#they’re incorrigible

[fallingforspring]

Soso, when will your cousin go home?

[hamsterclaw]

Thank you so much! More yoongi joon oc coming up in the third part when I get round to writing it 💜

Swing

You're navigating your way through the political ranks. Your boss, Assistant Secretary of State Kim Namjoon, is sexy and unpredictable, and your colleague Min Yoongi is cynical and hard-nosed. And then there's Taehyung, whom you know you can't trust. You've got no idea how you're going to survive any of this, but you've sure as hell got to try.

A prequel to Politico.

Pairing: Taehyung x F! reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Smut, weak political satire

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: Sex, swearing, sneakiness

Min Yoongi swears like his life depends on it, emotion making each word vibrate in the air. 

‘Shitting fuck!’ 

In another life you think he’d be great spitting verses as a rapper. 

He’s got the persona for it, he’s got the steely determination, the don’t give a fuck swagger, the ability to give the impression he’s one screw away from going totally unhinged. 

Today, though, you’re struggling to follow. 

‘What? These optics are great!’ you say, gesturing to your boss, Assistant Secretary of State Kim Namjoon, dimpling prettily as he holds a chubby baby at the meet and greet he’s doing. 

Yoongi doesn’t answer, already lunging forward like he can see the future. 

‘Ah shit,’ you mutter, jumping forward to help. 

You’re too far away, but Yoongi isn’t, one hand already out pressing against the baby’s back as Namjoon stumbles and nearly drops him. 

Namjoon looks sheepish, Yoongi scowls, and the baby smiles like it’s having a great time sandwiched between the two men. 

Impatient, Yoongi hooks an hand under the baby’s armpit and hoists him fully into his arms, parking him on his hip like he’s a dad of four who mows the lawn on a Sunday and coaches junior baseball. 

You wait for the baby to have an adverse reaction to Yoongi’s stern expression and the caffeine emanating from his pores, but to your surprise, he just snuggles deeper into Yoongi’s side like he’s enjoying it there. 

Namjoon and Yoongi keep moving, walking up the line, greeting people, and you wonder how they’re going to return the baby to its rightful owner. 

By the time you catch up, Namjoon and Yoongi have reached the entrance of the community centre. 

‘You need to return this baby,’ you say, waving a hand. 

The baby waves back at you, and you realise he has dimples just like your boss. 

‘Ah shit, Namjoon, is this actually your child?’ 

‘The only paternity test I’ve had done came back negative,’ Namjoon informs you, holding out his arms for the baby. 

Yoongi takes a step back, avoiding Namjoon’s arms. ‘That’s not the way paternity results are reported,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Besides, that woman was way out of your league.’ 

‘Shit, did you try to entrap someone?’ you ask. 

‘Stop swearing in front of the baby,’ Namjoon complains. 

You hold out your arms, and Yoongi passes you the baby. 

The baby looks at you expectantly. 

‘Oh, are you waiting for me to suck the happiness out of the room? Only your Uncle Yoongi does that,’ you coo. 

‘You look really sexy holding a baby,’ Namjoon says, nodding approvingly. 

Yoongi glances at you. ‘She kind of does,’ he agrees. 

‘Who does this baby belong to?’ you ask, ignoring them. 

‘I didn’t know I had a kink for that,’ Namjoon says thoughtfully. 

‘What? What about that girl you dated in college? The one you kept saying had ‘child bearing’ hips?’ Yoongi scoffs. 

‘Forget it,’ you mutter, hoisting the baby up. ‘Come on, kid, I’ll find your mom.’ 

***

You’re trying not to stare at your boss doing pull-ups, grunting on each upward pull, sweating into his fitted workout gear.

‘Write it down,’ says Yoongi, raising a knowing eyebrow at you.

‘Write what down?’ you inquire, reasonably. ‘He’s just grunting.’

‘Kisung’s angling for a spot on the Angleson inquiry panel,’ Namjoon pants, giving you a sideways look as he lowers himself back on the floor.

Your eyes follow a particularly juicy looking drop of sweat as it rolls down his forehead, slips past the dent of his dimple, trickles down his jaw and down his thick neck, disappearing in between his glorious pecs.

It’s blotted out by his fitted, white, sweat-wicking top, but you keep going down, past his flat stomach, the drawstring tie of his shorts, the bulge of his —-

‘Fucking cock,’ hisses Yoongi.

Your eyes snap up guiltily but neither of them are looking at you.

There’s a waft of clean scent, pleasing and somehow expensive, accompanied by two of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.

‘Hoseok,’ says Namjoon, pleasantly.

Yoongi snorts with unconcealed contempt.

‘Namjoon. Yoongi,’ says Hoseok. He smiles charmingly at you, and you can’t help but smile back.

He holds out his hand. ‘Jung Hoseok,’ he says.

Yoongi steps in front of you. ‘Don’t touch my minion, Hoseok,’ he snarls.

‘I’m not a —-‘ you start to protest, when Namjoon steps in front of you too.

‘What would you like to tell us about, Hoseok?’ 

Hoseok’s smile never falters. ‘I wanted to give you a heads up,’ he says. ‘Han Kisung’s in a meeting with Lee Min Hyeok right now. Isn’t Min Hyeok leading on your police accountability campaign?’

‘Thank you for the information,’ Namjoon says, evenly. ‘Why would you tell us this?’

‘I’d like to make amends, of course,’ Hoseok says, smoothly. 

The second man, silent thus far, catches your eye when he shifts his weight.

You glance at him and he’s staring back at you, eyes hooded. 

When he sees you’re looking he smirks and slips the tip of his tongue over his lips so deliberately you’d be blushing if you weren’t already dead inside from this job.

He holds out his hand. ‘Kim Taehyung.’

‘Y/N L/N,’ you say.

Predictably, he runs the pad of his thumb over your knuckles as you shake.

Unexpectedly, you find yourself not disgusted.

‘Young love,’ muses Hoseok.

‘Get away from the snake’s minion, Y/N,’ Yoongi snaps.

Hoseok looks hurt, perfect lower lip pushed out in a pout.

Taehyung ignores them both. 

‘I’m going out with a bunch of other interns tonight,’ he says, voice so low it’s almost a purr. ‘We’ll be at that new place in town, near the river. You should come.’

You have no idea how he makes perfectly normal words sound so nasty, but you’re getting more interested in finding out with every passing minute.

He smiles at you, and you blink, blinded by how ethereally beautiful he is. 

You can only stare after him as he and Hoseok leave the gym.

‘Don’t fall for anything that snake or his minion says,’ Yoongi warns, snapping you out of your daze.

‘Of course not,’ you say, quickly. 

You weren’t born yesterday. You know you can’t trust anyone. 

Especially if they’re as beautiful as Kim Taehyung.

***

You’re by the bar, sipping your drink, when there’s a familiar waft of cologne.

You’re about to turn when Kim Taehyung slides in next to you smoothly.

He’s standing much too close, but you like it.

He leans down, his velvety voice as intimate as a caress. 

‘I was hoping you’d come,’ he says.

You smile at him coolly, trying to conceal the fact that you’re melting under his intense gaze, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room. 

Fuck. Is it warm in here?

‘I heard the drinks were good here.’ 

‘The food’s good too. Come join us, my friend Arisu has a table.’ 

You wind up sitting next to Taehyung. There are a few faces you recognise, more you don’t. Taehyung doesn’t give you a chance to feel anything but welcome. 

He props an arm on the back of your chair, so close you get wafts of his cologne every time he moves. 

So close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare forearm. 

You remind yourself he’s not to be trusted. 

So then why are you here? Why are you leaning against his arm, finding excuses to turn his way, sipping your wine to fortify you?

The fact is, he’s the best looking man to show an interest in you in a while, and you need a man to lust after who’s not your sexy and intelligent boss Namjoon or your volatile and sharp colleague Yoongi. 

Your skin prickles as Taehyung leans even closer and you feel the warmth of his breath by your ear.

‘Want to get out of here?’ he asks.

‘My apartment’s round the corner,’ you reply. 

‘Perfect,’ Taehyung says, and the approval you hear in his voice makes pleasure pool low down in your belly.

The walk to your apartment is short, full of delicious anticipation.

You find you like the height difference between you, the way his broad shoulders nudge against yours as he places a hand on the small of your back.

You push your front door closed behind you and turn to see he’s shrugging off his coat.

He smiles, offers to help you with yours.

His thumb presses a scorching circle into the back of your neck as he takes your coat off.

When you turn to face him again he’s leaning over you.

You reach out, curl a hand around his neck and kiss him.

He’s soft, lips parting against yours in slow, drugging kisses that make you shiver. 

The warm heat of his mouth makes you press into him more, your hands sliding around his waist to his back. 

His belt buckle presses into the softness of your torso.

Taehyung nudges you flat against the door. One hand curls around the back of your head, the other splays low down on your back, making slow passes over your ass until you whine into his mouth and he cups your ass fully, pulling you into his frame.

He pulls back, eyes hooded, so dark they look almost black.

‘Upstairs?’ you ask. It’s half an invitation, half a plea.

When he speaks, his voice has dropped so low you can barely make out his words.

You grasp his hand and he follows you to your bedroom.

He undresses you like he dressed you himself, fingers nimble over the buttons of your blouse. 

He hums with pleasure as your blouse slides off you, followed by your skirt.

Your skin feels hot as his eyes roam, you’d be self-conscious if he wasn’t getting undressed himself, stepping out of his trousers, letting his belt fall to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

He unbuttons his shirt, and then he’s standing before you in just his boxer briefs, all golden skin and a smirk on his face that only turns you on more.

He reaches out, cupping the weight of your breast, tongue flicking out from between his lips as your nipple presses against the thin lacy material of your bra.

Your hips move of their own volition, and he lets go of your breast to sit on your bed like he belongs there.

He spreads a little, pats his thigh. ‘Sit on me,’ he says, voice thick, buttery.

You settle into his lap, legs either side of his taut torso. The bulge of his cock nestles between your legs, hard and hot against your centre.

He cups your breast again, reaches behind your back. ‘Can I take this off?’

You unhook your bra and he presses a kiss over the upper curve of your breasts. He nudges your flesh with his nose and licks a firm stripe over your taut nipple.

You whimper as he lavishes attention on your breasts, lapping at your nipples, sucking a hickey into your left breast.

Your panties are ruined, bunched between your legs, and you’re rolling your slit over his bare cock. Taehyung lifts his lips from your breasts just long enough to groan and grip your hip.

‘You’re so wet, baby, look at you making a mess on my dick,’ he says, grunting as you roll your hips again. 

‘Want you,’ you plead.

He grins at you as you pass him a condom, and he’s so pretty he takes your breath away.

‘Put it on me,’ he says. 

He groans as you pinch the tip and roll the condom down over his shaft.

Then you’re lowering yourself down on top of him, whining at the slide. His cock is thick, girthy and curved so that it hits you just right when he’s fully inside you.

Taehyung looks up at you, somehow still in control even though you’re on top of him.

He bucks his hips up into you, gripping your hips so he can fuck you in hard, deep strokes. 

You lean over his chest, and he opens his mouth eagerly, capturing your lips, one hand leaving your hips to cup your head.

‘Easy, baby, easy,’ he murmurs against your skin, voice slurred, a deep baritone that makes you clench around him helplessly. 

He splays a big warm hand over your ass, helping you ride him.

‘Tae,’ you gasp, ‘I’m —-‘

You cry out as you come, waves of pleasure making your breath quicken and your teeth clamp down on his lower lip.

He hisses but he doesn’t stop, grinding up into you until he comes with a deep groan. His fingers are so tight on your ass cheek you’re sure he’ll leave marks. 

You collapse down next to him, panting.

Taehyung ties off the condom, tosses it on the floor and you’re so fucked out you can’t find it in yourself to care.

He pulls you into his arms with a confidence that takes your breath away.

‘Can I stay for a bit?’

‘You can stay over if you want,’ you offer.

‘Good,’ he says, half-asleep already. ‘Let’s do this again later.’

***

Yoongi’s sipping something from a hip flask as you both wait for Namjoon to finish reading a story to the second grade class he’s visiting.

You nudge Yoongi. ‘What is that? Let me have some.’

He glances at you and hands over the flask.

You take a big gulp and double over as the whiskey burns its way down your gullet.

Yoongi, amused, takes the flask back.

It’s a while before your eyes stop watering.

‘Yoongi,’ you rasp, accusingly, ‘what the —-‘

He shrugs. ‘Didn’t know what a lightweight you were.’

He claps politely as Namjoon finishes his story. 

