#but what's going on with the patches (??) on the walls

[syoddeye]

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane. 

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally. 

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Hola. Long rambling feedback behind the cut as well as

When he meets you, he hasn’t even thought of picking up a pencil in years. Ever since you’ve been at the mansion though, Logan’s fingertips twitch with the urge to start sketching your features every time he’s with you. It gets hard to ignore after a few days.

I think this is so beautiful. Anyone who is a creative knows how difficult it can be to find a muse. So for this person to inspire a twitch in Logan after YEARS? That's just a very beautiful thing.

He waits until he’s known you a few weeks, there’s no way in hell he’d ask if he could draw you. He’d probably embarrass you by asking, and embarrass himself by admitting he’s into fucking art. That’s not him.  Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring. 

And this is for BOTH 1) thinking it's not ok to be into art??? OK BUT CAVEMEN CARVED INTO WALLS, SIR and 2) "you're nothing if not inspiring" *screamingggggggggggggggggggg*

The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises.  Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing. 

I love that this fits with the Logan I know, the demand on self for perfectionism and the refusal to accept anything but. But it's especially important cuz he wants to do right by YOU/HER. *swoon*

And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more. 

Sigh. Oh Logan. Always thinking he's not worthy while he holds everyone he cares about up on pedestals. I both adore him and wanna shake him for these habits.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He gets Rogue to show him Instagram for reference photos. HOW CUTE!

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite. 

This is soooooooooooooooo beautiful. It is just a loud beacon of what Logan's heart really is. It's also really precious that he finally produces a drawing of her that he's satisfied with which then produces ANGST in him. Cuz he can't leave it out cuz what if people see? But he doesn't want to hide it cuz what if it smudges? Watching him go back and forth about it and the STRESS shows how much it means to him not to mess it up but ALSO, I think, how much it means to him to be back drawing. As a creative who goes through the longest dry patches, when a period of productivity comes up? OH DO I WANT TO HANG ONTO IT. And probably try so hard that I make it slip through my fingers.

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again.  He could give it to you. 

DO IT LOGANNNNNNNN!

Logan knows his drawing isn’t objectively a masterpiece, but if he’s proud of it he has to acknowledge that that probably means it’s at least decent. And you’re definitely the type of person to appreciate something like this. It’s weird admitting to himself that he’s even proud of what he’s drawn; he’s done so much in this world, who cares about a little drawing? 

YOU care, sir! And people who love you will SEE that and care too!!! Don't we all wish he valued himself and his opinions more.

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him.

It's so precious to me, how relatable this is. Anyone who is a creative can relate, I'm sure. How nervous creatives are before they publish or they post or they even just share with someone they are close to. I wanna hug him.

He knows it’s stupid to hide but he just can’t. He decides he’ll leave the drawing in your room in an envelope, maybe a pink one to show you it’s not a creepy threat but meant as a sign of adoration, from someone who couldn’t resist but try to recreate your beauty. He won’t write his name on it, he just wants you to have it.  Sappy motherfucker. 

Some day, someone needs to tell him he can give himself permission to BE sappy. Corny is part of life and it's a blessing.

He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door.  So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart.  It’s soo stupid. 

It's annoying to read Logan's antiquated views on masculinity here. Completely understand that it fits with his character and how he has aged and evolved but omggggggggggg, it's just frustrating lol

You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

The way we can convince ourselves of the worst possible outcome, eh? *smh*

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing.  You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.” 

SHE IMMEDIATELY TREATED IT AS SOMETHING PRECIOUS!!! SHE WANTED TO PROTECT IT JUST LIKE LOGAN WANTED TO PROTECT IT!!! BUT SHE LOVES IT TO THE POINT SHE MADE HERSELF A COPY TO CARRY IT AROUND WITH HER AT ALL TIMES!!!!!

“I don’t know, just, so beautiful. I’m not saying I’m not pretty or anything, but this looks… I don’t look like that. I wish I did. I can’t believe someone actually sees me like that. It’s stupid but I….” You trail off and, conveniently, the toast is done at the same time and you move on to that.  But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?”  You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

To see the similarities in how they DON'T see themselves fully is kind of sweet and makes me root for them.

“I cried when I first saw it yesterday. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. And it’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received, for someone to perceive me in such an artistic way.”  The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created. 

He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing. 

This is HILARIOUS and KILLING ME because I also make rules for MYSELF that are different from the rules I have for EVERYONE ELSE lmao

He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy. 

Logan being an Acts of Service person makes ALL the sense in the world to me.

But of course now that he knows it means something to you, he can’t get anything right. He draws your hair too curly, then not curly enough. He draws your nose too big, then too small. Your eyes end up crooked. He can’t erase too much because it’ll look sloppy, so even the drawing he gets almost perfect, he ruins with a few final additions at the end. 

The curse of the sequel! I think a lot of creatives can relate to this type of self induced pressure which means nothing you produce is good enough.

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.” He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

She already has a frame for the new drawing cuz the frames came in packs of 2 and she will NOT STAND for someone not absolutely FAWNING over it and I love that from her. It's doing Logan's heart SO good to see how much she adores what he's created.

If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you. Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

It was the stupidest joke of all that made you really laugh, some dumb comparison between Xavier and Caillou. You probably wouldn’t even giggle at it anymore now, but in the moment it was so funny you almost spat out your drink from the deep belly laugh he drew from you, holding onto his bicep so you wouldn’t fall over as tears formed in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. He wanted to engrave the image on his soul. At least he got your smile on paper.

Our man is S-M-I-T-T-E-N and I love that for him. Cuz look what it's brought back into his life?

“I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it. “No one else knows.” You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

This is so intimate. And he's finally comfortable all the way with her. She knows it's him and he's fine with her knowing it's him.

You don’t know how to put your feelings into words, so you’re kissing him instead. He pulls you down so that you’re not hovering over but sitting on his lap, and the mood immediately shifts to something different. Logan doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but if you’re ready then he’ll take anything he can get.

I appreciate that Logan is just the tiniest bit "selfish" here because this has been such an emotionally taxing ordeal for him. And she really really admires his talent and is THRILLED that it's him and that he sees her the way that he does.

From here the story slips into the Rated R portion of the story which is both hot and very sweet. The buildup means that I feel a genuine connection and intimacy between the 2 that feels "earned," if that's the right word. Cuz it doesn't feel forced or rushed or like we skipped a whole bunch of stuff to get here.

I also love that there's open dialogue. Often, the only talk between lovers is dirty - which I am a big fan of and absolutely fine with - but that here we have sweet confessions, constant check ins, and reassurances; these all fit with the journey we've been on with these two and I just really enjoy that aspect.

There's also good dirty talk, balanced give and take and praaaaaaaaaaaaise which I enjoy thoroughly. Logan also tends to take the possessive "my girl" over and over which just melts my butter!

@selfcarecap thank you so much for creating and sharing this! Thank you for following YOUR muse through to the end of this tale and then being brave enough to slip it under all our doors *bad dum tss* I really loved this look at Logan, his vulnerabilities, his abilities and desires beyond his powers / "job" and what allowing himself to create ultimately gifted him with. Well done smut that I also very much enjoyed too.

And thank you to K for putting it on my dash!

MUSE [L.H.]

Logan Howlett x reader

summary: Logan would never admit it to anyone, but over the course of his long life he has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. He hasn’t done it in years, maybe even decades, but he’s struck by inspiration when he meets you. Of course, no one can know that Wolverine draws, so he does it in the dead of night, sliding anonymous envelopes with the finished drawings of you under your door. When he sees how much you love them, he wonders if you could also love the person behind them. 

warnings: smut 18+ but with an actual plot for once (brief m masturbation, oral f and m rec, unprotected piv sex, kind of accidental (but consensual obv) facial; pet names: bub, baby, good girl, princess), soft!Logan but he won’t admit it, also soft!reader, fluff (although the summary makes it sounds a bit more dramatic than it is tbh), implication that reader has curly hair, implied mutant/X-men!reader, (obviously the pic doesn’t represent the envelopes Logan uses lol he’s not doing all that)

word count: 7.3k

also i feel the need to say something about the fact that it’s Hugh Jackman’s birthday today lol so uh thanks for being huge jacked man and for giving us our Logan yay <3 | gorgeous divider by @plutism

It’s everything Logan is the opposite of – he would never tell a soul – but over the course of his long life, Logan has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. It’s not really him, but he did have a phase or two.

When he meets you, he hasn’t even thought of picking up a pencil in years. Ever since you’ve been at the mansion though, Logan’s fingertips twitch with the urge to start sketching your features every time he’s with you. It gets hard to ignore after a few days.

He waits until he’s known you a few weeks, there’s no way in hell he’d ask if he could draw you. He’d probably embarrass you by asking, and embarrass himself by admitting he’s into fucking art. That’s not him. 

Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring. 

He gives in to the urge to get out pencil and paper again, waiting until everyone else has gone to sleep. The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises. 

Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing. 

He picks out a few other things to draw then, to ease the pressure that comes with drawing the woman he… is friends with. Yeah, you’re a friend. And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more. 

But after a few nights he feels more confident in his drawing skills again, but still, as much as he can picture you in his mind – he can do that absolutely perfectly – he’s not too sure he could really draw you accurately.

So he gets Rogue to show him how goddamn fucking Instagram works so that he can look at some of your pictures and use them as a model. 

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He can’t believe it, but the first time he seriously attempts to draw you, it’s perfect. It’s a small drawing, not even as big as his palm, capturing your gorgeous face. He thinks of adding another few lines to your eyebrows, or to your hair or another small one to the outline of your lips, but he doesn’t want to mess with it. 

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite. 

He hides the drawing in between the pages of a book, and hides the book under a pile of random clutter on his desk that not even he would normally spare a glance at. But when he lies down to go to sleep, he gets all the stuff out again and gets out the drawing. He wants to see it again. And he can’t leave it there anyway, what if the pressure from all the items on top of it smudges it? 

But he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He can’t really have a drawing of you sitting in his room. What if someone sees? Then what is he gonna do with it instead? 

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again. 

He could give it to you. 

Logan knows his drawing isn’t objectively a masterpiece, but if he’s proud of it he has to acknowledge that that probably means it’s at least decent. And you’re definitely the type of person to appreciate something like this. It’s weird admitting to himself that he’s even proud of what he’s drawn; he’s done so much in this world, who cares about a little drawing? 

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him. To see the side that has him staying up until 3AM to finely trace the lines of someone’s eyelashes and cheekbones and lips, the side that makes him feel calm inside. 

He knows it’s stupid to hide but he just can’t. He decides he’ll leave the drawing in your room in an envelope, maybe a pink one to show you it’s not a creepy threat but meant as a sign of adoration, from someone who couldn’t resist but try to recreate your beauty. He won’t write his name on it, he just wants you to have it. 

Sappy motherfucker. 

He puts the small drawing back into the book and carefully pushes it between his mattress and the bedframe to protect it during the night. God, who even is he – protecting a tiny piece of paper? He groans at himself as he turns around to go to sleep. 

He dreams of making a thousand drawings of you, with you as his live model. His muse. 

You’re his girlfriend in his dream, he thinks. 

He’s sitting in a chair in your room, drawing you as you tell him about your day. You’re lying on your bed on your tummy, elbows propped up to support your head. You’re gently kicking your feet in the air behind you, wearing nothing but a t-shirt of Logan’s, some silly graphic socks, panties with little cherries on them, and a bright, bashful smile as Logan attempts to capture your glowing features in a sketch block he’s dedicated to drawings of you. 

