your spine feels stiff, and your throat is tight with a rising knot, and you feel yourself close to panic.
You whisper a quiet reassurance to yourself, but it does little against the weight of so many eyes.
It takes only a moment, perhaps two, but by the time you’ve walked past the last of them, your breath has quickened and your pulse beats in your ears like hooves against packed earth. The beauty of this place presses against you. It’s almost mocking, as though the land itself wonders why a girl from the towns would dare believe she could change anything here.
You keep walking, though the weight of being watched clings to your shoulders. The road dips slightly as it moves between cottages, and with each step you feel the shift between what you came from and what you’ve entered. What you see are two worlds stitched poorly together, and the seam between them is both uncomfortable and straining.
Your hands, folded around the straps of your pack, look too small, too neat here.
You know you’re too soft.
Back in the towns, your fingers made their living dancing along fabrics, coaxing shape from thread, and guiding needles through fine cloth with grace expected from you. Here, those same fingers seem a liability. They look unsuited for hefting firewood, for milking stone-bellied cows, or slicing through stiff hides and hauling nets. When a woman at a doorway lifts a basket of potatoes with one forearm, her muscles roping and solid beneath the skin, you can’t help glancing down at your own wrists. They’re pale and look frighteningly breakable in comparison.
You can’t help but feel sharp awareness of difference. It reminds you that every callus these people wear is a badge of belonging you do not possess.
Still, curiosity pulls at you, for that’s exactly what you are.
This place is older than the towns, older than the factories and cobbled streets, and older than the fashions you were sent to promote. You can feel it in the earth, in the way the ground seems to remember footsteps from centuries ago. You pause near a low stone wall where two women knead dough in wide clay bowls. Their hands keep moving with the power of those repeating a ritual passed down long before they were born. The dough is pale and soft. It’s rising under their palms like an animal alive, and the women murmur words you cannot catch. They share blessings perhaps, or superstitions meant to coax good fortune from the harvest.
You watch from a respectful distance, breath held, almost enchanted by the rhythm of their movements.
It is beautiful, you think, the way their knuckles sink into the dough, and the way the morning sun gilds the dusting of flour on their sleeves. They speak of softness you did not expect from women who looked at you moments ago with such hard suspicion.
Then, without warning, one of them lifts a pinch of coarse grain and scatters it in a circle at her feet. What a solemn gesture!
The other woman mirrors her, making a second circle, and the two exchange a nod heavy with meaning.
You have no idea what the custom demands, but the air around them grows ancient. Your skin prickles in response.
You move on, uncertain whether you were meant to witness that at all.
Farther down, a small group gathers where a thin trail of smoke curls from a shallow pit. Elder women sit on low stools, feeding handfuls of dried herbs into the fire. The scent rises and drifts through the air. It feels earthy and tinged with bitterness. You recognize none of the plants, but the expressions on their faces tell you the burning is purposeful: a cleansing perhaps, or a preparation for the season ahead. It is lovely in its way, mesmerizing even, the way the smoke curls around their fingers.
Yet something in the ceremony makes your stomach tighten. You can tell there’s a warning there.
Or a plea.
Traditions in your town were gentler, and most definitely softer around the edges. Here everything feels closer to the bone.
You try to slip past unnoticed, but your curiosity betrays you. You glance one moment too long, and an old woman with a shawl pulled tight around her shoulders lifts her gaze to yours. Her eyes are pale, almost cloudy, yet they fix on you with unsettling clarity. She only watches, and her thin lips are pressed together into a strict line. The judgment in her stare is final: you are not one of us.
You look away.
You tell yourself to keep moving, but the village seems determined to unwrap itself in layers you are not ready for. At the next bend in the road, the peaceful quiet fractures.
A harsh voice cuts through the air. You see a man shouting, and his words are thick with anger. You freeze instinctively, and your pulse is leaping. Ahead, near the edge of a paddock, a farmer stands beside a stubborn ox that has stopped in its tracks. Its massive body seems to be refusing to move no matter how he tugs the rope. The animal’s hide shivers. Its dark eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. You watch, horrified, as the man jerks the rope again, harder this time, cursing under his breath.