The very pretty class teacher steps forward, and you can see how her knees buckle a little as Namjoon looks up from the tiny chair his big frame is sat on and stands to his full height.

He flashes her a smile and there’s a collective sigh from the crowd in the room.

Your boss, as always, is killing it.

He closes the book and hands it to her. ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ he says, giving her another charmingly dimpled smile.

‘You’re one of my favourites,’ the teacher blurts out.

She recovers valiantly. ‘I mean, your police accountability policy is truly meaningful.’

‘Thank you,’ says Namjoon. ‘Perhaps we can discuss it over a drink sometime.’

Yoongi, beside you, rolls his eyes. ‘You can take the fuckboi out of university but you can’t change his stripes.’

‘You’re mixing up metaphors,’ you say drowsily.

Yoongi glances at you. ‘Fuck! You really are a lightweight.’

He says, ‘go sober up. Namjoon and I will meet you back at the office.’

You’re waiting by the main road for the bus when a metallic grey sports car pulls up in front of you.

The window rolls down, and you’re greeted by a familiar very beautiful face.

‘Need a ride, pretty girl?’ Taehyung asks.

You’ve met up a couple times since that first time. The last time you met him was last weekend when he ordered you Chinese takeout and then ate you out until you cried. 

‘Where you headed?’ Taehyung asks, openly ogling your thigh where your coat’s fallen open and your skirt’s ridden up. 

‘Back to the office,’ you say, giving him your own admiring look back.

He’s dressed sharply, you can’t tell if his clothes are perfectly tailored or if his build is perfect for the clothes he chooses.

It’s probably both, you’ve seen him naked, you can verify how perfectly proportioned his body is. 

‘Want to get lunch?’ he asks, glancing in the rearview mirror. 

His hand crosses the console between you, his finger traces a line down your hand.

‘Do you mean lunch?’ you ask.

Taehyung laughs, warm and rich. ‘Yeah. I mean lunch. We’re still on for drinks later, aren’t we?’

This time, you know he doesn’t just mean drinks.

‘Yeah.’

Taehyung laughs again, faintly mocking, and hums to himself as he picks up speed, concentrating on the road now.

His hand curves over the gear stick, gripping it with a confidence that you really fucking like.

You wonder if you’re playing with fire.

***

Taehyung pulls up to the front of your building and tilts his chin.

‘Looks like your big brothers disapprove of me,’ he says, nodding towards Yoongi and Namjoon standing on the front steps, a spark in his eyes that makes you smile.

‘Please they’re not my brothers. They just don’t want to train another minion. I’m good at my job,’ you say, waving a hand. 

‘I don’t doubt that,’ Taehyung replies. ‘I’ll pick you up after work, ok?’

Yoongi crosses his arms as you approach, head tilted. 

It’s Namjoon who speaks. 

‘What are you doing with the snake’s minion, Y/N?’

‘We went for lunch,’ you reply truthfully. ‘And his name’s Taehyung.’

‘How can he afford a car like that at this stage in his career?’ Yoongi wonders. ‘It must pay well working for a backstabbing lying cutthroat slimefucker.’

‘Slimefucker,’ you muse, trailing behind Namjoon as you head into the building. 

Namjoon stops so suddenly you run straight into his back. 

Namjoon reaches behind him to steady you. 

‘Speaking of.’ 

You peek over Namjoon’s broad shoulder to see Jung Hoseok. 

He’s dressed in an exquisitely cut maroon suit, hair styled away from his face.

He smiles at you over Namjoon’s shoulder, and Namjoon straightens to his full height before you can smile back, obscuring your view. 

Yoongi closes the gap between him and Namjoon, blocking you off completely. 

‘Hoseok,’ Namjoon says, in greeting.

‘Spoken to Han Kisung lately?’ Hoseok asks, all light and innocence.

‘If you have something to say, spit it out,’ Yoongi says, bored.

For the hundredth time you wonder what the beef is between your bosses and Jung Hoseok.

He seems perfectly nice to you. 

‘Just asking,’ Hoseok says.

You can hear him walking, footsteps getting further away.

‘Say hi to Taehyung for me,’ he calls over his shoulder.

You freeze.

Yoongi snorts. 

Namjoon says, thoughtfully, ‘I wonder if he’s really trying to help us.’

‘Hobi’s always got his own agenda,’ Yoongi says, scoffing.

‘Hobi?’ you wonder out loud.

Both men ignore you.

***

The Mendehlson-Shin fundraising gala you’re attending with Namjoon and Yoongi has better food than most other galas you’ve been to.

‘Fuck the mini-quiches,’ Yoongi says, voice a low, hard drawl by your ear. He takes your arm. 

‘Namjoon’s in a meeting with Min Hyeok,’ you say, eyes on the door of the meeting room they disappeared into. ‘Let me eat in peace.’

Yoongi lets go of your arm. ‘Damn how do you know that and I don’t?’

‘I’m good at my job,’ you reply. The rest of your sentence dies in your throat as you look at him properly.

‘What the fuck Yoongi?’

Yoongi pokes his tongue into his cheek, lip curling in a smirk so cocky you want to slap it off his face and ask him to slap your ass back.

He’s dressed in a black tux, silverware glinting in his ears, skin flawless, eyes dark with cynicism.

He’s stunning.

‘You don’t look bad yourself,’ he allows. His eyes scorch a path over the tops of your breasts, visible above the low neck of your black dress.

Yoongi leans over, closer to you, mouth close to your ear. 

Your eyes close involuntarily as his breath warms your cheek. 

‘We need to get a handle on Han Kisung’s motivations,’ he says, voice low. ‘If he’s whispering things in Min Hyeok’s ear, if Min Hyeok’s not going to push our police accountability campaign, hard, then we need to know before Namjoon meets the commissioner tomorrow.’

Your eyes open. ‘Sure,’ you say, a little shakily.

‘His team are by the Mendehlson table,’ Yoongi says. He holds out his arm for you to take. 

You accompany Yoongi to the throng of snarky looking politicos that make up Han Kisung’s team. He works in treasury, and honestly, anyone you’ve ever met from treasury bores you to tears.

You’re making small talk with a man who smells like the mini-quiches you never got to eat when Taehyung catches your eye from a corner of the room.

He’s making his way towards you, all besuited perfection and languid confidence, when the man besides you says, ‘hey isn’t that —-‘

You’re barely listening, curling into Taehyung’s side at the barest of pressure from his hand on your back.

‘Hey, you hungry? Let me get you something,’ Taehyung says. 

You glance at Yoongi, currently making everyone around him vie for his attention by simply withholding it and staring at his phone.

Your phone lights up. 

Yoongi: Don’t even think about leaving me here.

You sigh. ‘I gotta work, Tae.’

Taehyung says, ‘I’ve got intel on Min Hyeok and Kisung.’

You look at him uncertainly. 

You know you aren’t supposed to trust him.

Taehyung gives you one of his dazzling smiles, the warmth in his gaze stopping your internal debate.

Your phone lights up again. 

You shove it into your bag.

‘Let’s go, Tae.’

***

You can’t fit all of Kim Taehyung’s fully erect cock into your mouth, but you’ll sure as hell die trying.

Taehyung’s fingers are laced loosely in your hair, supporting your head rather than pushing you down on his dick.

He groans, voice thick and deep, head arching back against the headboard of his bed as you flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock.

His breathing’s erratic, chest heaving as you move up and down on his cock. 

He looks stunning like this, legs splayed, hips bucking up into your face. His chest is flushed, lips swollen, cheeks and chin gleaming from having buried his face in your cunt moments before.

‘Gonna cum,’ he warns, hand on the nape of your neck.

You can’t answer with your mouth full of his cock so you cup his balls and tug.

Taehyung grunts, loud, and you feel him filling your mouth, cum slipping down your throat.

He whines at the sensitivity as you swallow and lick him clean.

You lift off his still impressively hard cock, and Taehyung catches your arm.

His voice is still so low it makes you shiver when he laughs softly and says, ‘wait, baby. We aren’t done.’

He pulls you under him, cock nudging between your legs. 

There’s a rip of foil, a snick of unfurling elasticity, and then he’s sheathed himself in a condom, and then you.

The stretch of him makes warmth spread out in your belly. 

He’s slow, driving himself into you with sure, hard strokes.

His chest gleams with sweat, his shoulders are so broad he blocks out the warm glow of the lamp behind him.

‘Don’t know if I can come again,’ you tell him, breathless, pinned under him.

‘I know you can,’ he tells you firmly. ‘I’ll get us there, baby.’

He buries himself all the way inside you, stays still, kissing your face, lips parting over yours.

You can feel him getting harder inside you as he cups your breasts. 

‘These tits,’ he says, admiring, squeezing.

You hook a leg around his hips, and his hand comes up to pin your thigh to his hip.

He’s so hard now he’s making you gasp with every lunge of his hips. 

‘You feel so good,’ he croons. ‘Taking me so well.’

Taehyung whispers praise to you, slow, unhurried, until you’re coming all over his cock, a burst of pleasure so intense you feel boneless.

You remember he promised you intel on Kisung and Min Hyeok, but you can’t make your lips form the words.

Taehyung kisses the side of your face as he lays down next to you, arm curled around your naked torso.

You’re out before you can finish your next thought.

***

You wake up to a fully dressed Taehyung and a sense of having missed something important.

The sun streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows of Taehyung’s gorgeous apartment makes you sit up hurriedly. 

‘What time is it?’ you croak.

You fumble for your phone, which doesn’t light up. 

Ah shit, the battery’s dead.

‘It’s nine,’ Taehyung tells you. 

You clap your hands over your face, panicked. 

‘Shit! Namjoon’s got a big meeting with the police commissioner in half an hour.’

You’re bolting out of bed, searching for your clothes, yanking them on.

‘Min Hyeok’s not going to support the police accountability campaign,’ Taehyung tells you. ‘Kisung has him over a barrel, some favour he owes him from last year’s bribery scandal.’

You stop dead and face Taehyung. 

‘What?’

‘I tried to tell you last night but you passed out,’ Taehyung says. 

You’re already holding out your hand, palm out. ‘I need your phone, Tae, I need to let Namjoon know before he goes into that meeting.’

Taehyung hands over his phone. 

‘Fuck! I don’t know their numbers!’

You toss your dead phone into your bag, frantic.

Taehyung grips your shoulders so you’ll look at him. 

‘I’ll drive you downtown to the meeting, we can probably get there and intercept Namjoon before he goes in.’

He’s firm, calm, and you feel the panic start to ease.

‘Ok,’ you breathe. ‘Ok.’

Taehyung pulls one of his shirts over your shoulders. It smells fresh, clean, calming.

‘Come on. Let’s go.’

You’re stuck in traffic with Taehyung, trying not to cry as the minutes tick by, taking any hope of getting to Namjoon and Yoongi before the meeting with them.

Your phone’s been charging in Tae’s car but neither Namjoon nor Yoongi are answering.

You glance at the clock on the dash. 

9.20.

Taehyung sees you looking. 

‘Put your belt on, babe.’

He pulls a highly illegal u-turn, going against traffic and slipping into an alleyway.

He pulls up a hundred yards from the building, and you’re already opening the door, mumbling your thanks, and stumbling out when he says something you don’t quite catch.

You signal to him to call you and then you’re running across the street, heading to the police headquarters.

***

You’re too late.

You’re waiting outside the building when Namjoon and Yoongi come out.

You step forward. 

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I’m so fucking sorry. I found out about Min Hyeok and I tried to call but I was so late and my phone died—-‘

You can feel both their eyes on you, and you’re so glad Taehyung put his shirt on you because it’s so big it hides how small you feel.

Shit, you’ve fucked up.

Yoongi sighs. 

He pulls you into his side, close like he held that baby he stole the other day, and like the baby, you can’t help but lean into his warmth. 

Namjoon says, very gently, ‘it was always going to be a long shot.’

‘Come on, let’s get breakfast.’

You’re in the car between Namjoon and Yoongi when Namjoon’s phone rings.

He answers, brow furrowed. 

Then he says, ‘your full support, sir?’

You sit up and glance at Yoongi.

Namjoon’s thanking whoever’s called him profusely. 

He hangs up, and turns to you both.

He smiles, and he looks so pretty butterflies start to flutter in your chest.

‘That was Senator Kim Seo Jun,’ he tells you. ‘He’s pledged full support to our police accountability campaign.’

Hope blooms in your chest.

‘And,’ Namjoon says, ‘he’s already spoken to the police commissioner about it. We’re good to go.’

Yoongi’s already on his phone, frowning as he brings up a profile of Senator Kim.