He wakes up with morning wood. 

Logan is no stranger to jerking off with you on his mind, so he spits in his hand and slips it beneath his boxers, stroking himself as he thinks of you. He imagines you on top of him as he jerks his cock, imagines you under him, or with your legs around his head, or you between his knees on the floor. He cums quickly and hard, leaving his boxers wet and sticky.

He goes for a run after he’s dealt with it and picks up an envelope on his way. He’s doubting himself but he knows he has to just do it. He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door. 

So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart. 

It’s soo stupid. 

He makes sure no one is anywhere near your bedroom, walks up to your door, and slides the envelope underneath. Except he didn’t check if you were in your room. As soon as the envelope disappears beneath your door, he hears a short creak from your bed and your soft footsteps. 

He hears the small and adorable noise of curiosity you let out – a confused hm? – and then he quickly and quietly makes his way down the hallway. He hears your voice about ten seconds later, an intrigued hello? as you open the door, but you don’t investigate further, closing the door behind you. 

Logan’s heart is beating so fast. He’s never doing this shit again. 

He’s antsy all day, waiting for some type of reaction from you. Except you don’t know that the drawing is from him so he’s probably not even getting one, and he can’t conspicuously come to your room the same day you receive an anonymous drawing of yourself. 

It’s also when the insecurity settles in. Maybe he should have added a few more lines or started the entire drawing anew. Who does he think he is pretending to be an artist? 

He shakes those thoughts off as he starts training with the punching bag in the gym. It’s not something that he necessarily needs to train, but it gets rid of some of that pointless energy. This isn’t him, worried about some lines he drew on a piece of paper – a scrap of a paper, really. Who cares about something like that? Certainly not him. 

He sleeps dreamlessly and wakes up the next day disappointed that he didn’t get to dream about being your boyfriend again. God, what are you doing to him? Making him think about being boyfriend and girlfriend. He’s pathetic. You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

-

He’s not even thinking of the drawing anymore, truly, when he walks into the kitchen the next morning. It only comes to mind when he sees you, alone in the kitchen, leaning over the counter to scroll on your phone, your weird green coffee (“it’s Matcha, Logan”) next to you as you stir it mindlessly with a metal straw. 

“Hi,” you look up with one of those sweet smiles of yours, but redirect your attention to your phone. 

At least you don’t immediately say something like hey, you know that drawing you slid under my door? It was so ugly I threw it away. Since when do you even draw? 

Not that he was worried you would or anything. He hasn’t been thinking about it. Obviously. Why would he? And he knows you would never expect that it’s him; that’s the only reason he did it. He never would have given you the drawing if he thought you could have even the slightest inkling that Logan would be someone who draws. But he still wants to know what you think of it. 

“You want some toast too?” You ask, putting your phone down and turning to get some bread. He sits down at the other side of the kitchen counter and as his eyes flicker to your green drink (he still doesn’t get it), he sees it. 

“Is that–” my drawing, he almost said, “What is that?” He pretends to be confused, drawing his eyebrows together, trying his best to look inquisitive, “No toast by the way, thanks.” 

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing. 

“Did you draw it?” He asks. 

You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.” 

“Secret admirer?” 

Smiling, you say, “I don’t know. I won’t get my hopes up. But the person must definitely be fond of me to draw me like that.” 

“Like what?” He asks, unsure if he’s about to be offended. 

“I don’t know, just, so beautiful. I’m not saying I’m not pretty or anything, but this looks… I don’t look like that. I wish I did. I can’t believe someone actually sees me like that. It’s stupid but I….” You trail off and, conveniently, the toast is done at the same time and you move on to that. 

But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?” 

You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

Logan stays silent. He can’t seem too pushy and draw attention to himself, but his silence makes you confess.

“I cried when I first saw it yesterday. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. And it’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received, for someone to perceive me in such an artistic way.” 

Logan makes a noise of satisfaction and smiles, asking you to pass your phone so he can look at it more – pretending it’s his first time seeing it. If you think that way about it, maybe the three more lines he was going to add aren’t that important after all. 

The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created. 

-

After a week, he figures he has to give in. Drawing another picture of you is on his mind twenty-four seven. 

It doesn’t help that he still catches you staring at the copy of it in your phone case lovingly more than once a day and you’ve put the original drawing in a special little frame on your nightstand. He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing. 

This is for you. It’s not about him. He’s not an artist or anything like that, he’s just doing something kind for someone he cares about (which is honestly sappy enough but he tries to ignore that). He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy. 

He’ll just make this second drawing and silently put it in your room, and he’s the last person you’ll suspect. 

But of course now that he knows it means something to you, he can’t get anything right. He draws your hair too curly, then not curly enough. He draws your nose too big, then too small. Your eyes end up crooked. He can’t erase too much because it’ll look sloppy, so even the drawing he gets almost perfect, he ruins with a few final additions at the end. 

It takes him an entire month for the next drawing, and it feels more like him that it’s been making him so angry that he couldn’t get it right at first. Maybe he had the wrong picture of artists. They’re always talking about pain, aren’t they, and that’s what he experiences too (over a drawing. Who is he?). 

He takes another few days to keep track of your routine, to monitor when you’ll be in your room. He can’t have it be as close as last time. 

He ends up doing it in the evening. There’s a time after dinner when most of the team stays together to watch tv, just talk, or play some games. It’s normal for some of you to wander off, come back or stick around a bit longer. It won’t be suspicious if he leaves for a few minutes and comes back.

Logan wants nothing more than to follow you when you say that you’re going to your room for the night; he wants to see your reaction. But he can’t. All he can do is go up to his own bedroom fifteen minutes later, lingering in the hallway longer than he needs to.

Just as he’s about to give up and go to sleep, you walk down the hallway, coming back from the bathroom.

“Logan!” you call all excitedly when you see him, and his heart skips a beat. Do you know the drawing is from him? 

“Look,” you take his arm and pull him to your room, “I got another drawing!”

He breathes out in relief; you don’t know it’s from him. He smiles when you hold up the drawing, already framed.

“Were you expecting to get another drawing?” he teases.

“Noo, but the frames came in a pack of two. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Logan looks at how your eyes sparkle, how proudly you’re showing him this drawing. All the work he put into it was definitely worth it. It’s another picture of your face, this time from a new angle, and with your hair styled differently, curls coiled another way from last time.

Logan clears his throat, remembering to keep up his act. “It looks good.”

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.”

He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

“It is. And you don’t have to know much about art or drawing to see how pretty this is. I still can’t believe someone would take the time to make these for me.”

Logan remains silent instead of saying what he wants to tell you. Of course he would take that time for you – and you don’t even know how much time it really took him. If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you.

Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

-

He’s on a roll for some time. He’s better at drawing again now that he’s getting in practice, and he makes five drawings of you within the next weeks. Logan watches the collection of them on your nightstand grow fuller, along with your smile that somehow gets bigger every time you tell him about a new drawing.

It’s a wonder you haven’t caught on yet, but you don’t seem particularly interested in snooping around to find out who it is. You respect the person’s privacy, but you’ve confessed to him that you’d still love to know. 

“I won’t try to find out who it is. I won’t push it if they don’t want me to know… but, I mean, anyone would want to know, wouldn’t they?”

You’ve adopted the nickname of ‘secret admirer’ for this mysterious ‘they’, after Logan used the term about ten times. You were reluctant at first, because the person isn’t calling themself a secret admirer – you’d just be putting words in their mouth. But after seeing how much more beautiful the drawings get each time, you’ve accepted and admitted that, okay, yes, the person must be an admirer.

Your secret admirer Logan is particularly proud of his latest drawing, excited to bring it up to your room tonight. 

But this time he’s sloppy. He’s stayed for a few post-dinner card games with the team, and it’s risky, because you’ve been saying that it’s your last game for the last two rounds. But he also knows that you always say that, and never mean it.

Logan gets up to leave, and he hears Scott convincing you to play just one more round.

It’s stupid, really, risking it like that. Even if he’s gone from your room in time before you come upstairs, you could easily guess that it’s Logan. He’s the first one leaving the round tonight, so your first assumption could be that it was him.

Maybe subconsciously he wants to get caught. He’s seen how you light up at every drawing, and no matter how much you respect your admirer’s anonymity, of course you want to know who’s dedicating so much time and work to drawings of you. Of course it’s crossed your mind that the person isn’t just doing this because they’re a good friend. They’re drawing your face because they think it’s beyond beautiful.

Logan doesn’t really know why he hasn’t told you yet that he likes you. He’s good at flirting, and he’s attractive – he’s not blind. But with you it’s different, there’s a bigger risk, for the both of you. The older he gets, the harder it is to open up to yet another person. You’re friends, and you talk about personal things, but confessing that he’s in love with you is different.

Not to mention this stupid recurring dream he keeps having, in which you find out it’s Logan who’s been drawing you, and suddenly your opinion of the drawings changes. You don’t like him back like that, and suddenly the drawings feel creepy if you think about him staying up late drawing your face.

He rolls his eyes at himself and gets the thought out of his head, taking the small envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans, smoothing his hand over it. He looks around, making sure no one sees him.

Logan bends down to slide the envelope under your door as usual, but one of the corners of the paper catches against the wall, and he quickly opens it to check the drawing isn’t damaged. His heart is beating so fast, he feels stupid. 

He can hear footsteps, still far away, but he can hear them. Logan messily licks the edges of the envelope to close it back up, but it’s not sticking. He can’t decide between shoving it under the door like this or leaving now and bringing it back the next day. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage now.

Then he hears it. He miscalculated how far the footsteps were.

“Logan?”

He turns around slowly, and it feels like the world has frozen.

You come closer, looking at him and then at the letter that he must’ve dropped. It hasn’t made it under your door yet.

He says something before you can, “I’m delivering for someone else.”

“Who?” you ask, bending down to pick up the envelope. If he wasn’t petrified, he’d enjoy the view of you bent over in front of him.

He breathes. He can’t have anyone taking credit for his work, for his art (you called it that recently, he would never). But his heart is beating so fast he doesn’t know what the fuck to do or say. 

This is exactly why he never wanted to do any of this. He’s making a fool out of himself and that doesn’t usually happen, especially not over a piece of paper. Logan is confident, cocky even, he can admit that, and has no idea how to deal with things like being nervous; he never has to. This really isn’t him.

You don’t wait for an answer and look at the envelope. You open it so carefully, gently taking the drawing out with your fingertips. You’re treating it with so much care he immediately feels better. Again, this isn’t for him, it’s for you. (Well, it’s for him too but it’ll take him a while to admit that). 

He’s drawn your smile this time. You were happy in most of the drawings before, but he focussed more on the eyes, and your lips only ever tugged up in a slight smile. 

This one is a full-toothed grin, mid-laugh. 

You two were drinking last weekend. He barely felt it but your tipsy, giggly mood was contagious. He couldn’t imagine himself feeling any other way but blissful when you’re happy around him. 

It started when Logan made a casual comment about something silly Scott was wearing that night, and he had you giggling. He wanted to immediately hear that angelic sound again, of course, and so he gave you every joke about your shared friends he could think of – all light-hearted, but he was still glad you two were alone. 

It was the stupidest joke of all that made you really laugh, some dumb comparison between Xavier and Caillou. You probably wouldn’t even giggle at it anymore now, but in the moment it was so funny you almost spat out your drink from the deep belly laugh he drew from you, holding onto his bicep so you wouldn’t fall over as tears formed in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. He wanted to engrave the image on his soul. At least he got your smile on paper.