When the ox still refuses, he raises the rough stick in his hand.
You take a step forward without thinking, and a quiet gasp escapes you before you can swallow it. A woman beside you, one you hadn’t noticed, catches your sleeve with a firm, warning grip. Her eyes dart to yours, and though she says nothing, the message is clear: stay out of it. Interference from an outsider would not be welcomed here.
The man brings the stick down harshly enough to make the ox lurch forward with a groan of protest. The sound cuts through you. The farmer mutters something about stubborn beasts and wasted daylight, tugging the rope.
The woman releases your sleeve only when he and his ox have moved on.
You stand there, heart pounding, feeling suddenly and acutely how far from home you are.
In town, such a display would have brought neighbors running, voices raised, and hands pulling the man away, apologies offered to the frightened animal. Here, it is simply another moment in the day, as unremarkable as lighting a hearth.
You swallow hard, and the taste of smoke and fear gathers thickly in your throat. You thought you understood rural life. You had even romanticized it before, imagined fields of gold and quiet nights, and neighbors who lived by simple virtues. But now, standing amid a village that moves to its own rhythm, you realize how naive that belief was. Life here is not simple. It is sharp-edged, carved by survival and scarcity, and shaped by customs you barely grasp.
This is the life you came to learn from, to work beside, to perhaps, if lucky, become a part of. The mismatch between your world and theirs is wide, but not impossible to cross. You’re all human, after all.
🌾🌾🌾
By the time you reach the cluster of low sheds at the village’s edge, the weight of the morning has settled into your shoulders like a second pack. Your nerves are worn thin from the sideways glances and the murmured judgments. You tell yourself you only need to reach the small lodging set aside for travelers. It’s just one more stretch of road, one more set of tasks, and then you can sit, breathe, and finally think.
You spot a narrow cart beside the shed, half-filled with chopped firewood, and decide you’ll take a few pieces for your hearth before you head farther in. The air has a bite to it, and you can already imagine how cold the cottage might be come nightfall. The cart wheel is sunk into the soft earth and tilted at an awkward angle, making it difficult to reach, but you brace your foot against the frame and lean in anyway.
The wood is heavier than it looks.
Your fingers slip on the rough bark as you strain to lift the nearest piece, and the cart creaks in protest, tilting deeper into the mud. You mutter under your breath, adjusting your stance. You’re determined not to appear helpless in a place where weakness feels like a mark people are too eager to see.
You try again. The wood shifts, but the wheel sinks further, and suddenly you’re fighting not just the weight of the logs but the resistance of the earth itself. Your boot loses traction; you stumble forward, catching yourself against the cart’s edge with a sharp gasp. Splinters bite your palm.
You stare down at your hand. Your cheeks are burning with frustration, when a shadow falls across the ground beside you.
“Careful there, miss.”
The voice is quiet and gentle, as though it does not belong to this village. It’s oddly softened around the edges, as if he has no wish to startle you. You turn, expecting another wary face, or another scrutinizing gaze, but the man standing a few paces off is watching you with a different curiosity in his eyes.
He is taller than any man you’ve seen since leaving the town, with a frame built by work, but with certain softness to it. His legs are sturdy beneath worn clothes, his boots are caked lightly with earth, and his shirt hangs open at the throat, exposing a line of freckles scattered across sun-browned skin. A wind-tossed fall of reddish hair frames his face; not a bright copper, but a softer, burnished shade that catches in the sun. The same color shades the mustache above his lips, giving him an oddly boyish gentleness that contrasts with the strength in his stare.
But it’s his eyes that hold you.
They are a striking, clear blue, and caught between sky and water. They look unmistakably watchful yet not intrusive. They’re not assessing you for trouble or impropriety.
He takes in the splinter in your palm, the wood leaning precariously in the cart, as well as the mud staining your boot, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s a warmth in his expression that makes the tightness in your chest ease by a measure.
“You’ll hurt yourself doing it that way,” he says, still quiet, as if aware that speaking too loudly might make you shy like a wild animal. “May I?”