‘I wasn’t aware Senator Kim had an interest in this,’ he says. 

You glance at the photo he’s just pulled up, and you do a double take.

He’s older, but you recognise the family resemblance immediately.

‘Shitting cuntbucket,’ breathes Yoongi. ‘He has one son, Kim Taehyung.’

***

You’re told that there’s a Christmas party every year in the department of state affairs, but this is your first one.

You check your reflection in the rearview mirror only to find Taehyung looking back at you, dark eyes affectionate.

‘You look beautiful,’ he tells you. 

You’re still smiling at his compliment when he parks up the car and turns to you.

‘I have to tell you something,’ he says, seriously.

There’s the tiniest tug of foreboding in your heart at his expression.

He comes right out with it. 

‘I’m moving to Paris.’

You stare at him for a beat, two.

‘Wow,’ you say, finally. ‘When?’

‘Next week,’ he says. ‘For a year, maybe two.’

You take a moment. Then you say, sincerely, ‘sounds amazing, Tae, I’m excited for you.’

He takes your hand. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he says, rather sweetly. 

‘I’ll miss you too,’ you reply.

You cup his cheek, and he turns his face into your hand.

His kiss is sweet and heart melting as always.

‘I’ll write you,’ he says. ‘When I’m travelling. Send you postcards.’

You laugh. ‘I’ll send you nudes.’

‘Please,’ Taehyung says instantly, so heartfelt you both laugh.

He presses a kiss to your hand. ‘Still want me as your date?’

You pretend to think about it.

‘Are you any good at dancing?’ 

‘I’ll do my best,’ he promises.

Taehyung offers you his arm. ‘Shall we?’

***

Yoongi, Namjoon and Hoseok watch you and Taehyung dancing together from where they’re propping up the bar.

It’s a disco beat but neither of you seem to realise it, holding each other like you’re the only two people in the world.

‘Young love,’ muses Hoseok.

He turns to Yoongi and Namjoon. 

‘Now do you believe I want to make amends?’

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. ‘You planned this?’

Hoseok looks bored. ‘Min Hyeok was always going to let you down.’

‘Takes one snake to recognise another one,’ Yoongi retorts.

Hoseok ignores him.

‘I knew who Kim Taehyung was the moment he walked into my office and asked for a job,’ he says, studying his nails.

He shrugs. ‘I also knew he wasn’t the cutthroat type.’

He glances at Yoongi and Namjoon. ‘I’m hoping you at least picked up that your minion had him wrapped around her finger?’

Namjoon frowns. 

‘She’s very wholesome,’ Hoseok remarks. ‘Interesting how working for you two hasn’t corrupted her yet.’

Yoongi scowls. ‘We’re not that bad,’ he says.

‘Exactly. You need someone like me to get down and dirty. Get the job done.’

Namjoon raises his glass. ‘Here’s to knowing your enemies,’ he says.

Hoseok smirks and clinks his glass with his.

After a moment, Yoongi clinks too.

Hoseok tosses back his drink and puts his glass down on the bar. 

‘Going to dance?’ Yoongi asks.

‘Of course. These hips don’t lie.’ Hoseok sneers, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes as he walks away.

***

You’re sitting by the window in the conference room, looking out at the city, when Yoongi finds you.

He nods to your half empty glass. 

‘Where’s Taehyung?’ 

‘Moving to Paris,’ you tell him. 

You try to muster a smile but you can’t quite manage it.

‘You weren’t wrong to trust him,’ Yoongi tells you.

‘Ah, but I was,’ you reply. You look up at him sadly. ‘I’m going to miss him, here.’

It takes Yoongi a moment to realise you’re trying to point to your heart.

He hides his smile because you seem completely serious.

‘Come on,’ he invites. ‘Namjoon and I are drinking in the situation room.’

***

You wake in a bed you don’t remember getting into.

The room spins as you open your eyes, and it takes you a moment to get your bearings. 

Nope.

You still have no idea where you are.

You hear noises outside the door and go outside to investigate.

Min fucking Yoongi’s brewing coffee. 

You nearly pass out.

‘Did we,’ you croak.

Yoongi just looks at you a moment. 

‘Trust me, if we had you’d sure as hell remember it,’ he drawls.

Belatedly you notice you’re still fully dressed.

‘I took you home because you and Namjoon were all over each other.’

You let out a squeak.

‘Did me and Namjoon?’

‘Nope,’ replies Yoongi, popping the ‘p’. ‘Judging by all the women who came through our apartment at uni, you’d probably also remember if you had.’

You sag against his kitchen counter, relieved.

Your stomach growls, loudly.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. ‘There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink, and you can borrow some clothes if you want to take a shower. I’ll fix breakfast.’

You take a quick shower and brush your teeth, and step out into Yoongi’s kitchen. You notice he’s laid out three plates just as a shirtless Namjoon emerges from another room. 

Your gaze flicks from Namjoon’s bare chest to the knowing smirk on Yoongi’s face.

You can feel the heat of their eyes on you.

‘So,’ you say, brightly. ‘What should we do next?’

©hamsterclaw 2023

[corpusdiem-seizethedead]

Husk: Hey, Angel, can you hold this?

Angel: *distracted* Hm? Yeah-

Angel: …

Angel: …this is just your hand?

Husk: Yeah.

Angel: 😳

Angel: *clutches hand tighter*

[artist-the-incorrigible]

I loved this panel so much I had to make it a meme XD

[deargravity]

hajun’s commitment to being a little bitch is commendable. because it would be so easy for him to be the bigger person. he’s 6’1

[harleybarbarahandler]

i really adore characterisations of ivy that are like, misanthrope socially awkward scientist who can’t talk to humans, I think it’s a really fun contrast to the femme fatale persona she puts on for her villainy and makes a lot of sense with her backstory and her relationships. but also it cannot be forgotten that ivy is a mommy domme at heart and I think all of the above is true.

[inkdrinkerworld]

soft dom! remus calls reader a good girl just in like a very casual everyday public scenario and she’s like 😳 and he goes “u ok” and she’s like “no not rly can we go have sex now” 💀

Smut: 18+ only p in v penetration, oral (fem receiving) fingering, I’m a little rusty but I like the way this came out!

“Good girl,” Remus murmurs as you show him your graded paper and you frown. “M’proud of you.”

You’re in the living room, James and Sirius on the love seat as you sit with Remus on his recliner.

“Remus.” You grumble, body hot as his hands slip around you and adjust you in his lap.

“Yes, my love?” You rest your chin on his chest and look up at him through your lashes.

“You can’t just say that.” You whisper, Sirius and James paying you both no mind- they’re used to all this by now.

Remus laughs, lips pressed to your cheek when he calms down. “I’m sorry baby,”

You shake your head, “Can we go to the room?” Remus smirks as you wiggle a bit in his lap.

He spares a glance to Sirius and James, both of them looking comfortable and about ten minutes from sleep. Then he looks back at you, with your pupils blown wide and your near breathlessness.

“You’re incorrigible.” He murmurs, standing his his hands under your thighs- your paper long forgotten in the space you’d occupied.

“You’re dogs!” Sirius calls as you and Remus disappear, a blush taking over your face as Remus kicks your bedroom door shut.

As he lays you down, you can’t help but fidget. Remus looks down at you, his hands trailing your thighs.

“Don’t tease Remmy.” You whine chips bucking into his hands making him smirk.

“I’m not,” he shimmies your skirt and underwear to your ankles, swearing when he finds you soaked already. “Dove, this is a little embarrassing.”

You whine, sitting up on your elbows to watch as he lowers himself to his knees. Remus’ eyes go hungry the minute you part your legs, a swear leaving his lips softly before his fingers slide up your slick.

“Remus please.” You’re breathless already and it makes something more than pride and ego swell in his chest.

Remus doesn’t speed up his actions, he only takes his time in sinking a finger into you. Your hips buck a bit and he has to bite back a laugh as his other hand slings along your torso to keep you still.

“I have to get you ready, dovey. Don’t want you hurting too bad.” God your stomach tightens- you’re not sure how your reserved boyfriend has such a silver tongue but it drives you crazy.

Remus peppers kisses along your inner thigh as he fingers you, adding a second one when you let out a particularly pleased whine.

“Remus I need you.” You cry, hand over your mouth as his fingers push a little deeper, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit.

“You have me, baby.” He doesn’t move a bit, only doubles down his efforts and when he feels the tremble in your stomach, his lips replace his thumb.

Your fingers thread through his hair instantly, holding him in place as your elbows give out under you and your head is flung back.

“Close,” you breathe, it’s more like a harsh puff of the word but Remus hums and pushes his fingers deeper and you let go.

You bite into the heel of your palm, muffling the whine that bubbles out of you. You don’t let Remus waste any more time, pulling him away from your center and closer to your mouth.

“Easy,” he whispers against your lips, amusement colouring his tone. Remus pushes his sweatpants down, his cock springing free and his other hand guides it to your entrance.

“Please, Remmy. Please.” Your hands anchor themselves to his shoulders as he sinks in, your breath caught in your chest.

“Breathe, dove.” His lips trail a path from your jaw to your collarbones, his hips moving only a little as you adjust.

Remus’ hips snap slowly at first, a motion that has you locking your legs around his waist. “More,” you beg and he finds he can’t deny you anymore.

Your belly burns with need, your face tucked away in his neck. Soft puffs of your breath warming his skin.

“Feel so good,” Remus murmurs, kissing your cheek and pecking just by your chin as he sneaks a hand to your clit.

His movements are measured and deep and as you get closer Remus has to put a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

“I know baby, I know. Just let go f’me.” He groans, legs quivering a little as he feels the force of your orgasm against him.

You hold onto his wrist as you come, your eyes crossing and back arching off the bed as Remus works you through your high.

He doesn’t take long to finish inside you either, a few sharp thrusts and he’s there, holding your hips still as he rides out his own orgasm.

“Better?�� He asks as he pulls out, kissing your chest when you mewl. You nod, reaching for Remus as he reaches into your bedside table for wipes.

“M’right here, dove. It’s gonna be cold okay?” He warns you every time and every time it makes your heart flutter.

After he’s all done cleaning you up, Remus fits you into the sweater he’d been wearing and a clean pair of panties.

“Coming to get something to eat?” He’d leave you in here by yourself if you want to, but he never really wants you alone after.

“Do we have any more of those fruit snacks? The watermelon ones?” You let Remus pick you up, hissing a little as you wrap your legs around him.

“We should, you can also have some of the leftover spring rolls and a soda.”

Sirius looks at you both in faux disgust, James asleep in his lap.

“Dogs!”

[avocado-writing]

pairing: logan howlett x afab!reader. 18+, minors dni. fluff; smut (p in v unprotected sex; heavy breeding kink; creampie; oral - reader receiving). canonically bisexual reader. dp+w movie spoilers.

synopsis: you and logan have a pretty happy life… but there’s still something you want.

words: 10k.

notes: part 2 of say you’ll remember me. you don’t have to read it for this part but it is referenced. thank you @eupheme for being my beta, and for the use of the dividers!

Logan wakes to the twinned warmth of the sunrise and you curled around him like a cat. 

You’ve always been attracted to the way he runs hot, a creature of habit in any timeline. A magnet seeking him out even when asleep; you are pretty much a permanent fixture by his side when the weather is a little too chilly. Not that he’s complaining - he loves to sling an arm around you and feel you snuggle into him. Loves to keep you close. 

It’s nice, honestly; Logan has more good days than bad ones now. He never thought he’d get to see that again. Sometimes things get rough, sure, recovery is not a straight line - but you’re there with him on every step of that journey and he’s more thankful for that than he can ever express. You’re a grounding rod keeping the storm of his life in check. 

You intuit that he’s awake, something between you innately connected, and you begin to stir, body brushing up against his. He sleeps naked, usually running too hot to bother with any kind of pyjamas, and you’ve started sleeping shirtless too. Maybe it’s because he makes the bed too warm to stomach wearing one, or maybe it’s just because you like to feel his naked chest up against yours - either way he isn’t complaining. 

You stretch, arching yourself into his flank, blink open your eyes slowly. Smile when you find him looking down at you with soft, hazy, early-morning features. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, voice rocky. You reach up to kiss him, as is the way you usually like to start your day. It doesn’t take long for the chaste peck to become something more: the gentle parting of lips, slipping out the pink tip of your tongue to meet his. His body stirs. He can practically smell the way your blood pumps faster, pooling at the apex of your legs. 