You look up at him now, eyes filled with tears. 

“You drew this?” you ask.

He nods softly. He can’t say it but he hopes the drawings convey how in love with you he is. 

Suddenly, Logan feels like his heart has stopped beating.

You’re kissing him. 

You’ve leaped up, wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, and now your lips are on his. 

He feels your mouth falter, probably because he’s being a fucking idiot and not kissing you back. Logan places his hands on your waist to pull you further towards him. Then his brain finally catches up and he can do what he’s wanted to for so long. 

He takes your chin with two fingers and angles you so you can kiss him easier. He closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your soft, warm lips against him. You’re soft and warm all over. Your top has slipped up over his fingertips at your sides, and he slides his hands further around your back to support you against him even better. 

Logan’s tongue pushes at your lower lip, and you let out the sexiest, tiny moan of surprise as you part your lips for him, granting him access. 

His tongue touches the tip of yours and from then on your cravings intensify. You feel your way over his muscular shoulders, his big biceps and over the hard planes of his chest. When you’ve had a good feel there, your hands grip his shirt in desperation and Logan gets even hungrier for you. He gently bites at your lower lip, but then you shriek into his mouth and squirm out of his grasp. He opens his eyes wide. 

You grip Logan’s forearm for support when you bend down in a panic, picking up the drawing you just dropped. You let out a big breath of relief when you see it hasn’t been damaged. 

“You made me drop it!” You slap a hand to his chest; it doesn’t actually hurt and it’s not meant to, but it leaves a pleasant tingle behind instead. 

“I didn’t do anything”, Logan laughs, and you shake your head at him with a smile.

You take him into your room where you make him sit on the bed while you stare at the new drawing in awe. “I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it.

“No one else knows.”

You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

“I’ll only draw for you anyway, so there’s no point in telling anyone else.”

“You’re really good. I love the drawings.”

Logan gives a satisfied hum at your words, “You inspired me. Can’t have you walking around all pretty and not expect me to try and recreate it.”

You straddle Logan and hover over his lap to hug him, “They’re the best thing anyone's ever given to me. Do I really look like that?” You say the last question more quietly, and Logan wraps his arms around your sides, careful not to bump your hand that’s still holding the drawing.

“You’re more gorgeous than anything I could ever capture, but I think it comes close. I didn’t change anything about you to make you more beautiful. I couldn’t if I tried. I just tried to draw you as accurately as possible, that’s why it’s so beautiful.”

“I really love it,” you say again, happily staring at the details of the drawing. Hearing you say the word love so much tempts Logan, but he doesn’t want to move too fast. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you. He does, however, want to kiss you again.

Logan carefully takes the framed drawing and puts it on your nightstand. You push your mouth against his before he can initiate the kiss, and he grins against your lips.

You don’t know how to put your feelings into words, so you’re kissing him instead. He pulls you down so that you’re not hovering over but sitting on his lap, and the mood immediately shifts to something different. Logan doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but if you’re ready then he’ll take anything he can get.

Your chest is pressed against Logan’s, and you can feel the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. You may or may not be pressing your boobs against his body on purpose.

“God, baby, I’ve waited so long for this,” he says, already breathless, as his hands trail down your back, leaving goosebumps behind.

“You’ve waited long?” you raise your eyebrows, grinning, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the day I met you.”

You see the look in Logan’s eyes changing as he bites his lip, “Who says I didn’t want the same?”

You giggle, “Why did it take us so long?”

Logan chuckles, readjusting you so that you’re even closer to him, “I was too busy to actually talk to you, just been starin’ at you so I could draw you.” His cheeks have the faintest red tint, and you kiss them, hugging him.

You whisper into his ear, “Then it was worth the wait. And anyway, it’s not talking that I’m interested in right now.”

He pulls you back to look into your eyes, then at your lips. “Where do you want me?” he asks. You giggle slightly helplessly; you weren’t entirely prepared to have a man like Logan at your mercy like this tonight.

“You can do whatever you want,” you say softly, kissing him.

Logan’s lips are hungry against yours, strings of spit falling between you two, but he pauses the kiss to lie you on your back. “Wanna eat you out,” he husks, “Been dying to know what you taste like forever, bub. Can I?” He reaches for the hem of your top, and you nod so that he can pull it off you, admiring what’s underneath. 

“Sometimes I make myself cum imagining that I’m going down on you,” you confess somewhat shyly, but you figure he’s been so vulnerable for you that you can share a secret too.

Logan smirks, and pulls off his shirt, “Maybe we can make your dream come true then.”

You move to sit up, but he insists on eating you out first. You both take off all your clothes, staring at each other with huge smiles on your faces for a few moments. You’ve never seen Logan this happy.

“Look at you, baby. So pretty,” he leans down to kiss your lips, then down your neck, all the way to your legs. He spreads them, lying down between them as he all but drools at the sight of your wet pussy.

You get nervous all of a sudden. “It’s been a while,” you tell him. He looks up, taking your hand, enveloping it completely in his much bigger one.

“You sure about this? We can wait,” he gently kisses your knuckles, and a warmth spreads in your chest, slowing your heartbeat down a little.

“I’m sure,” you nod, and Logan comes up again to kiss you. The head of his hard cock catches against the space above your clit, and you both look down between your bodies. When Logan looks back up at you, his eyes are desperately begging you. You place your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair as he moves down your body.

“Such a pretty fucking pussy,” he mumbles into your thigh, kissing you there. You giggle, getting comfortable, your hand never leaving his hair.

Logan starts eating you out, his tongue gentle but determined against your clit.

“Taste so good, baby. Even better than I imagined.” You hum at Logan’s words, already feeling yourself come undone with his mouth on your wet pussy.

You sink further into the mattress when he starts sucking on your clit, licking into your pussy like a man starved every few moments, and your thighs squeeze around Logan’s head, and it’s even better than in his fantasies.

“Feels really good,” you tell him, pulling on his hair to stop yourself from moving too much, and Logan moans against your skin. Hearing your words motivates him even more, and he pushes two fingers into your wet pussy. He curls his fingers, rubbing up against that spot that makes you see stars.

Your back arches as you cum, Logan’s lips wrapped around your clit as your legs push harder against his head, and all he does is moan, revelling in the feeling.

Logan doesn’t stop licking your pussy until you’re tugging his head away by his hair, and he comes up for air with a grin on his face. You smile back, pulling him up to kiss him. You give yourself only a few seconds of recovery time before you make him sit down. You know you’d never have enough strength to actually make him get into a different position, but he lets you.

You push him onto his back, getting between his legs. You’re blinking up at him all prettily when you ask, “Can I suck your dick? Please?”

Logan huffs to himself because he can’t believe how hot you are, can’t believe that this is really finally happening. He tells you yes – he has no more words to describe how badly he wants this – and he watches you wrap your pretty lips around his cock.

It’s hard to grasp that it’s really you doing this right now – the woman he’s been into for so long. His cock is in your mouth and you look so gorgeous with spit running down from your lips, and all he can think of is all the dirty drawings he can now make of you, if you’ll let him.

He closes his eyes when you take him deeper, enveloping him with your warm, wet mouth. “Good girl,” he whispers absent-mindedly, too gone to say much more.

You’re not using your hands as you suck his cock, your spit trailing down on him, and you’re so eager. But it’s also late, and he sees you getting tired, eyes blinking slower as you pause to catch your breath every few moments. He also sees the determination in your eyes, and the absolute want, but he doesn’t want you to exhaust yourself. 

You look so sexy all fucked out, strings of spit connecting your mouth to his cock as you pull away another time, giggling up at him shyly when you realise that he’s noticing you getting tired.

“Just need a second,” you wipe your mouth, out of breath, and it’s not that you’re not incredibly hot like this, but he still wants to fuck you tonight and he’s not sure that will happen if you keep going.

“C’mere, baby,” he says, reaching out his hand.

“Huh?” you ask, taking his hand nevertheless.

“Get back here, baby. I’m gonna fuck you now, alright? Don’t want you tiring yourself out.”

You let him lift you and put you on your back, but you pout, “Wanna taste you.”

Logan grins, “I’ll cum in your mouth, princess. Promise.”

You smile at his answer, satisfied, so you lie back down, pulling your legs up to your chest. His cock looks huge as he jerks himself off between your legs, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you squirm.

“Don’t know if I can take you,” you bite your lip. You’re not entirely sure if you mean it or not. You definitely want to try.

“We’ll make it fit, baby, we’ll make it fit,” Logan assures you, leaning down to press a kiss to your mouth, a mix of your wetness and his precum between your mouths. You feel his cock at your pussy, “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” you nod desperately, letting him push his cock into your pussy. He pauses after a few inches, but you wrap your legs around his waist more tightly, and he goes deeper.

“Y’okay, baby? You can take it, right?”

You nod, unable to form words with your pussy stretched like this, a combination of pleasure and pain between your legs – but it’s infinitely more pleasure.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl, hm?” He kisses along your neck as he bottoms out, and you both moan when he’s got his cock fully stuffed inside you for the first time. He pulls out slightly when you whine at the stretch, but you scratch down his back to get his attention.

“I can take it,” you tell him, and you watch the look in his eyes darken.

He begins to fuck you, the pain subsiding more with every thrust into your wet pussy. You can barely take him, but it feels good. With your slight tiredness, you feel like you’re floating on cloud nine. 

You can’t believe that Logan – your super hot friend Logan who you’ve been fantasising about for so long – is fucking you. He not only feels the same way about you, but he’s been your secret admirer this entire time, taking hours and hours out of his day to make you smile. You’re the only one he wants.

And now he’s fucking you, fucking you well, and you feel so warm inside, not just from the sex but you feel warm in your heart, because of Logan’s care.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking a hand down your face when he notices you’re not entirely present. You nod happily, smiling up at him, and you can’t talk because you feel so good.

“Good, that’s good, bub, but let me know if it gets too much,” he says as he starts rubbing your clit, watches you nod while he’s fucking you so well, and he’s so big and so deep inside of you, “Squeezing me so tight, baby, feel so fucking good.”

You cum suddenly, letting the warm pleasure flow through your body as Logan keeps fucking you through it, rubbing your clit in just the right rhythm.

“That’s my girl, taking it so well,” he moans, breaths stuttering. You slump against the pillow after a few moments, with a soft smile on your face, and Logan pulls out.

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” he jerks his cock, and you sit up on your elbows immediately, looking him in the eyes with a smile as you stick out your tongue for him. He promised.

Logan moans when he cums, painting your face in his release, jerking himself off. He holds your head in place with his other hand, aiming for your mouth but you’re making no effort to catch his cum there.

“Such a pretty fucking face, princess, ’m cumming all over it,” he rasps, shooting more ropes of his cum all over your cheeks, jacking off onto your face.

You open your eyes when he’s done and breathing heavily, and you smile up at him. You open your mouth, taking the head of his cock between your lips to suck off the last drops of cum.

“Look at you, baby. Look so fucking pretty with my cum all over your gorgeous face.”

You hum, pulling your mouth off him and licking your lips, tasting his salty release. You brush a finger over your cheek, sucking it into your mouth to taste him more. Logan kisses you then, the flavour of himself mixing between your mouths.

He cleans you up gently, carefully wiping your face with a baby wipe and kissing every inch of your cheeks afterwards. You take his face to kiss him properly, and if you didn’t seem so tired Logan would be ready for round two immediately.

“Next time you could try to actually cum in my mouth,” you tease, making Logan grin.