You hesitate out of habit more than mistrust. Every man you’ve encountered this morning has watched you as though waiting for you to err. But this one waits in a different way. He does so patiently, and respectfully, with his hands at his sides, and his stance unassuming despite his size.
After a moment, you nod.
He steps closer, the scent of clean sweat and crushed barley drifting faintly from him. Without ceremony, he grips the cart frame near the sunken wheel, braces one foot in the mud, and with an easy strength lifts the entire corner free. The wheel pops out of the rut and settles on firmer ground with a soft thud.
“There,” he murmurs, letting the cart down gently.
You blink at the sudden simplicity of it, the ease. He reaches for a few logs and sets them near your feet, merely offering them in reach.
“I reckon you’ll want more than one,” he says and sounds almost apologetic. “Nights get cold.”
His voice has earnestness to it. It sounds honest and unshowy. You nod again, trying to find your own voice.
“Thank you,” you manage. “I didn’t mean to… make a mess of it.”
“You didn’t.” His gaze darts to yours briefly before lowering again. You notice that he’s shy without being awkward. “It’s the mud. Has a mind of its own this time of year.”
You watch him, unsure what to make of the contrast he presents. This tall, yet soft man has a face that could be harsh if he chose, yet he carries such gentleness in every movement. The freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks soften him further, as though nature itself had decided to mark him kindly.
He doesn’t ask who you are or why you’ve come. He only steps back, wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Anything else you need, miss?”
The way he says miss is not condescending, for a change.
You shake your head, though your heart is still fluttering from the sudden turn of the moment. “No. You’ve been very kind.”
He inclines his head, and you assess the gesture as certain enough to feel intentional.
“I’ll let you settle in then,” he says, voice dipping low with a quiet, almost thoughtful cadence. His blue eyes lift once more to yours for the briefest moment, for barely a heartbeat, yet it’s enough to send a promise of warmth through your chest. “Welcome.”
And then he turns, and his long stride carries him down the path with ease, leaving behind only the impression of his presence. You hear the soft indentation of his boots in the mud, the echo of his voice in the cold morning air, and the gentleness that stands in such stark contrast to everything else you’ve encountered today.
You watch him go, relieved and wary at once. He does seem different from the others.
🌾🌾🌾
The cottage they’ve given you sits at the far edge of the village, as though someone had decided that distance itself might soften your strangeness. It is a small, square thing built of daub and timber. Its roof is sagging beneath bundles of thatch browned by weather and age. When you step inside, the air is cool and carries the scent of smoke from whomever slept here last season. Dust motes drift in the slanted afternoon light like tiny drifting seeds.
Lovely.
You set your pack down in the corner nearest the hearth. The cottage is plain. Its bare floorboards look worn by years of feet. There is a single table pushed against the wall, and a a straw mattress wrapped in rough linen. But after the tense walk through the village, the stillness feels almost like safety, and you breathe in a slow, shaken breath.
Outside, dogs bark. Their voices sound rough and urgent, carrying across the open fields. Someone shouts instructions toward a distant barn, and the dull clatter of metal suggests tools being put away for the evening. A pair of children run past your window, but their laughter is snapped short by a woman’s sharp call.
Above it all, the wind threads itself through the thatch, humming in a low, persistent murmur.
You run your hand along the edge of the table, feeling the grooves left by others. They look like marks of knives, elbows, as well as the small histories of people who lived by simpler rhythms. You imagine them sitting here in the late hours, eating their bread and broth by candlelight, and you imagine their tired bodies warmed by the same hearth you now intend to coax into life.
You take one piece of firewood from the small stack Walter kindly handed you and place it in the hearth, arranging tinder with careful fingers. The spark catches, hesitant at first, then blooms into a soft flame. The warmth is small but welcome. You sit beside it, listening to the fire crackle, letting your breath finally loosen in your chest.
After a while, you hear a sound beyond the cottage wall. You recognize it as the bleating of goats and the scrape of boots on packed earth. You edge closer to the window, though you don’t know why, and part the thin curtain with two fingers.