“It’s so early,” you faux-harrumph when you run your hand towards his cock and find it hardening. How can you blame him when you’re so fucking sexy? Logan hums, manoeuvring you both so that he can look down at your sweet face as you lie surrounded in cotton sheets. 

“Then stay right there, baby.”

He kisses a sleepy, loving trail down your clavicle; luxuriating along the plain of your chest, nipping at your soft stomach in a way which beckons a breathy chuckle from you, steeped in the gravelly tones of morning. 

“Mmm, Mr Howlett, you are an incorrigible fiend.”

“Incorrigible, huh? Big word for someone who says they’re so sleepy…” he mutters, smirk ticking up the side of his mouth as his calloused fingers dip under the waistband of your pyjama shorts. 

“Incorrigible. Insatiable, even.”

He drags them down your legs, slowly, taking in the sight of you bathed in the dawn’s roseate light. You move your hips to let him. 

“Hmm. You complaining?”

“Oh, never.”

He grins and gets to work.

Logan loves the tang of you on his tongue. You’re still a little sticky from last night, where he pushed you chest-down into the mattress and fucked you so hard he was slightly worried he’d break the bed frame. He didn’t - but he’s perfectly happy to try again. 

You let out a fluttery little breath, butterfly light, as he starts his work properly. Burying his face in your cunt, letting every sense be drowned in you. He drags his tongue along your needy folds and you groan above him, hooking a leg over his shoulder and sinking your heel into the thick muscles of his back. He could listen to the noises you make for hours, a little symphony just for him. 

“Fuck, Logan,” you sigh, blissful and light-headed. He lets his mouth focus on your clit as he presses a couple of fingers inside. It’s an easy intrusion, your pussy offering up no resistance, a mix of spit and slick aiding him. He starts to crook them in a beckon and the mewl you let out will stay with him for the rest of the day; he smiles against your cunt. 

“That’s it, baby,” you groan. Fuck. He loves your voice when he’s making you come. Would do whatever you tell him to, just point him in a direction and he’ll follow. He is so utterly at your beck and call, a dog at your feet, so happy to obey. Anything for you, anything. 

He speeds up his pace, hand fucking you in a simulation of his cock last night, tongue pressing hard and flat against your folds. You come in a flood all over his mouth, soaking his beard and dripping off his chin. His favourite fucking flavour. All the furniture in the room jolts as you send out a telekinetic wave of force, knocking over a lamp onto the carpet with a dull thud. 

“That damn lamp, we need to move it…” you grumble. Logan kisses your thigh gently. 

“Baby, if the fuckin’ lamp doesn’t fall over, I’m not doing my job right.”

You laugh. There’s a pearlescent sheen of sweat that’s broken out over your body but you’re giddy and joyful. An arm slung over your eyes does nothing to hide the smile on your face, so wide it must hurt your cheeks. Yeah. He’s done good. 

“Let’s go shower,” you say, in a way which he’d never dream of arguing with. You walk naked into the bathroom and pull him under the hot stream of water with you. The room slowly fills up with steam and Logan presses you up against the tiled wall, burying his face in the warm space between your neck and your shoulder as he sheathes himself inside. You drag your nails down his back and he growls in your ear, slowly pumping his hips to bring you over the edge again. 

Ever since that first morning that the two of you were intimate, you’ve been wild for each other; unable to go a day without keeping your hands away. Like teenagers who haven’t understood the concept of pacing themselves. He wants to be drunk on you all the time, always wants your gasps filling his ears, his name dripping from your lips as he makes you come. 

He knows he’s the only man for you… but hey, nothing wrong with proving it too. 

You spend a leisurely forty minutes in the shower with your back against the wall and your legs around his waist, then eventually do what you meant to and clean up. He loves to watch you wash, smell the perfumes of all the soaps you use. You look adorable with suds in your hair. Plus when you ask him to get your back with the loofah it’s just another excuse to touch you and god knows he loves doing that. 

He’s a man content when you finally return to the bedroom. 

Logan watches you pad about and do your morning routine, one he knows like the back of his hand by now. Once again: you’re a creature of habit. Pointing to the radio you use your powers to turn it onto the only channel the two of you ever listen to: an ‘oldies’ station which never plays a song made post ‘89– 

—he remembers a few weeks ago when you were both visiting Wade, chatting about how bad songs are nowadays, and your friend had challenged you: “okay you two geriatric lovebirds, no conferring - when was the last good decade for music?” Without missing a beat you’d both answered “the eighties” and, as Wade groaned at how ‘cringe’ you both were, Logan had fallen in love with you yet again— 

—and you smile and turn it up when Aretha’s I Say A Little Prayer starts playing. Logan watches fondly as you croon out the chorus, using the hairdryer you’re plugging in as a microphone. He loves watching you sing. You don’t always hit all the notes but that’s not really the point - the point is he gets to see you be silly and vulnerable and totally and utterly yourself in these moments, something he knows to hold dear to his heart. 

If you’re singing, you’re happy. 

Fuck, he loves you. 

The two of you get yourselves ready for the day to the music which fills the room, quietly happy in each other’s company. The sound of people getting ready for the day starts up in the hallway; kids coming down for breakfast and squeaking their sneakers on the hardwood, other professors grousing about lesson plans - unfortunately it's time to break the cocoon of solitude the two of you have made for yourselves and face the morning properly. 

“What’re we doing today?”

He squints at the calendar to try and make out your handwriting, attempting to ignore the gaze of the “hot bisexual lumberjack” of the month staring out at him with her barely contained breasts and suggestively placed axe (this had been your birthday present from Wade, and you’d loved it). You tut at him. 

“Logan Howlett, we need to get you some glasses,” you say, pulling on your own and pressing your finger to today’s date, reading out the scribbled ballpoint. “Let’s see… we’re both teaching until five, then looks like there’s a Flames game in the evening you wanna watch. I, however, have been cornered tonight: the girls found out I’ve never seen the Barbie movie so apparently they need to correct that - though I ask you, when I was living in a place literally called the Void, when I would have gotten the damn chance. People weren’t just throwing copies of that thing away. Apparently it’s a great movie.”

‘The girls’. The comfortable nickname you’ve assigned the trio of Laura, Ellie, and Yukio. Logan’s glad Laura has managed to find her people with them - he was secretly worried that, if she took after him too much, she’d be a little too stubborn to make friends at all. Nothing to worry about though. She’s thriving here, and he’s relieved. Happy, even. 

“You’ve not seen Barbie?” Logan asks. You’ve moved to the boudoir now and pause as you apply your face cream, bottle floating in the air centimetres from your neglected skin. 

“Wait, you have seen Barbie?”

He shrugs. Yeah. He doesn’t remember the context, he’d had two full bottles of whiskey by then - but for some reason they’d put it on at the bar he was drowning himself at and he’d sat through the whole thing, leaving a smear of pink on his memory. 

You blink, still gobsmacked. 

“Did you like it?”

Logan considers this for a moment, knowing you’ll call him grumpy if he’s too critical, but also sure you’ll never ever stop teasing him if he praises it. Oh, and god forbid Wade ever finds out…

After a long moment he settles on, “it was alright.”

You shrug, happy with this assessment. 

“Well, good. Guess I’m in for a good evening then.” You stand up with gusto, the indication you’re ready to leave. “Shall we?”

The two of you walk to the door, taking a moment when Logan pulls you into an embrace - your back to his front. You look in the mirror, admiring the couple you see in the reflection, something you do every morning without fail.

“I love you, Logan Howlett,” you say. He drops a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I love you too.”

And with that, the day begins. 

Teaching is a very broad term for what he does. Basically, it’s his job to help the older students with self defence. Every day he goes to get the shit beaten out of him by a load of kids but it’s also the best workout he’s had in over a decade, so he doesn’t mind too much. Keeps him in shape, keeps him sharp. Plus he feels like he’s actually doing something helpful, finally adding to the world rather than just being a burden on it. He spends the first period running battle formations with them, keeping them on their feet and quick to react. Can’t have them getting in danger, not when he’s around.

The class takes a break to get water and he finds himself staring out the window, smiling fondly to himself when he sees you leading a little seminar. After you spent all that time in the wild and then the Void, one of the things they have you teaching is survival skills - you’re a dab hand at getting by just with what you can forage. Looks like you’re going to do some practical exercises as he can see you leading a group of the younger kids towards the forest which surrounds the mansion.

Something happens which makes his heart ache. 

There’s a kid by your side you’re in animated conversation with, probably no more than seven or eight, and they’re looking at you like you hung the stars - just absolutely enchanted with how cool you are. Without thinking they slip their hand into yours for support or guidance or comfort, one of the three anyway, and after a beat you give them a smile. 

In that beat, even from this distance, Logan can see the bittersweet look on your face. The longing. You would wear parenthood well and it’s not fair that you never got a chance to experience it firsthand. It’s a sadness which weaves its way into his guts and stabs him there, an old kind of pain, one he felt for you in his own timeline.

Logan wonders if it’s too late. Are the two of you too old now? Would you both be too hurt if you tried and it didn’t take again? He wants to give you what you want, desperately, but he’ll be damned if he’d ever do anything to upset you; he can’t shake the feeling that’s where that road would lead.

“You okay?”

Laura’s voice makes him jump. She’s a quiet little devil, that’s for certain, definitely not something she got from him - all blades and bluster in his youth. He nods because he doesn’t really want to get into detail about his private life with his pseudo-daughter. 

But unfortunately she’s smart, and his eyes linger, so it's only a matter of her following his gaze to see what’s got him pining. She smiles a small, comforting smile. 

“If there’s a problem you should just talk to them. They’ll listen.”

He harrumphs at the fact a girl less than one-tenth of his age is giving him life advice but also knows that what she says is true. He doesn’t address what she’s said, instead cocking his head at the training mats. 

“C’mon, back to it.”

Laura groans and returns to throwing her classmates across the room.

The thought stays with him for the rest of the day though. After class, when he returns to your shared rooms and starts to get himself set up to watch the game, he finds himself thinking about you with a baby in your arms. A mix of him and you with soft skin and excitement for the world. His eyes, your smile, a perfect combination.

And you’d be so happy. 

Fuck. He’s too old to get broody but here he is, huh.

Logan sits heavily in his recliner, the one nice purchase he’s allowed for himself since getting this job, and opens a root beer. TV remote in his hand he switches on the hockey and settles in for the evening. 

After about twenty minutes his phone goes. He frowns, opening up a text from Laura.

there’s some Pringles in the kitchen can u get them for us please the love of ur life is hungry

Logan sighs and replies, thumbs slow and unfamiliar on a touchscreen. 

all of you have legs. get them yourself

Another message immediately: It’s a picture. You’re busy painting Yukio’s nails bright pink, glasses on the end of your nose and concentration on your face - but half torn between the task at hand and watching the movie you’ve been sequestered for. You look cute. Logan stares for a moment and then saves the photo to his phone. All his albums are just pictures of you at this point. 

Plssssss

is the final text in the chain. Logan definitively puts his phone away. He’s watching the game. He’s not going to get out of this chair to grab a tube of fucking Pringles, he’s not whipped. 

A moment. 

He groans.

Fine.

He gets out of the chair. He’s whipped. 

He heads to the kitchen and gets the requested snack, Hank giving him a knowing and sympathetic smile as they pass in the hallway. He finds you in the lounge, surrounded by girls. Clearly the news of the Barbie watch had gotten out and created a swarm because dozens of eyes look up at him as he lingers in the doorway like a giant awkward dog.

Finally you pull your eyes away from Ryan Gosling’s chest long enough to see why everyone has turned. When you spot him you light up.

“Oh! How did you know I wanted Pringles? Been craving those bad boys recently.”

“Lucky guess,” he replies, stepping carefully between pink dressing gowns and well-thumbed gossip magazines to pass them to you. When he’s within range you drop a kiss on his lips too, prompting an “oooooo” from the gathered crowd. You roll your eyes at them but smile at Logan.

“Thank you baby. What’d I do without you?”

He grumbles something non-committal under his breath and retreats, ignoring the shit-eating grin Laura is flinging his way. Eventually the crowd turns back to the movie. He tries to resist the urge to stand in the doorway with his arms crossed and watch along, the stereotypical father figure who insists he’s not interested, but finds himself lingering for a moment anyway just to see you.

Ellie has her feet slung across your lap, Yukio blows on her freshly-painted nails to dry them. One of the younger girls who’s been delegated to the floor by her older peers rests her head on your knee as she starts to nod off and you play with her hair for a moment - an action which comes readily to you, like it would to a parent.

Logan decides two things. 

One, he’s going to marry you, and he’s certain that every second that he hasn’t been your husband up until now has been wasted. 