“Sorry, baby. Got too excited. Couldn’t focus on asking you again if it was okay.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your lips.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I liked it.”

Logan grins, “Oh I could tell you liked it, baby.” You lightly slap his chest as you giggle, pulling him in for another kiss.

You cuddle for a while, not saying much because you don’t have to. You’ve both waited for this for so long that you’re just enjoying the moment, enjoying that it finally happened.

You slip out of his arms to sit on top of him. You’re in nothing but panties, the blanket bunching around your hips. You lean your hands against his chest as you tell him more about how much the drawings delighted you. And Logan cares, of course he cares to hear that, but he’s also just a man seeing the woman he’s into naked for the first time still. 

You become quiet when you realise that he’s not listening, and you giggle, “Distracted?”

Logan grins, “Just a little fucking bit, baby.” His eyes don’t leave your body, and you laugh as you bend down to kiss him. He grabs your ass, kneading the flesh. When you slightly sit up again, your tits are near his face, and he can’t help himself. He cups your breasts, playing with your nipples, making you hum.

“I should draw these,” he looks up at you, “Should draw every perfect fucking inch of you.”

“You wanna?” You adjust how you’re seated in his lap, and you feel that he’s already half hard under you again.

“Maybe after I’ve fucked you again.”

You smile, feeling yourself growing wetter on top of him.

“Tomorrow,” he continues, and your smile drops.

“But you’ve got to get more familiar with the inspiration, right? If you’re going to draw me.”

“That’s true, baby. But I think you’re too tired.”

You smile bashfully, ignoring how your eyelids were drooping shut just a few seconds ago, “Okay, but then I’ll have more energy for tomorrow.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiles, pulling you off him to cuddle you again. He tucks you in and kisses your head. 

You turn to your side, taking one of the framed drawings and looking at it for a while. 

Logan watches you looking at it, and the sparkle in your eyes never fails to make him feel all warm inside. “Now that you actually know about it, I don’t have to draw you from memory anymore. I can study my muse in peace.”

“Aww, I’m your muse?” you beam.

“Of course you are, princess. You’re the only reason I’m drawing again.”

“I love your drawings so much.”

Logan clears his throat, and looks at you. “Well, I love you. So, I think that went into them.”

You look at him, pouting and then kissing him. “I love you too,” you say into his mouth. He grins against your lips, pulling you closer to kiss you some more. He can barely grasp that you just said that, but he’ll have enough time soon to comprehend how lucky he is. 

For now, he takes your hand, and asks, “The question might be redundant now, but do you wanna be mine? Be my girlfriend?”

“I’m already yours.”

Logan grins, takes you in his arms, and you’re still cuddling when you’re both drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

P.S. reblog with a comment and let me know your favourite moment/what you liked to get a drawing from Logan under your door tonight and a facial <33

gorgeous divider by @pommecita

[creatur3featur3]

ੈ✩ Street Rat p4✩ੈ

word count: 8.5K (someone please kill me, my fingers are cramping)

A/N: can yall tell I love making SR and Sevika interact like an old married couple that should've gotten divorced years ago? haha, no? just me? okay-

warnings: descriptions of blood, trauma, implied self harm

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

You weren’t sure why you were so desperate to find Sevika, you didn’t like her like that, you didn’t like her period, but something was tugging at you to look for her.

She had fed you, patched you up many more times than you’d like to admit, helped you at your absolute worst, you felt like you at least owed her the decency to look for her, to worry about her.

You wandered the streets of the Undercity, looking down the quieter alleyways, looking into what you thought were abandoned buildings before getting chased out by random punks.

“And stay out you little Rat!” A woman hissed as you sprinted down the street, panting heavily, not daring to look back before you ran into something, or someone.

You fall to the ground with a soft thud, letting out a quiet ‘oof’ before looking up to see Sevika watching you with keen, amused eyes.

“You just don’t know how to stay out of trouble do you?” She hummed thoughtfully, helping you up with her flesh hand.

She looked different, hair cut shorter, a piercing, and-

Tired.

“You look…” you trailed off, Sevika rolling her eyes slightly before crossing her arms, “different?” She questioned.

“…yeah,” you replied, not the words you were planning to say, but pretty much.

Pretty, that’s what you wanted to say, what sat at the tip of your tongue, but you swallowed the word, clearing your throat awkwardly.

Sevika raised an eyebrow at you, the corner of her mouth twitching with mild amusement. “What are you doing out here?” she asked, her voice low and gravelly. “Shouldn’t you be holed up somewhere safe, minding your own business?”

You dusted yourself off, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I could say the same to you,” you muttered, refusing to admit how relieved you were to see her. “You’ve been gone for… what, weeks? No word, no nothing. People started saying you were dead.”

Sevika snorted, the sound rough and dismissive. “Dead? Do I look dead to you?” She gestured to herself with her metal arm, her new piercing catching the dim light of the Undercity streets.

“No,” you said quietly, glancing her over again. Her sharp features looked harder somehow, the dark circles under her eyes a testament to long nights and rough days. “But you do look… different.”

Sevika’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You already said that,” she pointed out dryly. She stepped back and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her broad chest. “What do you want, kid?”

You faltered, your carefully rehearsed words slipping through your fingers like sand. “I… just wanted to make sure you were okay. You were gone so long, and you’ve… helped me. A lot. I figured I owed you.”

Her expression softened for a brief moment, though she quickly masked it with a grunt. “Didn’t think anyone would notice, let alone care,” she admitted, her tone more subdued.

“Well, I did,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “So? Where the hell have you been?”

“Busy,” she replied vaguely, her gaze flickering away. “Work. Stuff like that.”

“Work?” you pressed, sensing she wasn’t giving you the full truth. “What kind of work?”

Sevika’s jaw clenched, her patience visibly fraying as you kept pushing. “Drop it,” she muttered, her voice sharp enough to cut. But you didn’t—couldn’t.  

“You always brush people off like this? Or just me?” you snapped, anger bubbling in your chest. “You disappear for weeks, come back looking like you’ve been through hell, and I’m supposed to just let it go?”  

Her glare darkened, the veins in her temple throbbing. “I said drop it!” she barked, the deep growl of her voice reverberating through the alley.  

“Why? So you can keep everything bottled up until it kills you?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your frustration overriding your common sense. “Maybe I care, Sevika! Ever think of that?”  

Her flesh hand clenched into a fist, her whole body coiled like a spring about to snap. “Shut up,” she hissed, stepping closer.  

But you didn’t. You couldn’t stop. “You act like you don’t need anyone, like you can just handle everything alone—”  

The swing came faster than you could register. Her metal fist didn’t hit you, but her flesh hand did, hard enough to knock you off your feet.  

Your back hit the ground with a jarring thud, the metallic taste of blood flooding your mouth as you felt your nose start to bleed. For a moment, the world blurred, the pounding in your head drowning out everything else.  

When your vision cleared, you looked up at her, hand pressed against your nose. Her expression wasn’t triumphant, or even angry anymore.  

It was horrified.  

She froze, her lips slightly parted as her gaze locked on yours. And there it was: fear. In your eyes, wide and scared, as if she’d morphed into a monster right in front of you.  

It was like she was seeing it for the first time, and it shattered something deep inside her.  

“I didn’t mean to…” she muttered, her voice trembling, barely audible.  

You scrambled to your feet, keeping a cautious distance, your heart hammering in your chest. “You… you fucking hit me,” you stammered, wiping at the blood trickling from your nose.  

Sevika didn’t say anything. She just stared at her hand, the one that struck you, like it belonged to someone else entirely.  

“Is this what you are now?” you asked, your voice wavering. “I come out here, looking your to make sure you're okay and not dead in a ditch- and you… ”  

Her head snapped up, the guilt etched deep into her features. “No,” she said hoarsely, taking a step back. “I… I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t—”  

“Wasn’t thinking?” you finished for her, your anger and hurt clashing violently in your chest. “Yeah, no kidding.”  

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words sounding foreign and unnatural coming from her lips.  

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, the tension thick and suffocating. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the look on her face silenced you.  

“I shouldn’t have come looking for you,” you muttered, stepping back further. “Clearly, I was wrong.”  

She didn’t stop you as you turned to leave, but her voice followed you, quiet and broken. “Wait.”  

You didn’t.

–

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Your balled fist hit against your head again, you knew better, knew better than to trust anyone, to rely on anyone, it was your own damn fault you were in this mess.

stupid.

Sevika had even warned you, told you to leave her alone, that you weren't going to be safe, that you were just going to get yourself hurt again.

stupid.

You staggered down the empty street, your own ragged breaths and muffled sniffles the only sounds echoing in the night. The sting of your bleeding nose was nothing compared to the ache in your chest.  

Stupid.  

Your balled fist hit the side of your head again, harder this time.  

You should’ve listened. You should’ve known better. Sevika wasn’t a safe place—she never was. She was a storm, violent and unpredictable, and you were the fool who thought you could stand in the middle of it without getting torn apart.  

Stupid.  

Another hit to your head, frustration bubbling over into self-directed rage. This was your fault. All of it. You shouldn’t have gone looking for her. You shouldn’t have cared. You shouldn’t have—  

You stopped dead in your tracks, leaning against the brick wall of an abandoned building, sliding down until you were crouched on the ground. The weight of it all crashed over you, a suffocating tidal wave of anger and shame.  

Sevika warned you. She told you to stay away, told you what would happen. And you, in your desperate, naive need to feel… what? Important? Connected? You ignored her.  

Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms as tears pricked at your eyes. You weren’t going to cry. You didn’t deserve to cry.  

You tilted your head back, staring up at the polluted sky of the Undercity, the faint glow of lights barely breaking through the haze.  

“Stupid,” you muttered again, voice cracking. You wrapped your arms around yourself, squeezing tight, as if trying to hold all your broken pieces together.  

This was your mess. Your pain. And you’d deal with it, like you always did. Alone. 

That’s what you always did.  

Life slipped back into the routine of survival, the kind of existence that didn’t leave room for anything soft or sentimental. The bruises on your face faded, but the ache beneath them stayed, buried deep where no one could see.  

You spent your nights fighting in the back alleys for scraps of money, fists flying as blood and sweat mixed with the grime of the Undercity streets. The thrill of it was a distraction, a way to quiet the noise in your head. And when that wasn’t enough, you stole—food, trinkets, anything you could get your hands on.  

The people you stole from didn’t matter. Maybe they deserved it; maybe they didn’t. It didn’t make a difference to you. That’s how it was down here—everyone clawing to take what little they could, stepping on anyone who got in their way.  

You were no different.  

A street rat. That’s all you were, all you ever would be. Not someone’s child, not someone’s friend, not someone’s anything. Rats didn’t belong to anyone—they scurried, they scavenged, and they survived.  

And that was enough, wasn’t it?  

The thought lingered as you huddled in the corner of a dimly lit alley, clutching a half-eaten loaf of bread you’d swiped earlier. The warmth of it had long since faded, just like everything else.  

It was enough. It had to be. Because hope was a luxury for people who didn’t live with dirt under their nails and blood on their hands.  

And you didn’t have the luxury of being anything but a rat.

You watched as a group of younger kids giggled and laughed, their voices echoing faintly down the alley as they ran past you. They clutched makeshift toys in their small hands—scraps of wood tied together, a dented tin can, things they’d probably cobbled together themselves.  

You frowned, pulling your knees closer to your chest as you sat against the cold, damp wall. They were so loud, so carefree, their laughter grating against the silence you’d grown used to. You should’ve hated them for it, envied the spark of innocence they still had in this pit of a place. But all you felt was an ache.  