Walter stands a little way off, he’s got a wooden pail in hand, and is surrounded by two black goats nudging eagerly at his legs. His posture is relaxed, one hip leaning into the fence, and he works with lazy steadiness that makes everything around him seem gentler.
The evening light lays itself across his shoulders, catching in the reddish strands of his hair, and turning them almost golden in the fading sun.
He speaks to the goats in a low voice. The animals respond as though they know him well. They continue to press in close, nudging the pail with stubborn affection.
For a moment you simply watch. He looks different like this, not just gentle but almost peaceful, as if caring for small creatures pulls him into some private, undisturbed world. The freckled tilt of his face softens in the dusk, and his blue eyes reflect the lingering light.
Then, without any clear reason, you think, perhaps a shift in the wind, perhaps some unseen awareness, he lifts his head, and his gaze turns toward your cottage window.
You freeze, though you know he can barely see you in the dimness. The hem of the curtain brushes your knuckles. You consider dropping it, stepping back, and pretending you hadn’t been watching him at all. But something tethers you in place.
Walter then pauses in his task. His hand is still resting on the pail’s rim. There’s no suspicion in his eyes, and gone is the wary scrutiny the other villagers displayed earlier. Instead, he wears a look of curiosity, perhaps, or a quiet wondering.
He holds your gaze for the briefest moment, and then he lowers his eyes again, returning to his work, as he’s most likely decided that nothing unusual has happened. But the way he straightens his shoulders and the way his movements slow just so, tells you that a fleeting, unmistakable notion passed between you.
You step back from the window, letting the curtain fall. Your pulse flutters, confused by the sensation building in your chest. It’s a warmth that has nothing to do with the hearth fire. You don’t know him, of course, but the memory of his gentleness and his careful hands on the cart stays with you for a while.
Outside, the goats bleat contentedly, and you hear the low murmur of Walter’s voice again, drifting through the thinning evening air.
You sit on the edge of the straw mattress, feeling the rough linen beneath your palms, and you let the sounds of the village fold around you. The dogs are now settling down, and the wind is sliding through rafters. Somewhere in that chorus is the steady presence of the man who helped you without fuss, whose eyes lingered on your window before dusk swallowed the last of the light.
summary: You enter a world that treats you as an omen, yet one man sees you with a softness that borders on hunger. Your bond rises like mist from the earth, trembling between fear and desire, and the village’s ruthless scrutiny.
Walter Thirsk (Harvest, 2024) x female!reader
chapter 1
🌾🌾🌾
His lips part just a notch. “You alright?” he asks. His voice is quiet and nearly hoarse.
You nod, though the motion barely makes it past your shoulders. “Are you?”
He gives a breath of a laugh. It is shy and astonished. “Not sure,” he admits. “Not sure at all.”
The honesty unsettles deep inside you, loosens your apprehension, and warms you to the core. Before either of you fully understands who’s moved first, the distance closes.
His mouth meets yours, and the kiss is taken.
It finds you the same way water finds the shore. So slow, so warm, so inevitable, so good. His lips press softly into yours, brushing in small, testing motions. His breath mingles with yours in a tremble of intimate air. His hands shift to steady you, sliding subtly higher along your ribs, and you realize—he’s learning the shape of your breath. You place your hand on his forearm in return, and your fingers curl around the warm, sun-browned skin, guiding him closer.
His lips part just enough to deepen the warmth without breaking the shyness, or losing the sweetness that hovers between you like a stolen breath.
The world, oh the world blurs for once.
Grass rustles around your bare calves, pressing against you as the wind moves through it. The lake glimmers at the edge of your vision. The light trembles on its surface, and you nearly feel the water reacting to the touch you share with your companion. Birds call softly from the woods, their distant cries weaving into the hush of your joined breaths.
@hunniebunniebear I am planning on it!! It’ll be an 11x17 poster and also a 5.5x8.5 postcard, I think. I have to decide. Eeee I’m excited to see her printed tho! They’ll be up on the ko-fi when I get things sorted.
dailybridgerton
jbbartram-illu
tangentwithtanner
titsay
dededos
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