And two, he’s going to put a baby in you, like you deserve.

On the way back he passes Hank again, who has an insanely huge sandwich stuffed onto a far-too-small plate - except this time Logan flags him down with a question, one which his colleague has to consider for a moment.

“Oh! Hmm. Yes, I’m pretty sure that it’s in the garage, sometimes the kids like to see if they can get it working again…” when he sees a scowl settle over Logan’s face he’s quick to add, “but none of them have been successful! I think the keys are in the ignition.”

Logan thanks him and heads back to your rooms, a plan forming in his head. 

You get back late. He’s listening to music and reading the paper, the game having finished long ago - the Flames winning of course, there was no other option, go Flames - the weight of the ring he’s swiped from your boudoir burning a hole in his pocket. He hopes you won’t notice - he needs to get your size, after all, and he knows he can’t ask you without rousing suspicion. 

“Hey,” you say, dropping a kiss on his cheek and yourself into his lap. The paper is discarded as his arm automatically comes to perch on your waist, dragged there as if by a magnet. Can’t not touch you for a second.

“Hey. How was the movie?”

“Yeah, pretty good! You know most of those girls hadn’t seen Legally Blonde? We had to remedy that after Barbie, apparently it’s considered a classic now. Fuck, it makes me feel old.” You groan and drop your forehead to his shoulder.

“You’re not that old,” Logan says, and when you come to fix him with a scathing look you find he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Tease,” you sigh, reaching in to kiss him, but stopping when you hear something on the radio. 

“What’s up?”

“Oh. This used to be our song.”

It’s AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long. It feels strange seeing the way your eyes get a bit hazy, a bit distant for a moment. 

“Good choice.”

“Uh-huh. She… you liked it a lot,” you whisper, for a moment lost in a memory he has no way to share with you. It stings you both. But then you’re back in the room with him, smiling as if nothing had happened. 

“We must have had a song, right? In your universe.”

Is this painful? He isn’t sure. But you shared yours with him, so it seems only fair he make it even. 

“Yeah, we sure did.”

You narrow your eyes, purse your lips playfully.

“I betcha I can guess it.”

He hums. 

“Okay. What’s the bet?”

“If I can’t guess I’ll do that thing you like. If I can guess, you do that thing I like.”

Oh, well, when you put it like that…

“Why not?”

You search his face, reading him for any telltale signs. 

“Mmmm, male singer or female? Or both.”

“I didn’t realise you got clues…”

“It’s not a game if I don’t, is it?”

“Fine. A guy.”

You think for a moment. 

“It was Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns n’ Roses.”

Logan widens his eyes, genuinely impressed that you got it so fast…

“Holy shit.”

…But the grin which crosses your face suggests you’re playing a trick. 

“I hear you hum it a lot. It wasn’t a big leap, honestly,” you confess. He chuckles, but pauses for a second as he realises the implication of this discovery. 

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I like that song too.”

You don’t seem saddened by this conversation, so he guesses it’s okay - he’d never wanna hurt you by dredging up the past. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to reminisce about what used to be, while knowing what you have now is so strong and secure. 

Logan pulls back to look at you, attempting to affect seriousness but knowing he could never fool you for a second. 

“So you cheated, huh… doesn’t seem very fair…”

“Hmm, you’re right. I guess I’ll have to forfeit…”

You slide off his thighs and onto your knees in front of him, grinning as you go for his belt… but pausing so that you can use your powers to turn off the radio. 

“Unless you want to come to Brian Johnson’s voice, but it doesn’t do it for me personally.”

He laughs, actually belly laughs, and if the two of you aren’t engaged by the time the week is out he’ll be damned.

He’s able to go to a jeweller’s the next week under the guise of finally going to the city and getting glasses, and buys the perfect ring there and then. It must be fate that they have it in your size, a silver band and pretty stone. The caveat of this is, that for the ruse to work, he does actually also have to go to the opticians.

He comes back with a small pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a chip on his shoulder about the fact they make him see so much better. You seem pleased though, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing the bridge of his nose.

“You look very handsome.”

“Mmmm…” he grumbles. You laugh and kiss him again.

“What are you doing today?”

“Workin’ on something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a secret, can’t tell ya.”

You harrumph.

“A secret, huh…?”

“A surprise, then.”

You sigh dramatically.

“Well, okay. If it’s a surprise I suppose I’ll let it slide. The girls and I were gonna head into town to go shopping anyway so I guess I’ll see you tonight?”

You kiss farewell and when he’s sure you’ve left the manor he heads to the garage. It doesn’t take much searching to find his old Harley, hidden under a dust sheet and waiting patiently for his return. Logan can’t help the smile at the old thing, running his hand along the neglected metal frame and scaring a spider from its perch.

“Sorry I was gone for so long, baby,” he rumbles, then gets to work.

The next few days are tough. He doesn’t want to ruin the surprise, but you’re clever, always investigating without meaning to, noticing when he trips up on an inconsistency. So whenever you try and weasel information out of him he simply refuses to answer. You’re grumpy, sure, but he can think of a few ways to make it up to you.

He’s nervous in a way he hasn’t been for… well, a while. He’s sure you’ll say yes. You’ll say yes, right? You’ve already been married once before – to him – so the odds are in his favour, but still, he gets a churning feeling in his stomach when he looks at the little box. Anxiety. He’s far too fucking old to be anxious like a schoolgirl asking out a crush, he feels goddamn ridiculous…

But.

But.

What will he do if you say no?

Ah, he can’t dwell on it for too long. Logan channels all of his effort into fixing up the bike - even allowing Laura to join in when she crosses her heart not to tell you - and plans ahead. Checks the weather. Picks his favourite shirt. 

Takes the plunge.

That morning Logan asks you to prepare a picnic and then meet him outside the manor. You look up at him from the reflection in your boudoir mirror as Carole King floats from the radio, an eyebrow arched.

“Oh? Why?”

“C’mon, I haven’t cracked yet. You think you’re gonna get me now?”

You pout. You’re cute. He drops a kiss on the top of your head.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

“Well-ll-ll… okay. I’ll trust you. Shall I wear those jeans? The ones which make my ass look great?”

“Baby, all jeans make your ass look great. You have a great ass.”

You grin and scurry over to the wardrobe.

He heads downstairs and brings the Harley round front, fingers tapping nervously on the hand clutch as he waits. For the millionth time he checks his pockets. Yep, ring still there. 

As you leave the front door, basket nestled in the crook of your arm, the smile which crosses your face is the same as if you’re seeing an old friend again.

“Oh my god! I had no idea this thing was still kicking around!”

You run the last few steps and put your hand on her chassis. You genuinely look a bit choked up.

“Fixed her up so I could take you for a ride.”

Your expression is so soft, so loving when you look at him.

“Logan… that’s so sweet.”

Stepping forward to press up against him you pull him in for a kiss, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums against your lips.

“Put a helmet on,” he says, handing one to you as you stow the basket. You fix him with an old-fashioned look as he presents it to you. It’s bright pink and has Barbie written across the side.

“God damn you Logan Howlett…”

“You liked the damn film. Keep hearing you sing that stupid song to yourself.”

You harrumph but don’t deny it, instead fastening the helmet on and climbing up onto the seat behind him.

It feels good when your arms tighten around him for support. Always feels good when your arms are around him, honestly, no matter what the cause. He revs the engine loudly a couple of times making you giggle, then speeds off.

He feels your fingers tighten in his shirt as he drives, weaving between whatever cars happen to dot the road as he goes. He’s not had a bike between his thighs for years now but you never really forget how to ride one. Besides, with you as his cargo, he makes sure to go safe. When he was a younger man he’d have been pushing the Harley to her limits just to get his blood pumping… nowadays he’s happy to take it slower. The longer the ride, the longer you’re pushed up against him, after all.

He’s still such a sucker for your touch.

It’s a nice day, and when he eventually slows down to the old lookout spot he used to take you to, you grin as you see the familiar view.

“It’s been a long time,” you sigh, eyes sparkling in the sun. You smooth your hair down where the helmet has taken its toll and start to lay out the treats you’ve packed onto a gingham blanket: thick-filled sandwiches, a fruit salad, a whole apple pie which Logan has no idea how you smuggled out. Fuck. He is so lucky to have you.

He sits and forces himself to eat, knowing the ring is hidden away in his pocket. You’re happy to take the lead on the conversation as you always are, chatting about your classes in between bites of roast beef, but cock your head to the side when a period of silence goes on for too long.

“Something’s on your mind.”

“What?” he asks, silently cursing himself for being so obvious. You reach out to rest a hand over his.

“Is there something you wanna talk about, Logan? It’s okay if there is. We can face it together, you know. We’re a team.”

As you let that sink in with him you wave your hand to bring out a thermos from the basket. It pours out two cups of coffee, both black, and you float one over to each of you.

He watches this with sharp eyes.

“You didn’t add any creamer,” he says softly. You smile, using your free hand to lift the cup to your lips.

“What can I say? I guess you got to me.”

You’re finally a coffee purist.

Logan blinks, taking in the sincere look on your face. There is only absolute adoration written there. It is a plain and simple fact: you love him more than he thought anyone could ever love him.

After a beat, he pulls his hand away.

He shifts to one knee.

Your eyes go wide.

“Logan…?”

“I gotta… you gotta let me talk. I need to get this out,” he says, slipping his hand in his pocket to grab the ring box. You cover your mouth in shock. “You’ve made me a better man. And more importantly you make me want to be one. I wanna spend the rest of our lives together because I’d be a goddamn idiot not to.” He opens the hinge and the ring shines where it’s seated in velvet. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh shit,” you say, then you do something unexpected. You throw your head back and laugh. 

Of all the reactions he was not expecting that.

Logan’s hands dip a little. What the fuck? Is this a rejection? Did he screw this up, monumentally misread the signs between the two of you? Are you having some sorta episode? What has happened to prompt this?

“Oh, baby, no - don’t be sad! Just… hang on…” you say when you see how his face has fallen. He watches as you root around in the picnic basket. “You won’t believe this…”

You shift to one knee…

…and pull out a ring box of your own.

Logan’s mouth falls open as you present a ring to him. A plain gold band, shiny and new - one you’ve had made specially for him. 

“I got your size from my Logan’s old ring. I’ve had it for days just waiting for the right moment and… I guess you have too.”

This information settles around him like a deep, sudden snowfall. His eyes can’t leave the little box you’ve pulled out. 

A smile creeps over his face.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, echoing your sentiment from earlier, and then suddenly you’re laughing too, head thrown back in utter joy. You throw yourself into his arms and press kisses all over his face: his beard, the end of his nose, all over his cheekbones, and then finally his mouth. He can feel the tears spill over your eyelashes and dampen his face, and holy fuck is he in love with you.

“So is that a ‘yes’?” he asks against your lips. He can feel your grin under his mouth.

“Depends if it’s a ‘yes’ from you.”

“Of course. I want you to make an honest man of me.”

“Then fuck yeah. I’ll marry you, Logan Howlett.”

Another glorious, effervescent peal of laughter falls from you and then you’re kissing him again. Together your hands fumble in order to exchange rings, a difficult task when neither of you will open your eyes and break lips, but eventually he manages to slide his ring on your finger and feels you exchange your own.

It feels good. It feels right.

Logan pushes you back onto the blanket, picnic forgotten for the moment. His mouth turns from sweet to hungry as he uses his body to cage you in. His hands drop to the hem of your shirt and start to pull it up so he can trace the bared line of your chest. 

“Logan, here?” you ask in a way which suggests here is great, actually. 

“Why not? Nobody watching. Just you and me, honey.”

He wins you over easily with that argument and your hands go for the top buttons of his flannel. When you find your fingers aren’t doing a fast enough job you start using telekinesis to undo them from the bottom, too. He drops his grip to your hips and fiddles with your belt and the fly on your jeans, groaning with pleasure at how easily you accommodate him and lift your hips so he can strip you.

“Fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. His hand skims your underwear and takes a handful of your ass - god he loves your ass - as you rid him of his shirt so you can run your palms over the thick plain of muscle in his back.

“Look who’s talking,” you breathe against him, biting down on his bottom lip and tugging at it. Electricity shoots through him.

“Harder,” he mutters. You oblige him and sink your teeth in just enough for a little blossom of blood to spill into his mouth.

He’s going to go crazy right here on this blanket, you will drive him to insanity. What bliss. 

He kicks off his jeans and starts grinding his clothed cock against the fabric covering your cunt, like two teenagers so desperate to get off that they don’t even bother to get naked first. His blunt head catches on your clit and you groan at where you can feel him leaking.