This wasn’t the world kids like them should be growing up in. They deserved warm homes, full bellies, and safety—not these streets that swallowed people whole. Not this cold, dangerous place where every smile felt borrowed, fleeting.  

But that wasn’t the world they got.  

Just like it hadn’t been the world you’d gotten.  

You shifted, looking down at your battered boots. They weren’t much better off than those kids, you realized. Maybe younger, but not safer. Not really. They didn’t know yet what these streets could do to them, how they could chew them up and spit them out.  

And a bitter part of you thought maybe it was better they didn’t.  

You sighed, rubbing at your arms to keep the cold from seeping in too much. Those kids weren’t your problem. You didn’t have the energy to care about anyone else. Not anymore.  

But as one of the kids tripped and fell, scraping their knee, you found yourself moving before you could think.  

You stood, walking toward them slowly. The little boy sat there sniffling, trying to hold back tears as the others circled him, unsure of what to do.  

“You good, kid?” you asked, your voice low and gruff, startling them.  

The boy looked up at you, wide-eyed, his lip trembling. “I-I’m fine,” he mumbled, clearly lying.  

You crouched down in front of him, your gaze softening despite yourself. “Lemme see.”  

He hesitated, then reluctantly showed you his scraped knee, blood trickling down his skinny leg. It wasn’t anything serious, but it was enough to sting.  

“Hang tight,” you said, pulling a strip of cloth from your pocket. You wrapped it around his knee with surprising gentleness, tying it off. “There. Good as new.”  

The boy blinked up at you, his tears slowing as he gave a small, hesitant smile. “Thanks…”  

You stood up, brushing your hands off on your pants. “Don’t mention it.”  

As you walked away, you could hear them whispering behind you, their voices filled with wonder.  

“Who was that?”  

“Dunno, but they’re cool!”  

You shook your head, shoving your hands deep into your pockets as you disappeared down another alley.  

“Stupid,” you muttered under your breath again, the word sticking to your tongue like tar. You weren’t supposed to care.  

But you did.

You found yourself helping out the smaller people, not necessarily kids or older people but people who were like you, desperate, barely scraping by..

It started small—handing off scraps of food you didn’t need, pointing someone toward a safer place to sleep, helping a desperate soul avoid a fight they couldn’t win. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that you weren’t trying to be anything to anyone. But somewhere along the way, people started noticing.  

Not the big players in the Undercity, of course. They didn’t care about people like you, scraping by on crumbs. But the smaller people—the desperate ones, the ones who lived and died in the shadows—they noticed.  

And then came the kids.  

You didn’t know when it happened, but suddenly, there was always a small cluster of them following you around. Wide-eyed and full of questions, they trailed behind like ducklings, giggling and whispering to each other.  

“Is it true you beat up three guys at once last week?” one of them asked, his eyes shining with admiration.  

“No, it was five,” another kid chimed in, puffing up his chest like he’d seen you do once. “I heard they were twice as big as you, too!”  

You snorted, shaking your head as you walked. “It was one guy, and he was drunk off his ass. Hardly a fair fight.”  

But they didn’t care about the truth. To them, you were a legend—someone who fought back against the unfairness of the Undercity and lived to tell the tale.  

“What’s it like being the coolest person in the Undercity?” one of the youngest kids asked, skipping alongside you with a toothy grin.  

“Dunno,” you replied with a smirk, ruffling his messy hair. “You tell me when you meet them.”  

That earned a chorus of laughter, and for a moment, you forgot about the cold and the hunger and the weight that constantly pressed on your shoulders. For a moment, it felt… good.  

But then the reality of it all crept back in. You weren’t a hero. You weren’t even a good person. You were just a rat, doing what rats did best: surviving.  

Still, when one of the kids tugged on your sleeve and asked if you’d show them how to throw a proper punch, you sighed and crouched down, holding out your hands to demonstrate.  

“Alright, listen up,” you said, your tone gruff but not unkind. “If you’re gonna do it, do it right. Thumb outside the fist, or you’ll break it on the first swing.”  

The kids watched you with rapt attention, mimicking your movements, their laughter filling the air.  

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were just killing time.  

But deep down, you knew better.

“Do you know Sevika?” one little girl asked, her eyes shining bright with curiosity.

The question hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you froze. The little girl stared up at you with wide, curious eyes, her excitement barely contained.  

“Sevika?” you repeated, forcing your voice to stay steady as your stomach twisted itself into knots. “What makes you ask that?”  

The girl shrugged, clutching a worn doll tightly to her chest. “Some people said you’re like her. Tough and strong. That you help people like she used to.”  

Your chest tightened, and you fought to keep your expression neutral. “I don’t know about that,” you muttered, looking away.  

You wanted to lie, to say you didn’t know who Sevika was, to brush it off like it meant nothing. But you couldn’t. Her name alone brought everything rushing back—the nights you spent following her, trying to understand why you cared so much, why she mattered to you.  

And how it all came crashing down the moment she showed you exactly who she was.  

“Did she help you too?” the girl asked innocently, her voice tugging at something raw and vulnerable inside you.  

You swallowed hard, your fists clenching at your sides. “Not in the way you think,” you said quietly.  

The kids around you fell silent, sensing the shift in your mood. Even the little girl seemed to understand she’d touched on something she shouldn’t have.  

“Forget about Sevika,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “She’s not someone you want to be like.”  

The girl frowned, her grip on her doll tightening. “But I thought she was a hero.”  

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “She’s no hero. And neither am I.”  

The words tasted sour on your tongue, and you hated how much truth they held. You turned away, pretending to adjust the wrappings on your hands, anything to avoid their questioning eyes.  

“Let’s get moving,” you said gruffly, motioning for them to follow. “It’s not safe to stand around here.”  

As the kids fell into step behind you, their chatter picking up again, you tried to push the thoughts of Sevika out of your head. But her name lingered like a ghost, haunting you with every step you took.

— 

You hated it. The way your chest only loosened when you saw those kids step inside their makeshift homes, doors closing behind them, locking out the dangers of the Undercity—for now.  

You hated the way your ears strained for any sign of trouble, ready to step in, ready to fight, even when you told yourself you wouldn’t.  

You weren’t a hero. You weren’t a savior. Hell, if that little girl had asked about Sevika again, you might’ve snapped at her, might’ve said something cruel enough to shut her up for good.  

Not that you actually would’ve hurt her. You weren’t that far gone—yet.  

But it made you sick, the thought of anyone seeing you as something good. Someone to look up to. You were no one’s safety, no one’s home, no one’s hero. You were just—you.  

A street rat. A survivor.  

And survivors didn’t make promises. They didn’t stick around.  

Still, as you stood alone in the dim light of the alley, you couldn’t help but glance back one last time. Just to be sure.

“I never thought I’d see you go soft,” a voice piped up, making you turn around, body tensing almost immediately as you looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice.

That’s when you saw her again-

Sevika.

The woman who had taken you in more or less, taken care of you, made sure you knew when and where not to go.

Just for her to rip it all away in one night. 

Your breath caught in your throat, muscles coiling tight as your eyes locked onto her.  

Sevika.  

She leaned casually against the brick wall, her metal arm glinting faintly in the dim light. Her short hair framed her sharp features, and that same unreadable expression lingered on her face—the one that always made it impossible to tell if she was amused or annoyed.  

She looked exactly like you remembered. And yet, somehow, worse. Tired. Hardened. But no less dangerous.  

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse hammered in your ears. “What the hell do you want?”  

Her lips twitched, just barely hinting at a smirk. “Relax. I’m not here to pick a fight.”  

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest as if that would somehow shield you from the weight of her presence. “Could’ve fooled me.”  

Sevika pushed off the wall, taking a slow step closer. It wasn’t a threat, not exactly—but it didn’t feel safe either. “I was just passing through,” she said, her voice low, gravelly. “Didn’t expect to find you playing babysitter.”  

Your jaw tightened. “I’m not playing anything.”  

“No?” Her gaze flicked toward the alley where the kids had disappeared, then back to you. “Sure looks like it.”  

Your fingers twitched, itching for a weapon—something to hold between you and her. Not because you thought she’d attack. But because you didn’t trust yourself not to let her get under your skin. Not again.  

“Why are you here, Sevika?” you asked, cutting through the tension with as much venom as you could muster. “Last I checked, you were done with me.”  

Her expression shifted, something almost like regret flashing in her eyes before it was gone, buried under that cold exterior. “You wouldn’t let it go,” she said quietly. “I told you to stay away. Told you it’d get you hurt.”  

You took a step forward, the anger that had been simmering for months finally bubbling over. “And you think this is better?” you snapped, gesturing at the empty alley, at the scraps of a life you’d been barely holding together. “You think walking away without a word—without even explaining—was better?”  

Sevika didn’t flinch, but her jaw set tightly. “It was the only way to keep you safe.”  

“Bullshit.”  

Your voice echoed off the walls, and for a moment, the two of you just stood there, staring each other down like opponents waiting for the first punch to land.  

But it never did.  

Instead, Sevika let out a breath, her shoulders sagging just slightly. “You don’t get it,” she muttered, more to herself than to you. “You never did.”  

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe you never would.  

But as much as you hated her—hated what she’d done, how she’d left—you hated the way her words still made your heart ache even more. 

“No,” you snapped, making Sevika's eyes narrow slightly.

“You don’t get it, do you know how much I’ve been risking nowadays? Giving away my hard earned food, taking care of kids that aren’t mine, teaching them how to protect themselves, using my supplies to cover up scrapes and cuts. I have these horrible fucking dreams Sevika, horrible horrible dreams, every time a lay down my head to rest or even just to let it relax all I can fucking hear is screaming. My sisters crying while they burned alive, my mother calling out to me like she knew what was happening. Do you ever hear that? Do you have to deal with that day in and day out?”

Sevika was tense, not meeting your eyes as you continued on.

“Do you ever hear them?” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. The words poured out, raw and unfiltered, the dam you’d built up for so long finally breaking. “Do you have to deal with that day in and day out, Sevika? Because I do. Every fucking day.”

Sevika stayed silent, her gaze fixed on the ground. Her jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch, but she didn’t interrupt. She just stood there, her shoulders stiff, her hands twitching at her sides.

“I try to forget,” you continued, your voice rising with every word. “I try to drown it out with fights, with work, with anything. But it never goes away. And then you come along, acting like you’re doing me a favor by walking away? Like leaving me behind was some kind of mercy?”

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing hollowly in the empty alley. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to act like you know what’s best for me.”

Sevika’s head snapped up at that, her eyes sharp and stormy as they locked onto yours. “And you think you’re better off with me?” she growled, the edge in her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “You think sticking around me would’ve made your life easier? Safer?”

“I don’t know, Sevika!” you shot back, your fists clenching. “But you don’t get to rip everything away without even giving me a choice! You don’t get to decide I’m not worth the risk!”

The words hung heavy in the air, both of you breathing hard, the weight of the conversation pressing down like a storm ready to break.

Sevika looked at you, really looked at you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something crack in her cold, impenetrable armor. Something vulnerable, something almost human.

“You don’t understand,” she said finally, her voice quieter, almost hoarse. “It’s not about you not being worth it. It’s about me… not being enough.”

Her words stunned you, the anger in your chest wavering for just a moment.

“You think I don’t care?” she continued, her gaze hard but her voice trembling just slightly. “You think I don’t hear the screams, too? That I don’t see the faces of the people I couldn’t save, the ones I left behind? I walk through hell every day, just like you. The difference is, I made my peace with it a long time ago. I don’t deserve peace. I don’t deserve…”

Her voice trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

You didn’t know whether to scream at her or cry. Instead, you took a step closer, your voice softer but no less determined.

“And you think I don’t feel the same?” you asked, your tone low and raw. “You think I don’t carry that same weight? That same guilt? You don’t get to decide what I deserve, Sevika. You don’t get to decide for me.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sevika didn’t have a response. She just stood there, staring at you with something unreadable in her eyes, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, until finally, Sevika let out a long, shaky breath.

“You’re a stubborn little shit,” she muttered, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steadier now. “And you’re a coward.”

Her smirk faltered, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she took a step back, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before she turned away.

“Get some rest,” she said over her shoulder, her voice gruff but softer than before. “You’re no good to anyone running on empty.”

But the weight of her presence lingered, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like the cracks in your armor weren’t just breaking you apart—they were letting something in.

You hated that you wanted to call out to hear, to tell her to wait, to ask her to stay with you- you shouldn't.

“Sevika?” Your voice was soft, unsure, but Sevika looked back at you, raising an eyebrow in response.

You should've said never mind, or Don't get hurt without me, but against your better judgement–

“Do you–” god this was pathetic, “have anything to do tonight..?” 

Sevika stopped mid-step, her broad frame outlined by the dim glow of the streetlamp. She turned her head slightly, her eyebrow still raised, but her expression unreadable.

You wanted to shrink back, to swallow the words, to act like you hadn’t said anything. But it was too late. They hung in the air, vulnerable and raw, impossible to take back.

“Do I have anything to do tonight?” she repeated, her voice low and measured, as if trying to make sense of your question.

You shifted on your feet, suddenly regretting every choice that had led you to this moment. “Forget it,” you muttered, looking down at the cracked pavement. “It’s stupid.”

Sevika didn’t move for a moment, her silence stretching out uncomfortably. Then, with a quiet sigh, she turned fully to face you, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t have time for games, kid,” she said, her tone sharper now. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

You bit your lip, weighing your options. You could shut up, let her walk away, and go back to your miserable little routine. Or you could take the risk—the one that had been gnawing at you since the moment you saw her again.

“Do you… want to get a drink?” you finally blurted out, your voice cracking slightly at the end. “Or—something. I don’t know. Just… talk?”

Her eyebrows shot up, and for a second, you thought she might laugh in your face. But instead, she studied you, her gaze sharp and calculating, as though she were trying to decide if this was some kind of trap.

“You want to talk,” she said slowly, her voice laced with disbelief.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I mean… we never did, right? Not really.”

Sevika tilted her head, her metal fingers drumming against her arm as she considered you. Finally, she let out a low chuckle—more of a breath than a laugh—and shook her head.

“You’re full of surprises,” she muttered.

“So… is that a yes?” you pressed, trying not to sound too hopeful.

She hesitated, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small shrug, she nodded toward a dimly lit bar at the end of the street.

“Fine,” she said gruffly. “One drink. Don’t make me regret it.”

You felt your chest loosen, the tension easing just slightly as you nodded and fell into step beside her.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

—

You weren’t sure why you found yourself sitting down at a bar with Sevika, trying to avoid talking to her by slowly drinking your vodka, the liquid burning your throat as you swallowed.

You let out a soft groan, nose scrunching at the burning sensation that you couldn’t get rid of as quickly as you’d hope. 

“So,” Sevika hummed, setting down her cup as she cleared her throat, the rough sound catching your attention mid-swallow. “You never really talk about yourself, well you do, a lot actually—“ she corrects herself, making you chuckle softly as you set your own cup down.

“I mean more so where you came from,” Sevika muttered, resting her flesh forearm on the counter, “you don’t scream ‘Hey I was born in the Undercity’ like most of us.”

You paused, staring into the bottom of your glass before swirling what little liquid was left inside. Sevika’s words echoed in your head, her observation cutting deeper than you cared to admit.

“Does it matter?” you finally muttered, your voice quieter than you intended.

Sevika leaned in slightly, resting her elbow on the bar as her eyes stayed locked on you. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked,” she replied.

You let out a small, bitter laugh. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or suspicious.”

She smirked, but there was something softer behind it. “Maybe both.”

You sighed, knowing you wouldn’t get out of this without saying something real—something you hadn’t shared with anyone in a long time.

“I wasn’t born here,” you admitted, shifting uncomfortably on the barstool. “Not in the Undercity, at least.”

Sevika didn’t say anything, but the flicker of curiosity in her eyes told you she was listening.

“My family… we lived closer to the surface. Not Piltover exactly, but better off than here.” You paused, fingers tightening around the glass. “It didn’t last.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t interrupt.

“My father—he gambled. Drank. Made enemies.” You swallowed, the memories stirring like dust in your chest. “And when the debts piled too high, when they finally came to collect, we lost everything.”

You shook your head, forcing down the lump rising in your throat.

“Did you hear about the fire around 19 years ago? Whole neighborhood burnt down, barely any survivors,” you hummed gently, not daring to meet her eyes, Sevika humming softly in response.

Sevika’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing slightly. She knew the story, or at least pieces of it. Everyone in the Undercity had heard rumors about the fire. But hearing you say it—connecting yourself to that tragedy—shifted something in the air between you.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice gruffer than usual. “I heard.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you pushed past the lump in your throat. “That was my neighborhood. My family.”

Sevika’s gaze lingered on you, unblinking and sharp, but she didn’t press. She let the weight of your words settle.

“There was nothing left,” you continued, your voice hollow. “The ones who survived… we scattered. Some made it out of the Undercity entirely. Some didn’t.”

Sevika didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the flicker in her eyes betrayed her thoughts. She understood loss. Maybe too well.

“I came here because it was the only place left,” you said, swirling the last drops of your drink. “I thought maybe I could disappear. Start over. But you don’t really get to do that, do you?”

Sevika finally broke her silence, her voice low and steady. “No. You don’t.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the hum of the bar around you fading into the background.

“So that’s it?” Sevika asked after a beat. “You’ve been running ever since?”

You shrugged, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “What else is there to do?”

Sevika leaned back, her metal arm resting against the counter with a faint clink. “You fight,” she said simply.

You snorted. “Fight for what? This place?”

“For yourself,” Sevika replied, her gaze steady. “For the people who can’t.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard by the conviction in her voice. It was different from the Sevika you thought you knew—the woman who pushed people away, who acted like she didn’t care.

“Don’t act like you’re not already doing it,” she added, nodding toward the alley you’d been watching earlier. “Those kids? They’re looking at you like you’re their savior, whether you like it or not.”

Your chest tightened, and you looked away. “I’m not anyone’s savior,” you grumbled, swirling your glass again.

“That’s what I thought too, for a long time,” Sevika replied, her eyes softening, her words seeming to bring back memories or talks she had. “I was raised to be tough, never be soft, don’t let anyone take advantage of you,” she muttered, “I guess it worked per say, I’m feared, respected, all things you want to be in a place like this.”

You watch as her shoulders sag slightly, exhaling heavily as her eyes closed for a moment, “but I lose people, people who didn’t deserve to be in a place like this, people who made mistakes but I was lucky enough to see what was behind the masks they wore.”

Sevika’s words hung in the air, heavy and raw, like a wound laid bare. You’d never heard her talk like this—never seen her drop the armor she always carried. And yet, here she was, letting you glimpse something deeper. Something real.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing harder to ignore. “And did it help?” you asked quietly. “Being tough? Pushing people away?”

Her eyes snapped back to yours, sharp but not unkind. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But mostly? It just made it easier to pretend I didn’t care when I did.”

The confession struck a nerve, and you felt your walls starting to crack. You’d spent so long convincing yourself that caring was weakness—that survival meant keeping your distance. But was it really any better than being alone?

“So what changed?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika let out a dry chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “I lost too much,” she said simply. “Kept telling myself it wasn’t my fault, that this place—this life—wasn’t meant for happy endings.”

She paused, her gaze flickering toward you. “But then you showed up.”

Your breath caught. “Me?”

“You’re stubborn. Reckless. You don’t know when to back down, even when you should,” Sevika said, her lips curving into something that almost resembled a smile. “And you remind me of someone I used to be.”

You blinked, unsure whether to take her words as a compliment or a warning. Maybe both.

“Is that a good thing..?” You ask, your head tilting with the question.

Sevika smiled, not a big one or for long, but it was a genuine smile, with the way that the corners of her eyes crinkled and how her slightly chapped lips seemed to stretch with the act— your heart buzzing slightly at the sight.

“Depends on who you ask I guess, if you ask me, it’s the worst possible thing to happen to me, I’ve got a street Rat stuck on me like it’s caught in a trap, and yet you keep trying to get that cheese that you think is there.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, soft but real, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “Well, maybe the cheese is worth it,” you shot back, your lips curving into a smirk.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, her smile fading but her amusement lingering in her eyes. “You think so? Even knowing the trap could snap any second?”

You shrugged, leaning back on your stool. “Life’s full of traps. If you’re too scared to take a chance, you’ll never get anywhere.”

Her expression shifted, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than felt comfortable. It wasn’t judgmental or cold—it was something closer to respect, though Sevika would probably never admit it outright.

“Brave or stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Probably both,” you admitted with a grin, raising your glass to finish the last drop of vodka.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the hum of the bar wrapping around you like a threadbare blanket. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you feel… not alone.

“As much as a pain in the ass you tend to be,” Sevika sighed, “I have to admit you seem to at least have a brain in your skull,” smirking softly as you roll your eyes.

You lift your glass to your lips, swallowing down the rest of the vodka, trying your best not to let it show that you hated the sting of it falling down your throat. As you exhale, setting your empty glass down on the counter you glance at Sevika, taking in how much more relaxed she looks. Her shoulders don’t sit as squared as they used to, her sharp and cold eyes seem to have melted a bit.

You couldn’t help but let your gaze linger, studying the woman beside you. This was Sevika, the same woman who had pushed you away without a second thought, who had built walls so high even you couldn’t see over them. And yet here she was—softened, even if just slightly, by the fragile truce between you.

“You know,” you started, your voice light but tinged with sincerity, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you like this.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, though there was a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Like what?”

“Relaxed. Human,” you said, leaning your elbow on the bar as you turned to face her more fully.

She let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “Don’t get used to it, kid. This place has a way of reminding you why you can’t stay soft for long.”

“Maybe,” you replied, your tone thoughtful. “But isn’t it exhausting? Always keeping people at arm’s length?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away, her gaze shifting to her metal arm as she flexed the fingers absently. “It is,” she admitted quietly. “But it’s safer that way.”

“For who?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes snapped back to yours, sharp and guarded, but you held her gaze. For a moment, you thought she might shut you down, might throw up the same walls she always did. But instead, she sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly.

“For everyone,” she said.

“That's a load of bull,” you scoff, Sevika sighed begrudgingly as she shook her head. “Look, Sevika, I get it, you're a big and tough woman, you've gotta keep that exterior appearance sharp and clean–” you sigh, “but at least try and relax and be genuine with me? Come on, I was nice to you before you even had a chance. I'm ruining my reputation here,” you whine half heartedly.

Sevika let out a dry laugh, her lips quirking up at the corners. “Ruining your reputation? You think anyone’s impressed by you drinking cheap vodka and pouting at me?”

“Hey, I’m plenty impressive,” you shot back, leaning back on your stool with an exaggerated smirk. “I’ve got street kids worshiping me, remember? They think I’m a legend.”