“Love it when you fuck me, Logan,” you sigh. He’s not sure if it’s pride or arousal which throbs through him, probably both, but he realises then he has to do now what he should have done a long time ago.

Claws come out, he cuts your underwear off and you squeal in delight. For a moment he considers just sliding inside but if he’s going to do this, it has to be done properly.

So he pushes your legs upwards against your stomach, in a way which he knows your hips will complain about but your pussy will love. Your mouth is a soft little o as you realise you are being manhandled into a mating press. 

“Logan…?” you breathe, a little confused but giddy with pleasure, sucking air in sharply when he rolls his hips to try and slide his cock inside your wet heat. 

“Wanna put a baby in you,” he states, simply, growling it out. Your eyes roll back and you moan at his words, what a pretty sight. 

“But we… oh fuck… I don’t know if we can…”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he manages, pressing his hand to the soft paunch of your stomach under which your womb sits, “let me try.”

Your eyes go wide as your head empties.

“Okay, yeah. Do it. Fuck a baby inside me, Logan.”

What sort of loyal dog would he be if he didn’t follow orders?

His legs trap yours against your body as he starts fucking you in earnest, pressing home inside you with one rough thrust. You mewl and knead at his skin with worshipping hands as he moves. Each undulation of his hips buries himself in you impossibly deeper, so he knows when he spills inside you it’ll be right where it needs to take.

“Fuck…” you hiss, palm cupping his face so he can look down at you, gaze on your gorgeous face. The crease of concentration between your brows as you register how tightly he’s nestled inside you, lips soft and kissable. Your hair blooms like a halo, an angel silhouetted against gingham.

He loves you. Oh, how he loves you.

“Wanna be so full of you, Logan… want to walk around with your baby in me. Show everyone who I belong to.”

He growls but he also knows he belongs to you, too. You have his heart in your ribcage beating alongside your own, a thing he has freely given because you’re the person who most deserves it. He’d never want it to rest with anyone but you.

Logan moves his hips in slow, sensual movements, taking time to luxuriate in the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of your walls. When he presses back inside he sees the way your eyes roll back as he hits that sweet spot, gloriously blissful.

“Gonna take you somewhere nice n’ quiet on our honeymoon and keep you in bed, doll. Fuck you until you’re full. Not gonna stop until we’re sure it’s taken. Watch you get all round with me. Goddamn, can just imagine how you’ll glow.”

You gasp at the filth he’s muttering but the grin on your lips show you’re incredibly enthusiastic about that idea.

“Yeah… want you to fuck me whenever you want, Logan… bend me over and fill me up… I’m yours, only yours…”

Something about the way you sigh that last part flips a feral switch in his brain. His hips speed up and the slap of skin on skin echoes from your hips, and then he’s coming in thick ropes to paint the inside of your pretty pussy. Mark you up as his. You groan at the feeling of warmth blossoming inside you but he knows you haven’t reached your peak yet. Usually he’d make sure you orgasm before him… but he has something a little different in mind right now.

Logan slips out of you and you mewl in the displeasure of being emptied. This doesn’t stop him manoeuvring your ass into his lap, though, keeping your legs spread so he can push three fingers inside your warm and willing entrance. A groan rips itself from your throat as you clamp desperate fingers down on his forearm. Were he a human man you’d leave fingerprints for certain, and for a moment Logan regrets that you can’t — he’d love evidence of this tryst; apart from your growing belly, of course.

“Fuck. Yes, Logan, push it inside me,” you whine. Oh goddamn, he’s so easily broken when you beg. He uses his fingers to gather up his spend as it tries to leak from your fucked-puffy cunt and presses it back into your hole. As he goes he makes sure to crook them inside you, hitting the same spot he was with his cock just moments ago.

All you can do is hang on and choke down air as he fucks you with his hand. He’s an expert at your body, can play it like an instrument; it doesn’t take long to get you where he needs you. He feels your walls twitch and then you’re coming around his knuckles, a filthy mix of his release and your own dripping all the way down to his wrist.

You collapse back onto the blanket, gasping for breath as your wits return. As he slowly pulls his hand away from you, you reach out to grab him and pull him to your mouth, sucking the cocktail of you both from his fingers and running your tongue around him.

He groans.

“Fuck. You’re gonna ruin me.”

“But what a way to go, huh?” your smile is devilish. He can’t help but reach down and kiss it. Your hand tangles in his hair and scratches his scalp affectionately. 

A beat.

“So… we’re trying?”

You don’t need to specify for what. He knows. When Logan pulls back there’s an expression of barely-concealed hope on your face. Makes his heart melt. His fingers move to lock with yours, squeezing gently down on your knuckles.

“Yeah. We’re trying.”

He’s never seen you look so happy. You trace your abdomen with a careful hand. The ring he got you glints on it, the stone reflecting the sunshine. 

“Well, okay then.”

It doesn’t take long for news of your engagement to spread. You tell Laura who puts it in a group chat she has with the other students in the mansion, and from there it has no chance of staying secret. In fact you return after you finish the picnic (and an attempt to tidy yourselves up) to a chorus of ‘congratulations’ from a gathered crowd at the door. Logan pretends to be grumpy but honestly? He wouldn’t trade the look of joy on your face for anything. He shows off his ring alongside yours and people coo with adoration at how cute you both are.

Once he’d have snarled at ‘cute’. Now he just accepts it as you snuggle into his side. 

You go to meet up with Wade and Al a couple of days later to tell them but it turns out word travels fast. The apartment door is thrown open in your faces as Wade pours accusingly. 

“I can’t believe I had to find out about this via social media from a teenage girl! What am I, back in high school? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to deal with puberty again, it wasn’t kind to me,” he says, waving his phone at you to show a cheerful post about the engagement put up by Yukio. Logan doesn’t get a good look, but does see the words “still find love in old age” which makes him bristle.

“Sorry, Wade. But you know, we live in the same house as her,” you say, sounding genuinely quite apologetic. Wade deflates a little at your tone, but keeps the act up anyway.

“Big-ass house. Coulda kept your damn hands in your pockets…” he mutters, but then gives you a sincere hug. When he turns with his arms open to Logan, he sighs and accepts one too. “But really, I’m happy for you two. Just don’t forget about your old perpetually single buddy Deadpool when you’re off bumping uglies as a legally wedded couple…”

“I think I might try and forget you during those times actually, Wade,” you say with a laugh. 

“Hmm. Oh wait, holy shit - can I be your best man? I promise you I scrub up pretty well. Well, apart from the face. Mmm, and the rest of my body. My ass looks great in a suit is what I’m saying,” this is directed at you and you give Wade a sad smile.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I already asked Laura. We kinda trauma bonded in the Void,” you say. Wade’s eyes slide over from you to Logan.

“Oh my god,” he grumbles.

“C’mon, peanut! Isn’t that what best friends are for?”

Logan opens his mouth to snap that they are not best friends but then… he just sort of… closes it. He’s too old to have a best friend. Grown men don’t have best friends. Or at least that’s what he’d have said a scant few months ago. But now…

“Fine,” he sighs. Logan feels you squeeze his hand in joy as Wade lets out a woop which startles Al.

“Yes! I won’t let you down buddy. I’m gonna give you the best dry bachelor party of your life. The strippers will be so hot you won’t even need beer to make them look good!”

“Wade…”

“Joking! Joking…” he says, in a way which suggests he probably wasn’t - though about the quality of the strippers or there being any in the first place, he can’t be sure.

The two of you don’t want a big wedding. You had one in your own timeline and know how stressful it can be. You’re both able to come to the same reasoning: it isn’t the size of the celebration which matters, but that you’ll be married by the end of it. That’s what it’s all leading to after all. Every morning Logan wakes up to the weight of your ring on his finger and he feels complete. He feels grounded. 

He’s happier than he’s been in a long time; maybe ever.

You book a day to go down to city hall and sign the marriage certificates, only in a couple of weeks’ time. The kids all make you cards, shoving them under your door or handing them over during lessons. Soon your room is covered with crayon-scribbled well-wishes and poorly drawn felt-tip depictions of you both. Mostly, it’s you smiling, and Logan snarling with his claws out. You laugh every single time you see one, so he doesn’t mind too much. There are always little love hearts doodled between you anyway. At least the kids know you’re happy together.

Time moves by quickly but maybe that’s just a symptom of being in love. Classes no longer drag on and drain him, instead Logan starts every morning with the vigour of a young man… though the fact that he fills you up every morning before you both head to work might help. It’s strange; you never use protection anyway, but now it feels like there’s a purpose behind the way you fuck. Any position where he gets to see your face as he comes deep inside you will do it for him honestly. He could live in your cries of pleasure, the way you mewl his name, the duty of putting a baby inside you. Before long, those couple of weeks the city hall needed to get your paperwork in order are up, and the day arrives that you’re finally able to go and make things official. 

Logan wakes in bed alone. This is expected. He came home late last night after his bachelor party which, to be fair to Wade, wasn’t so bad. The guy had just organised some friends to play poker late into the night. Due to - what Laura has coined as - his natural ‘resting bitch face’, he cleared everyone out. He’s two hundred and sixty dollars richer so now he can grab you some nice flowers on the way to the wedding. He’d gotten a text saying that you were staying at a hotel in town for the night, the girls had insisted on keeping you separate because it’s tradition. Logan isn’t sure what about this whole situation is exactly traditional, what with all the crossed timelines and long-lost soulmates, but if it makes you all happy he’ll relent.

He showers, missing your body in the steam with him, then walks naked back into the room to grab something nice to wear, fingers fumbling with the radio as he goes. It picks up just as the host is introducing the next song.

“...goes out to Logan from ‘the love of your life’, who is pretty sure you’ll have the radio on by now! Apparently you’re getting married today? Well a big congratulations from everyone here at the station, you two, enjoy this classic tune…”

Chapel of Love by the Dixie Cups starts to spill out from the speakers and Logan chuckles, grabbing his phone and tapping out a message.

Cute.

You text back almost immediately. He can imagine you grinning at your screen as the music plays, waiting for his reaction.

I am. Can’t wait to see you today, baby ♥

Yeah, he can’t wait to see you either.

Seeing as it’s meant to be a relaxed ceremony you’d both decided not to wear anything too formal. Logan pulls out a white dress shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, toeing on the boots he cleaned last night. He looks at himself in the mirror before deciding to roll his sleeves up to his elbow. For some reason you go crazy when you can see his exposed forearms; you say it’s “pure unadulterated sex appeal”. He’s never understood it himself but anything to make you smile. 

Laura grabs a ride with him in the pickup he uses. She’s wearing leggings and a baggy suit blazer but he has to admit, the kid looks pretty cool. Despite his several warnings not to she sits with her feet on the dash playing with her phone, calling him a boring old man for not wanting her to go through the windscreen. 

“Remember I heal like you, dummy. It’s no problem.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you turning up to my wedding covered in glass with your clothes ripped to shit.”

She grumbles and relents, ever the petulant teenager.

He manages to get parking nearby, so someone up above must be smiling down on him, takes the short walk to the city hall - making sure to get a ridiculously large bouquet as he goes. As he takes in the smell of roses he realises it isn’t that he’s feeling nervous per se, but there’s definitely an anticipation running up his spine. Realistically he knows nothing will change when the two of you are married on paper.

But… kinda everything will change.

He spots you talking to Wade on the grey stone steps, and his mouth is pulled into a smile at the cute little dress you’re wearing. You had been going on about how you picked it up at the thrift store - what a bargain! - and now he sees it, he agrees about how it highlights your figure perfectly. You light up when you see him… and Wade’s face falls as he turns.

“What the fuck! I thought this was a wedding?! Now I look like I’m in a competition for most formally dressed dickhead!” he says, gesturing to himself. He’s in a full black tuxedo and is definitely the most suited up person for about five blocks.

“It is a wedding. Not my fault you never asked the dress code,” Logan states. You burst into laughter as Wade pouts, but he seems to be taking the ribbing pretty well. Your hand tangles into Logan’s. He looks at you.

“Hey,” you breathe, taking the flowers and taking a deep breath of their sweet smell. “Thank you, these are lovely.”

“You deserve the best, baby.”

“Aww. You know, look great.”

“So do you.”

“We scrub up pretty well, huh? Great choice on the sleeves, by the way.”

Logan smiles into the kiss he presses to your lips. Laura groans at the public display of affection.

“C’mon, your slot is coming up. You two wanna be late for your own wedding?”