Sevika arched an eyebrow, her smirk growing. “Yeah, a legend at whining, apparently.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small grin tugging at your lips. “You’re deflecting,” you accused, pointing at her.

“And you’re annoying,” she countered, but there was no real heat in her words.

“Annoying enough to get under your skin, though,” you teased, taking another sip of your drink. “Which means I’m doing something right.”

Sevika groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, but you caught the way her shoulders relaxed just a little more. “You don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when I think there’s something worth fighting for,” you said, your tone softening just slightly.

Her eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, she looked like she might argue. But instead, she sighed again, shaking her head. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said with a grin, raising your glass in a mock toast. “But I grow on people.”

Sevika snorted, shaking her head but not denying it. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, though the playful glint in your eyes said otherwise.

The conversation lulled for a moment, the two of you settling into a companionable silence. The hum of the bar faded into the background, and you found yourself watching Sevika as she absentmindedly traced the edge of her glass with her metal fingers.

“Look,” you said after a beat, your voice quieter now, “I’m not asking for a miracle or anything. I just… I think we’ve both had enough pretending for one night.”

Sevika’s fingers stilled, her gaze lifting to meet yours. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—hesitation, maybe. Or vulnerability.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice low but steady. “Sure.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth twitching upward in a way that felt almost foreign. “See? I knew I’d get you to admit I was right eventually.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Sevika muttered, but there was a softness to her tone that took the edge off her words.

“I would never,” you said again, but this time, your voice was sincere.

As you giggled at Sevika’s hesitance to let up on you, a hand naturally lifting to cover your smile as you tried to stop your little giggle fit.

Sevika’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than she intended. The sound of your laughter—so genuine, so unguarded—echoed in her chest, stirring something she didn’t want to name.

She told herself it was just the vodka, the dim light of the bar, the way you always seemed to pull her into these situations without her realizing. But as her gaze traced the curve of your smile, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners, and the faint flush creeping up your cheeks, Sevika felt her resolve waver.

No.

She wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

But gods, did she want to.

She wanted to memorize the way your laughter filled the air, to see that smile again and again, to be the reason for it. It was ridiculous—dangerous, even—but for a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine it. Imagine what it would feel like to have you by her side, not as an annoyance or a distraction, but as something more.

The thought alone made her tense, her metal fingers curling into a fist on the counter.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Sevika muttered, her voice gruff as she leaned back in her seat, trying to mask the swirl of emotions tightening in her chest.

You paused mid-giggle, your hand dropping as you glanced at her. “Is that a compliment?” you teased, tilting your head with a playful grin.

“Don’t push it,” she replied, but her tone lacked its usual sharpness.

Still, you couldn’t miss the way her gaze softened, just for a second, before she looked away.

“Sevika…” you started, leaning slightly closer.

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice quiet but firm.

You froze, confusion flickering across your face. “Don’t what?”

Sevika sighed, running a hand through her short hair. “Don’t make me care more than I already do.”

The words hit you like a freight train, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at her, your heart pounding in your chest.

“What if I want you to?” you asked softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Sevika’s jaw clenched, her eyes darting to yours, and for a moment, you saw the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.

“It’s not that simple,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Fine, have it your way.” you hum unapologetically, reaching over and stealing her glass and swallowing down what was left of her own vodka.

—

Sevika had made sure to get you back to your little hideout in one piece, given you weren't the greatest with alcohol given how your pace stuttered or you came to a complete stop to balance yourself.

She helped you climb up the fire escape to your little cave,steading you with a firm hand on your back as you stumbled up the fire escape, her metal arm clinking softly against the rungs. You muttered something incoherent about being "perfectly fine" and "used to this," but she ignored you, her lips quirking in quiet amusement.

When you finally reached the top, you gestured grandly to your “hideout,” as if it was a palace. The reality was far less impressive.

The small space was wedged between two buildings, half-covered by a rusted piece of metal acting as a makeshift roof. A few blankets and pillows were scattered on the floor, a small stash of food tucked into a corner along with a battered lantern. It was functional, but it wasn’t much.

Sevika’s eyes scanned the area, her expression unreadable. “This is where you’ve been living?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.

You huffed, brushing past her as you tried to reclaim some dignity. “It’s one of my spots,” you said defensively, waving a hand. “You know, in case things go south.”

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment before she crossed her arms, leaning casually against the wall. “Doesn’t look too secure.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, your cheeks flushing. “It’s fine. I’ve been here for years, and I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

You crossed your arms, mirroring her stance. “What? You gonna start critiquing my home decor now?”

A smirk tugged at her lips, but she held her tongue, sensing that any more teasing would push you into a full-blown tantrum. “No,” she said simply. “It’s… cozy.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the lack of sarcasm. “Cozy?”

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. “It works. That’s what matters, right?”

You stared at her for a moment, unsure if she was mocking you or being genuine. But the softness in her eyes—subtle as it was—told you she wasn’t making fun of you.

“Well, uh… thanks, I guess,” you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck as you avoided her gaze.

Sevika pushed off the wall, her smirk returning. “Don’t mention it. Just don’t expect me to climb that fire escape again anytime soon.”

You snorted, feeling some of your embarrassment ebb away. “Noted.”

She started to turn toward the exit, but then hesitated, glancing back at you. “You good here?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. “I’m good.”

Sevika nodded, her expression softening for just a moment before she made her way back down the fire escape.

You watched her go, your heart still racing from the night’s events. As you turned back to your little hideout, you let out a breath, trying to shake off the lingering warmth her presence had left behind.

“Cozy,” you muttered to yourself, rolling your eyes. But despite your best efforts, a small smile tugged at your lips.

Okay maybe it was immature for you to have a crush on a woman twice your age, who had no interest in you whatsoever, and who would've probably ripped you limb to limb by now ...if she hadn’t inexplicably decided to tolerate your existence. Maybe even like it, though you weren’t going to push your luck assuming that. Still, it was hard to ignore the way Sevika seemed to linger around you lately, as if she was trying to figure out what made you tick—or why you hadn’t annoyed her enough to leave yet.

It wasn’t like you had any grand delusions about her feelings. Sevika wasn’t exactly the soft, romantic type. She was gruff, distant, and intimidating as hell—everything you definitely shouldn’t be drawn to.

But there was something about the way she looked at you sometimes. Like you were more than just another street rat scraping by. Like maybe, just maybe, you mattered.

Of course, that was probably just your overactive imagination. She was twice your age, far more experienced in life—and in surviving this hellhole. You were nothing more than an amusing distraction at best.

Still, it didn’t stop your heart from doing that stupid fluttery thing whenever she leaned in just a little too close. Or the way your stomach flipped when she smirked at you, that rare and fleeting expression that made you feel like you’d done something right for once.

You groaned, flopping down onto your makeshift bed with a dramatic sigh. “Get a grip,” you muttered to yourself, running a hand through your hair. “She’s way out of your league. Not to mention, probably plotting how to make you useful—or at least tolerable.”

But even as you said it, your thoughts drifted back to the way her voice softened when she talked about losing people. The way her gaze lingered on you a second too long when she thought you weren’t looking.

It was stupid. Childish. Dangerous.

And yet, you couldn’t shake the thought.

Because no matter how many times you told yourself to let it go, there was still a small, stubborn part of you that wondered what it would be like if she did care. Even just a little.

[changingplumbob]

Ten people I'd like to know better

Thank you for the tag @cantseemtohide, @mariapaulaaah, @itmeansiris, @abbysimsfun, @sharona-sims, @matchalovertrait, @fallstaticexit

last song: I've got TTPD by T Swift on at the moment and we're on The Manuscript

favourite colour: Three way tie between yellow, sky blue and purple

last movie: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory but I'm also in a seeking comfort from Pixar phase so in progress with A Bugs Life

last book: Firefly: Big Damn Hero by Nancy Holder. It was many many months ago, my brain has not been in a reading headspace, but I really enjoyed it because I was able to picture the characters/hear their voices from watching the series which helped.

sweet/spicy/savory: Sweet

last googled: WALL-E (I needed to know what the letters stood for for... reasons)

current obsession: Working on my bc and SBL, and watching the Deer Pantry livestream

looking forward to: Publishing the bc, having energy, the sun coming back after this patch of rain

How am I meant to only tag 10 people when I can't remember who has or hasn't done it *panics* I'm just going to do my best, it's all we can do. *deep breath* Okay tag for @simmerbeans, @eljeebee, @cawthorntales, @wolkentage, @onestormeynight, @purplesimmer455, @ravingsockmonkey, @marcishaun, @sleepyselkiesims, @ruthplaysthesims. Do or do not do it, up to you, no pressure!

[fortytworedvines]

25 from the drabble list? :)

Drabble list - send me a number! Thanks for the prompt! 1.2k of angst with a happy ending ahead:

25 - “Go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

It was her own fault, Audrey reflected, as the cold bit deeper into her bones. She called Siegfried stubborn, but she was just as stubborn as him. And on this occasion they had butted heads and she, as she so often did, had won. She would allow him victories when they pertained to his work, his practice. Less often when it was people, their home. And she would never let him win when it regarded her own person and her job outside Skeldale.

More fool me, she mused. Should have let him win this one, Audrey. She huddled further into her coat and the scant shelter of the stone wall. Her bike, useless, wheel bent in two, lay next to her. Snow was piling up on everything. And she was so very, very, cold now.

-- “You’re going out?” He’d looked at her sharply when she came downstairs, neat and trig in her ARP uniform.

“I have my rounds.” She settled her helmet on her head and pulled on her thick winter coat.

“Absolutely not, Mrs Hall.” He gestured to the curtained windows. “The weather – it’s going to snow.”

“There’s no sign of it,” she retorted.

“The farmers know,” he said firmly. “You mustn’t go out.”

“I appreciate your concern, Mr Farnon. But I have a job to do.” She buttoned her coat determinedly.

He slipped round her and stood in front of the door. “I won’t let you.”

“Mr Farnon!” She was torn between frustration and laughter as he spread-eagled himself against the door frame. “You’re being ridiculous! Either you stand aside and let me go and do my vital war job, or we can have a brawl and then I will go and do my job.”

“I’d like to see that,” said Tristan from the doorway. “Go on old chap. My money’s on her.”

Audrey rolled her eyes at the lad. His brother glared. Audrey tapped her foot impatiently. “I’m due out, Mr Farnon.”

With a sigh, he subsided. “Go on then,” he said, stepping away from the door. “But please,” he put out a hand to her as she passed him. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful, Mr Farnon.” She smiled at him and slipped out into the cold night air.

It had started to snow, of course. She’d been on her way back, at least. And it hadn’t been coming down so thickly. But then she’d skidded, lost her balance on a patch of ice. Crashed the bike into the wall and ricked her ankle.

She drew her arms out of the sleeves of her coat and huddled them into her body, pulled her coat over her knees so she was tucked up into a ball. Keep the extremities warm, she thought to herself.

She tried to shuffle her feet to keep them warm, but the pain in her ankle made her gasp. She curled herself even tighter and tried to ignore the cold biting and prickling into her.

Mr Farnon was going to be absolutely infuriating if she got home.

--

The fight between Mrs H and his brother had amused Tristan. He always enjoyed seeing his brother butt up against someone else and Mrs H could hold her own. He hadn’t thought anything about it when she went out on her rounds. Not until Siegfried stood, worried, at the window, tweaked the curtain aside and Tris had seen the flakes swirling down.

Siegfried watched the clock, and Tristan watched him.

“She should be back by now,” Siegfried said. His face was pale.