And so you traipse up the stairs to the office where the smiling registrar has you fill out the paperwork to officially be married to each other. When you see Logan’s hands shake a little, you press your own to the small of his back and rub small soothing circles there. Wade and Laura cheer when you have your first kiss as a wedded couple and burst party poppers of confetti over you both. The group of you stand together and get a picture to celebrate the day: Logan’s arm around your waist while yours is secretly perched on his ass, Laura grinning and holding the bouquet for you, Wade laying across the front of you all Breakfast Club-like. 

Logan smiles so hard his face hurts.

It’s nice.

Though the two of you didn’t want a party it’s pretty hard to convince the kids at the manor of anything, so you get back to a banner reading congratulations! It’s held by your youngest students who cheer as the group of you get out of the pick-up. Yukio rushes in to give you a tight hug and you laugh, joyful at the love you’re walking into.

The dining room has been cleared to set up an impromptu celebration space. A metric tonne of pizza has been ordered and Piotr, the rather willing DJ, makes sure nothing pre-1989 is played. 

He’s never really been one for dancing, but when you drag him to the middle of the wooden floor and wrap your arms around his neck Logan can’t help but sway with you to all the cheesy love songs. You press your forehead to his, tips of your noses meeting. You breathe in harmony. You let the same air fill your lungs.

“I love you,” you sigh a dozen times over, dreamily.

“I love you too,” he breathes a dozen times back.

When you throw the bouquet that evening you’re in such a good mood you both forgive Wade for body-checking a kid to grab it out of the air.

Logan thinks about his life and smiles.

He’s got it pretty good.

He takes you on a honeymoon for a week to a little cabin in the woods he rented out. It’s in the wilderness, miles from anyone or anywhere, which means he’s able to do what he wants with you: have you naked the whole time.

The two of you don’t do anything but fuck, and you’re very down for it. Something about married life has you more horny than you’ve ever been before. For the first couple of days you hardly leave the bed, Logan only heading to the kitchen to grab you some food to keep your energy up between sessions, pumping you full of his come until you’re a sticky and sated mess. He feeds you slices of pie as you lay dazed on the mattress, a pillow under your hips to keep his spend from dripping out of you.

“Fuck, Logan, you’re gonna kill me,” you groan as he starts rocking his hardening cock up against you the fifth time that day.

“Nah, baby. You can take it.”

You fall asleep with him buried deep inside of you so that the thing waking you up the next morning is him rolling his hips. It’s a pretty fucking good way to start the day.

Eventually the two of you leave the bedroom and walk around the place. Autumn is coming in properly now, the green of the trees outside turning to reds and oranges. You wrap yourself in a blanket and stand at the huge windows looking out at the vista, your aesthete sensibilities pulling you there. Silhouetted in October’s light, Logan can only be struck by how perfect you are: your body, your heart, your soul. His, all his.

He’s the luckiest goddamn man alive.

He takes you against the windows, your chest pressed up against the cool glass and making you gasp in thrilled pleasure, rubbing loving circles on your clit until he feels you clench around him.

At night the two of you huddle by the wood-burning fireplace, the flames dancing across your bodies as he makes love to you slowly, non-hurriedly, letting you enjoy each other. You push him onto his back and ride him, head thrown back so he can appreciate the long line of your neck which he traces with thick calloused fingers.

Fuck, he’d keep you here forever if he could. A little slice of perfection made for just the two of you. Nobody to bother you or call you away for duties, just your love and all the space it needs.

It’s a shame when the two of you have to return to the manor, but he has a job to do. Kids to teach. A Wade to keep in check. It’s easy to slip back to day-to-day life, though, when he has a wedding ring on his finger and you in his bed.

That is until one day he finds you with your head in the toilet, emptying your guts of the day’s breakfast.

“Logan, I don’t feel so hot,” you groan. He goes into panic mode, worrying you’ve got some sorta bug, practically carrying you to Hank’s lab so the doctor can get a good look at you. When you get there, he doesn’t seem incredibly impressed, but checks you over diligently because he’s a friend. 

“Look, I don’t mean to be crass, but have you taken a pregnancy test?” he asks, bluntly. Your eyes go wide over the glass of water you’re sipping.

“Well, no, but…” you trail off. Logan can see you counting on your fingers, trying to make something add up in your brain.

“Ah. Right. I don’t have one but I do have an ultrasound scanner, it was one of the things Charles foresaw a use for I suppose…”

So Logan stands there as Hank wheels the thing out and has you lay down on a counter - this isn’t the med room after all, there’s no beds in here. Your hand grabs onto his as Hank carefully lifts your shirt and presses the wand to your stomach.

There’s no mistaking the image on the screen. Head, body, arms and legs. The baby’s picture thrums. Hank does not seem surprised.

“Yep, there it is. You’re pretty far along. I’m not an expert, but I’d say three months?”

“Three…!” you look at Logan as if this is his fault. Which, he supposes, it sort of is. “But we’ve only been… uh, trying for a few weeks now.”

Hank shifts uncomfortably. Logan wants to die. He does not want to talk about his sex life with a peer.

“Have you been using birth control?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then I think you have your answer. Nature did what it does best.” He manages a smile. “Congratulations to you both. I’ll uh, let you have a moment alone.”

He practically runs out of the lab. The two of you are left sitting there in silence.

Then slowly, so slowly, your hand comes up to rest on your abdomen. You look down at the point of contact and tears well up in your eyes.

“Logan…”

With one word you summon him, his strong arms wrapping around you and holding you tight, an anchor in this moment of joy. He buries his lips into your hair as you sob, utterly overwhelmed.

“Fuck, we did it, baby,” you manage to choke out. His hand comes to rest on your own and then you switch, covering it with yours so that he can feel the skin of your belly. It’s warm and soft. It feels strange knowing that his child is in there. Strange but right.

He gave you what you deserve. His heart beats a little faster and he realises his vision is blurry, too. Fuck. Look at him, welling up. 

Ah man, he doesn’t care.

The kiss between you is wet and desperate, an act of triumph and elation. As his mouth presses deep into yours he feels you tug at his shirt, pawing at him like an animal.

“Honey, I’m not gonna fuck you in Hank’s lab,” he states. You whine beneath his lips.

“But I wanna celebrate…” you mewl, hitting him with the doe-eyes. He scoffs a laugh and you pout. “Besides the pregnancy hormones are driving me crazy.”

“You just found out.”

“Yeah, weird how quickly they can take effect…”

Logan gently but firmly removes your exploring hands.

“We can do it somewhere our friend and coworker doesn’t spend his whole day. C’mon,” he silences any protestations with another kiss, soft and loving, “we have all the time in the world, baby.”

You run your fingers through his hair, eyes still a little dewy, but smile is undeniable.

“All the time in the world…” you sigh, a promise. 

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk

those of you who liked part 1, too: @inumakisriceingredients @respectmyprivacys-blog @xcalcalcalcalx @moonixlity @justanothermarvelfanaccount @taraa-dactyl @nitimurinvetitumsposts @sseleniaa @diegobrandolover99 @blackcanvaspainting @youngestxhearts @veggie-eggrolls

[andrewjosephminyard]

getting to be with henry when the emails leaked, getting to hear “history huh? bet we could make some” out loud, how quick alex was to answer no when zahra asked if it would make a difference if she told him not to see henry again, the whole confrontation at kensington and how fucking broken they were, the little smiles always shot each others way, the stupid banter that they have, henry being the one to stand up for himself against the king, alex completely zoning out bc he was looking at henry at the state dinner, the way they’re both incorrigible little shits, i mean i truly could go on and on…

[cherrrydragon]

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: LONG AWAITED

← back to chapter list

SUMMARY ↳ When the going gets tough, you'll get going. You straighten up in your seat, feeling heat rush through your face. Damian beside you remains composed, his expression unreadable as he regards Ms. Varley with a calm demeanor. "Sorry," you squeak, quickly gathering your things and leaving. You ignore Victoria's questioning stare during ballet. You ignore Damian's heated gaze during art. pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none at all wc: 3.7k

You finish the nanite chamber the day before you go back to school. The last thing you do is place some badassium and watch as the machine powers to life. The iron spider suit floats inside, a swirl of energy trailing around it.

Damian is off to the side, eyeing the thing. Jon sits crisscross in the air, hands in his lap. “What is your suit made of? I’ve never seen something like it,” observes Jon, watching the compacted suit bob up and down slowly.

Now, you know nanotech is a thing in the DC verse, but for the life of you you can’t remember what for. “No clue,” you lie, shrugging. “My dad made it. That’s all I know.”

“But you made this.” Damian gestures to the nanite chamber.

“He left blueprints for one in my suit,” you shrug.

Jon floats closer, poking the glass. “What does it do, exactly?”

“Its main purpose is to charge the suit.” You lean back, crossing your arms. “It also repairs the suit if it’s damaged, though.”

Damian eyes the chamber with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, his gaze flickering between you and the pulsating suit. "Impressive," he finally remarks, his tone guarded yet intrigued. "Your father seems to have thought of everything."

You nod, a hint of pride awakening in you. "Yeah, he's always been good with tech. I've just been following his instructions."

Jon tilts his head, looking at you thoughtfully. "Must be handy, having something like this. Does it take a lot of maintenance?"

"Not really," you reply, relaxing a bit as you explain. "The badassium is a strong power source. That's all it really needs."

Damian's expression softens slightly as he observes the suit, perhaps seeing it in a new light. "And you're sure it's safe?"

You nod confidently. "Who do you think I am? Of course.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn't.”

You scoff, reaching out to swat at his arm. He lets you, then grabs your hand and pulls you to him. Damian's grip is firm but gentle, and you find yourself pulled into a moment of unexpected closeness. His eyes meet yours, the intensity of his gaze softened by a hint of warmth.

Jon watches with interest, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he hovers nearby. "Looks like Damian's impressed," he teases lightly.

Damian rolls his eyes but doesn't let go of your hand. "Impressed might be a stretch," he mutters, but his tone lacks its usual edge.

“I’ll take what I can get,” you grin, pulling your hand from his.

Damian releases your hand, a faint smirk crossing his face. "Don't get used to it," he says, his voice returning to its usual cool demeanor.

Jon chuckles, floating back a bit. "Damian likes smart people.”

Damian shoots Jon a glare, which Jon returns with an innocent shrug. "Can't blame him," Jon adds playfully. "You are pretty amazing."

“Aw,” you croon, reaching out to pinch Jon’s cheek. “You’re sweet.”

You catch Jon’s arms reaching out towards you, so you dodge. Alas, he is quicker, and he picks up into the air with him. Jeez, they’re touchy today.

Damian shakes his head, a faint smirk lingering on his lips as he watches the interaction between you and Jon. "You two are incorrigible," he comments, though there's a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Okay, food time,” declares Jon, carrying you out of the cave with you in his arms. Your protests are ignored. “Time for you to eat.”

Damian and Jon share a look as they leave.

Damian holds his hand out for you as you step out of the car. You think that spending time with Jon, who grew up in the country (aka where manners are automatic) has rubbed off on him. It’s still as snowy as ever, and you feel it crunch under your shoe. As you step onto the snow-covered ground, the cold air nips at your cheeks.

"Thanks," you murmur, giving his hand a quick squeeze before letting go.

Some people give you glances as the both of you walk in. They’ll be seeing the pair of you much more, since you now live with him. You just hope the news won’t catch on too quickly. You’re not all that interested in being a new “Wayne” kid.

Once inside, the warmth of the building envelops you, a stark contrast to the chill outside. It’s never a fun time being back in school after a break, but you think you feel less strongly than other kids. School is just easy for you.

Damian and you take your seats beside one another. You sigh at the familiar space. Ms. Varley looks even less happy to be here than your peers, not that you’re really surprised. Her monotone voice drones through the morning announcements, barely registering in your mind. You steal a glance at Damian, who seems equally disinterested in the proceedings. His focus drifts to the window, where snowflakes dance against the glass, a serene contrast to the mundane classroom scene.

Then, he glances at you. The two of you hold eye contact, simply just taking the other in. You find yourself drawn to his piercing gaze, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper stirring within you. He leans closer, you hope he doesn’t somehow hear you gulp. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your ear.

“So are you.” The air between you feels charged. His closeness sends a shiver down your spine, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty swirling within you.

The classroom seems to fade into the background as you both exchange glances, each moment stretching with anticipation. You can almost feel the weight of his presence, his proximity stirring something deep within you. Ms. Varley's voice continues to drone on, but neither of you are truly listening. Damian's hand brushes against yours subtly, a silent reassurance that sends a thrill through you.