“She’s only a minute late,” Tris pointed out, always the optimist to his brother’s pessimist.

“Something’s wrong,” Siegfried said. “I can feel it.”

It had been a long time since Tristan had seen his brother so worked up. Worry slid into his own heart. “You really think she’s in trouble?”

“I know so. I’m going to find her.”

Tristan didn’t hesitate. He loved her like he’d loved their mother. “I’m coming with you.”

They took the Rover. “I should have driven her,” Siegfried said. “God, I should have driven her, what was I thinking?”

They knew the route – Audrey had shown them earlier in the year. In the bright summer sun, it had been lovely. Now in the dark and the snow, it had a very different aura.

They drove out of Darrowby, up through the narrow winding lanes. Siegfried grappled with the car while Tristan stared eagerly out, looking for any sign of their errant housekeeper.

Finally, they reached a dip, full of snow. “I can’t go through that,” Siegfried said. “It’ll never make it.” He gritted his teeth. “We carry on on foot.”

They’d put on their winter coats, scarves and hats before they’d left but even with them, Tris was unprepared for the way the wind bit him. For the first time, fear truly gripped him.

“Get moving!” Siegfried shouted.

They scrambled along the stone wall, avoiding the deep snow in the dip, and struck out together. Tristan followed his brother. He found himself irresistibly reminded of the carol – in the bleak midwinter. In his masters steps he trod, indeed! If he hadn’t been so desperately worried, he might have whistled it.

Finally, finally, Siegfried gave a shout. “She’s there!”

They scrambled the final metres and Siegfried fell to his knees next to the cold bundle of their housekeeper. She was huddled over, eyes closed, still.

“She’s not-” Tris couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Breathing,” Siegfried rapped out.

“Thank God.”

Siegfried clambered to his feet then bent and lifted the prone body.

“Let me help,” Tris demanded.

Siegfried shook his head. “I’ve got her.”

Carefully and swiftly, they made their way back to the car.

“You drive,” Siegfried said, as he lifted Mrs Hall into the back seat. He passed Tristan the keys and Tris took them dumbly. “Get a move on, man!”

With cold, shaking fingers, Tris turned the ignition. He glanced into the back seat. His brother had wrapped himself around Mrs Hall and was rubbing her back. He swallowed. Put the car into reverse and sped backwards as fast as he dared until there was a wide spot in the lane. Then he turned and drove like the devil to Skeldale. --

It hurt. Everything hurt. Pain was screaming through her fingers and her toes. But she was somewhere soft, somewhere warm. If it wasn’t for the pain, she’d think she’d died and gone to heaven.

She forced her eyes open. She was in her bed and in the chair by her side was Mr Farnon.

She opened her mouth to speak and managed only a croak.

“You’re awake!”

Never had she seen such relief as she did then in Mr Farnon’s eyes. He dropped to his knees by her bed, found her hand and gripped it tightly.

She stared at him, his dear face, the one she’d thought she’d never see again, when she’d finally lost her battle to stay awake.

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “So sorry.”

He bent his head over their joined hands and pressed his forehead to them. When he finally raised it, there were tears in his eyes. “I thought I’d – we’d lost you.”

“Was – a fool.”

He didn’t disagree. Instead he pressed a kiss to her hand. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Will listen… next time.”

The pain was fading and she was so tired. Her eyes were drifting shut but she knew for certain this time that she would open them again. But one thing remained. “Please – don’t go,” she whispered.

He smiled at her, heartbreakingly tenderly. “Go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

[roan-wayland]

"Happier times..." Roan echoed, a reminiscent look falling over his face for a moment. Kiran's words hugged around his tender heart at the witch couldn't help but give him a fatherly smile. He wasn't made out of stone after all. "I understand. The past is hard to let go of." He swept the room with his gaze, wondering what memories Kiran had lurking in the walls, in the floors. "If you don't want to leave... we can patch it up again."

Roan dove into Kiran's mind as soon as the other promised he was ready. He waded through the surface thoughts, all innocent and intentional, nothing of interest slipping through. He moved on then, pushing to see below, probing the recent memories. Kiran's response showered Roan in recollections, emotions, faces, and moments. They lured him away from his purposeful search. Even then he could sense that beyond these memories and thoughts, as if behind a closed door, in the depths of Kiran's mind, were his drives and purpose. If he wanted to he could barge in, knocking down the door, pushing those drives aside and put in his own.

The raven croaked in distress, but Roan was already retreating, leaving Kiran's mind unaltered. The next second he was standing beside Kiran, a hand clasping his shoulder, and concern in his eyes. Had he gone too far and too fast? The little laugh and the spark in Kiran's eyes were enough to calm Roan. After all, couldn't call himself a defense teacher if he didn't test his students against the dangers of the world. "You did good." Roan replied with a hint of pride and patted Kiran's shoulder. He thought for a moment, glancing back towards the room, before looking back. "There's something I want you to have. It's not ready yet, I still need to do some tests, but then it will be a better protection than any of my lessons. Would you accept it?"

Kiran's usual smile falters, just slightly, at Roan's words. The man had never been afraid to speak the truth as he saw it, and Kiran shouldn't have expected him to be any different now. In fact, the honesty was refreshing - compared to the other friends he had who seemed to tip toe around him and his grief. Kiran nods his head towards Patrick, when the familiar seemingly communicates something in his favour, before looking back to Roan. "Yes. I'm procrastinating." He admits, shrugging a shoulder. No point in lying. "This place reminds me of... simpler times. Happier times. I thought maybe I'd feel that agin, being here." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Seems that things are a little tarnished now."

Kiran sets down another chair, before turning his attention fully back towards Roan as he begins his teachings. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck at the mention of physical strength - though he was hardly unfit, he could admit to himself he wasn't in the best shape at the moment. Using work to fill a void, meant that he'd spent more time at a desk the last few months than he cared to admit. However, he nods at Roan's final instructions, taking a deep breath as he prepares to focus. "Wise words, as always."

Kiran observes Roan closely, a crooked grin forming at the man's question. "Ready as I'll ever be." He states simply, trying to find some tranquility in his mind, as he locks eye to eye with Roan. He feels the impact of Roan's powers quickly, especially as he at first feels the superficial barrier of his mind being analysed. He allows his surface thoughts to be read without much resistance - vague lists of shopping he had to pick up that evening, bills that needed to be paid - allowing himself a brief second to catch his breath. But, as soon as he felt Roan begin to delve deeper he visibly winced - following Roan's previous instruction, he focused his own attention towards lighter images: the rays of sun he'd witnessed that morning as daybreak crept through the window of his apartment, pictures of his mother's smile the last time he'd seen her.

He takes a subtle step backwards, a hand rising to his temple as he attempts to cover up his own deeper thoughts. Slowly, he focuses himself back to Roan - allowing a strained laugh to break through. "You... really love the tough love approach, don't you?"

[bet-on-me-13]

Sam is Adopted

So! Have you ever noticed how Sam doesn't look like either of her Parents? Her Mom and Dad are Blonde and Ginger, and neither of them have Purple Eyes. How would Sam ever come from either of them?

She tells people that she dyes her Hair and wears Contacts, but the reality is that she was adopted as a baby by them. They had just found out that Pamela was Infertile and they wanted an Heir foe their company, so they decided to Adopt a kid.

But the Adoption Agency didn't have any kids who would realistically look like them, so they just got the first kid they found.

She had been left at the Orphanage by her Mother citing an inability to raise her and an unstable income. She never told the Agency her name, but told them that the baby's name was Sam, named after her Grandfather.

Sam was raised knowing that she was Adopted, but never really put much interest into it. Until one day when she decided that her adoptive Parents support of the Anti Ecto Acts was a step too far for her. She took an Ancestry DNA Test to see if she could find her Bio Mom to get away from them.

The results came back, and she found out that her Mom was a woman from Metropolis named Lois Lane.

[spacedlexi]

"sounds nice... having a partner"

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

if scars don't make man look good then being alive sure does

[lycianlynx]

The reprieve is brief, but welcome— Small enemy patrols all something their group can handle. Their ankle is looked at, the cuts on their shin and forehead cleaned and patched. Before they know it, their number goes hurtling back into the cave, and once more Rafal shifts into that serpentine form, comfortable in his power even in enclosed space.

Their job is to make sure nothing escapes; Pin them down, clean them up where thunderous blows do not quite reach. Rafal's allowance is taken as such. Once again, Chad draws, aims,

chad attacks crest beast (bird) with gandiva! roll: 13 + 2 = 15. autocrit! 5 damage. crest beast (bird) 0/6HP. gandiva activates! chad steals 2 avo from crest beast (bird). crest beast (bird) has been defeated!

And fires. Plucked out of the air with a broken cry, the beast goes tumbling down to the floor next to its mangled fellow. They try not to linger on the gnashed bone for too long, instead looking for their next target, only to get caught in an exhale of fumes— Biting back a gasp, they push the collar of their cloak up to their nose, squinting through the sting to find:

Another body hitting the wall with a crunch, then the ground with a thump. Gaze swivels to the next source of movement, flailing limbs and sapping magic. Eyes narrow as it staggers back. Again, they fall seamlessly into step to assist.

... There!

chad attacks autonomous husk with gandiva! roll: 6 + 2 = 8. hit! 2.5 damage. autonomous husk 0/6HP. gandiva activates! chad steals 2 avo from autonomous husk. autonomous husk has been defeated!

A well-placed arrow in what would constitute a throat handily stops the husk in its tracks, soundlessly slumping to the ground. But where they would keep going, a rattling breath distracts them—

... Is that coming from themself? Shit. Earlier fumes show their fangs as they slip into cover to practically cough up their lungs.

cloaked figure steals 1 ap from chad!

Judging by the smashing noise and the laughter, though, all would be well.

@heriteur @rafent @ashenprofessor

no healers attack only final destination // week 1 combat team 3

[mydaroga]

Found on Facebook: "Paul getting ready for a home photo shoot with Barry Lategan. Pictures were featured in the Observer Magazine article ‘What Makes a Man Stylish?’, 1968."

Unsure who the woman in the photo is.

[disorganised-bagel]

been playing way too much slime rancher recently, and am now getting The Urges to make some kind of rtc slime rancher au

[starryluminary]

You’ll find the real thing instead, she’ll patch up your tapestry that I shred

And hold your hand while dancing

Never leave you standing

Crest fallen on the landing

With Champagne Problems

[bookwyrminspiration]

Silly Game Time: What are some of your favorite kinds of candy or sweets in general?

I've just been staring at this ask all day and drawing a near complete blank. I'm more of a spice person, so when I eat sweets it's usually just whatever's around.

I tend to prefer sour/acidic things? Tamarind, lemon, lime, other citrus--and that includes in desserts like cheesecake. I can say with confidence though that I do NOT like nutella or most cakes.

I'll also go for cinnamon or mint. But yeah I'll have to circle back to this I'm for real stumped

[longagoitwastuesday]

Kind of endearing that despite their obvious strained dynamic Utahime and Gojo trust each other

[voidsentprinces]

Oh Zenos, it felt like you had so much potential but then they kept you along waaaaaaaaaay past the point of narrative importance. Made you show up in the end as a glorified uber into a final boss fight and then tacked on your final battle to the Hype Battle Music which was the equivalent of a stepping a little to the left, a little to the right and then doing a Quick Time Event to win. And now Zero and the Scions won't top bringing you up in conversation like Zenos was a new hip restaurant we all use to go to and now it closed down due to COVID so now we have to reminiscence about you in passing.