You tilt your head slightly towards him, catching the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering winter air. "Guess we're both guilty," you reply in a hushed tone, your breath barely grazing his cheek.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class. Students begin shuffling out of the room, but you and Damian remain seated, caught in your own private world. Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice low and intimate.

"Would you... like to do something after school?" Damian's question hangs in the air, laden with possibilities.

“Like what?” you echo softly, leaning in a bit closer. Your thumb travels up to your face. You take your nail between your lips, biting it in anticipation. His eyes stare unabashedly.

"Anything," he replies softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever you'd like."

“There's a new exhibit at the Gotham Museum of Art," you suggest, voice steady yet tentative. "I think you’d like it.”

“Ahem.”

You startle, because, holy shit, what were you thinking? Ms. Varley has her hands on her hips, glaring at you two. “Class ended two minutes ago.” Her tone is sharp, cutting through the lingering atmosphere between you and Damian.

You straighten up in your seat, feeling heat rush through your face. Damian beside you remains composed, his expression unreadable as he regards Ms. Varley with a calm demeanor. “Sorry,” you squeak, quickly gathering your things and leaving. Damian follows you out.

You ignore Victoria’s questioning stare during ballet.

You ignore Damian’s heated gaze during art.

Damian tells Alfred to drop you two off at the museum. He says it’s for your art class, that you've been assigned to study some pieces there. You wonder why he lied, since the two of you aren’t doing anything wrong. You’re just hanging out, right?

As Alfred drops you off at the museum, Damian’s demeanor is composed, his posture elegant as always. You step out onto the bustling street, the crisp air mingling with the sounds of Gotham's urban rhythm. The museum stands before you, its grand façade a testament to the city's rich heritage.

"Thank you, Pennyworth," Damian nods to the butler before turning to you. "Shall we?"

You nod, mentally preparing yourself. Preparing yourself for what? You’re not sure. Inside the museum, the atmosphere is serene, with the soft murmur of visitors and the occasional echo of footsteps on marble floors. Damian leads you through the corridors lined with artwork, his knowledge of the pieces evident as he shares insights and observations with you.

You find yourself drawn into conversations of others that range from the profound to the whimsical, discussing everything from classical masterpieces to contemporary expressions of art. Damian's presence is reassuring, his occasional smiles and thoughtful gestures adding to the richness of the experience.

As you explore the exhibits together, you notice how Damian's demeanor softens, his usual guardedness giving way to moments of genuine interest. The museum becomes a backdrop, noises muffling.

At one point, you find yourselves standing before a striking abstract painting, its vibrant colors and bold strokes capturing your attention. Damian watches you quietly, his expression contemplative as he takes in your reaction.

"This one's interesting," you comment, studying the painting with a thoughtful expression.

Damian nods, his gaze lingering on the artwork. "It's meant to evoke a sense of movement and emotion," he remarks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Movement? Emotion?” you remake, mind thinking inappropriately. You can’t help it.

You let out a surprised yelp as Damian pinches your side, a smirk dancing on his lips. "Hey!" you protest, swatting his hand away with a laugh.

He chuckles softly, a rare sound that warms your heart. "Pay attention to the art, not your thoughts," he chides gently, though his eyes betray a glint of amusement.

Your eyes catch color off to the side, and before you know it, your feet are carrying you across the hall. The painting isn’t grand or anything, but you resonate with it. A person, multiple persons, stare at you. The colors remind you of a portal. The faces remind you of you. And other Peter Parker's, and other Gwen Stacy's, and other MJ’s. All you are and all you'll never be.

…

Man, you miss home.

As you stand before the painting, its vibrant hues and abstract forms seem to swirl with a life of their own. Each brushstroke tells a story, evoking memories and emotions you thought were buried deep within. Damian watches you silently, his gaze contemplative as he senses your introspection.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, his voice breaking the stillness around you.

You blink, refocusing on Damian's concerned expression. "Yeah, just... this painting," you begin, struggling to find the right words. "It's like... it's like looking into a mirror of sorts."

He looks at you. “I don’t always know who I am, or who I’m supposed to be,” you admit. “I just know I want to keep doing what I want to do.”

Damian listens intently, his expression softening as he takes in your words. He reaches out, his hand gently grasping yours, a silent gesture of understanding and support. "You don't have to have all the answers right now," he reassures you, his voice quiet yet reassuring. "Just know that you're not alone."

You try to pull away, but his hand grips yours, tight and assured. His touch grounds you, anchoring you in the moment as you look into his eyes. There's a warmth there, a depth of understanding that surprises you.

After a moment, Damian gently squeezes your hand, silently asking if you're ready to move on. You nod, but you find yourself reluctant to let go of his hand. You should let go, you know, but you just can’t.

Damian takes you to a smaller gallery tucked away from the main halls. The lighting is softer here, casting a warm glow over the carefully curated pieces. Damian stops before a painting that contrasts sharply with the abstracts and vibrant colors you've seen so far.

It's a portrait, meticulously detailed and imbued with a sense of emotion that transcends its stillness. The subject is a young boy, his expression a mixture of innocence and quiet strength. The artist has captured every nuance, from the play of light on his face to the subtle curve of his smile.

Damian gazes at the painting with a quiet intensity, his eyes tracing the contours of the boy's face as if searching for something deeper. "This," he begins softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "is my favorite."

You stand beside him, studying the painting with newfound respect. "It's beautiful," you murmur, your voice touched with genuine admiration.

"It's more than that," Damian continues, his tone thoughtful. "It's a reminder of... resilience. The ability to endure despite the odds."

You nod, understanding his words on a level that goes beyond the surface. The painting speaks volumes about Damian himself, about the strength and complexity hidden beneath his aloof exterior

As you both stand there, sharing this moment of quiet contemplation, you feel a connection deepen between you. It's not just about the art anymore; it's about the shared experience, the unspoken understanding that bridges the gap between your worlds.

“I get it.” Because a couple of months ago, Damian Wayne and Jon Kent were nothing more than words and colors. You’ve experienced his grievances, his growth. You understand because you know. And also, just look at yourself. You’re stuck in a universe not your own, but you’re doing fine. Dare you say… you’re pretty… content.

“You do?”

“I do.”

His eyes bore into yours, taking you in. His gaze is piercing, strong and relentless. Without a word, he takes your hand again, leading you away from the crowded gallery into a quieter alcove.

The moment stretches, charged with anticipation as you stand face to face. "You're amazing," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. "I've never met anyone like you."

His hands raise, hovering at your sides. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Huh–

His hands grasp under your thighs, heaving you up against him with ease. His fingers squeeze into your flesh, sending your mind spiraling.

And his lips– oh. His lips crash into yours. They feel… they feel good against your own. Plush, soft, and oh so desired. An exploration between souls. The kiss deepens, giving in to a deep hunger.

Your arms betray you, hooking over his shoulders, hands finding their place in his hair. You ruffle and grip it, messing it up from its meticulous presentation. Damian presses you against the wall, breathing heavily through his nose. Your lips part, allowing him to slip his tongue inside–Jesus.

Your legs tighten around his waist, as it’s the only thing you can think to do. Where else would they go? He’s holding you up so good, it’s only natural. He draws you impossibly closer, moving his body against yours. He sighs into your mouth, shoulders flexing. Damian is all taking, like he’s drawing something out of you after so long.

You furrow your brows, drawing back. He chases you, unwilling to let you go now. He hums like he’s confused at your movement. Your pulse is thundering. You can hear his doing the same. Need claws at your ribcage. Your breath catches. He shudders against you.

Damian pulls back, only to take a breath. His gaze is unbelievably intense, as if he is unraveling secrets with his eyes alone. The air around you is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You can feel the heat of his breath mingling with yours. Your proximity closes as he presses his lips to yours once more with one kiss, two kisses, three. A plethora of tiny fleeting kisses, no less mind-numbing than the other. Time seems to stand still as you both linger in the sweetness of those chaste kisses, each one leaving you yearning for more.

The area is filled with smacks of your lips. He moves languidly against you, completely content. Finally, he pulls away, leaving your lips tingling. His eyes stay on them for a while, looking down at you wrapped around him before trailing up to meet your eyes. You savor the way his chest heaves against yours.

“Damian,” you breathe. He closes his eyes, like your voice itself sets him off.

“Habib(t)i,” he sighs, leaning in to press his face against yours. Oh, God. “My beloved,” he croons. How whipped is he from just a kiss?

A kiss. Oh. Oh, wait. No. Nonono. This can’t happen. This cannot happen.

You push off of his shoulders, tugging against his grip to land on solid ground. His grip loosens reluctantly, his expression a blend of confusion and concern. "What?" he asks softly, reaching out tentatively as if afraid you might vanish. “What is it?”

“Damian,” you manage.

He stands there, watching you with an intensity that speaks of his own turmoil. "Tell me," he presses gently, taking a step closer, his hand hovering near yours as if seeking reassurance.

“You… Jon,” you say desperately, turning away. “You, you’re–” You risk a glance at him, hoping for clarity but finding only the storm of emotions in his eyes. “You’re confused.”

“I am not,” he growls, offended.

“I… this can’t happen,” you stress. “I’m sorry, but this can’t happen. Not for me.”

He scoffs, but lacks his usual bravado. “Don’t push me away because of fear.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you steel yourself, taking a deep breath to calm the swirling emotions threatening to consume you. “It’s not fear, Damian,” you reply, voice trembling.

“Then what?” he asks, borderline desperate. "Tell me what you need."

“I can’t…” Are you a… homewrecker? Are they officially together? “I just can’t. Right now.” You turn around, hands trembling. His hands reach out for you. “[Name]–”

“We’ll talk later. I swear.” Your feet carry out across the room. “But I just can’t right now.” The air crackles with tension as you move away, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily between you. Damian stands there, conflicted and vulnerable, his usual composure shaken by. His hand hesitates in the air, reaching out for you but falling back to his side as you retreat.

Your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest by the time you make it outside. You hardly feel the cold biting at your skin. What have you done? You hands struggle to get a grip on your phone, opening your texts with Jon.

please get this boy some brown contacts

jon im so sorry

He responds seconds later.

???

i kissed damian

!??!?!?!

LOOK OUT

You gasp, moving out of the way as a car barrels past you. The bastard honks at you, asshole. You sigh, looking back to your phone–your phone. That’s not in your hand anymore. Where is your phone?

Oh, no. You see it now. On the ground, screen cracked beyond repair. The car must of ran over it, you guess. You close your eyes and breathe, just breathe. “Great,” you mutter under your breath, pocketing the useless device. You glance around, feeling a mix of frustration and regret swirling inside you. The street is bustling with people going about their day, oblivious to the turmoil in your mind.

You detour into a nearby alley. Probably not the smartest thing to do in Gotham, but you can take care of yourself. Knees giving out, you sink the ground against the wall.

You just want to go home.

The world spins around you, the weight of your actions crashing down. Everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers. You rest your head against the cold brick wall, trying to gather your thoughts amidst the chaos.

Moments pass, or maybe it's minutes. Time seems to stretch and warp around you, the sounds of the city fading into a dull hum. You press your palms against your eyes, trying to block out the swirling thoughts.

What have you done? Jon. Oh, Jon. Damian. Damian Damian Damian.

Taking a deep breath, you push yourself off the wall, steeling yourself for what comes next. There’s an ache in your chest, somewhat familiar.

hey look it

Huh?

over there!

What is that? An explosion color. Visual kaleidoscope. A swirling vortex of hues, shimmering and pulsating with an otherworldly energy. Your heart races. The air around you crackles with energy, pulling you towards the known unknown.

A figure steps out hand outstretched. His blue and red suit is familiar.

“[Name],” he calls. Miguel.

“Miguel,” you whisper, hand reaching out without hesitation. He grasps yours reassuringly, slowly pulling you into the portal. The bright light is welcoming. You don’t even squint as you pass through the universe.

You breathe as you step into your destination. Nueva York is something ethereal to you. Your favorite part of this Earth might just be a Lunar Train. Really, a train to the moon? How cool is that? You can see the line stretching into the sky from here.

Miguel's hands land on your shoulder, gently turning you around. “Are you hurt?”

You manage to shake your head. “No.” His eyes roam you for injuries, nodding in satisfaction when he finds none.

“[Name]!”

Arms wrap around you, nearly tackling you to the ground. Soft hair presses into your cheek as Pav grips you tight. A grin stretches across your face automatically, arms coming up to embrace him. “Pav!”

He laughs breathily. “Missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Missed you too,” you reply softly, squeezing him tightly before pulling back slightly to look at him. His eyes are a little watery. He turns to the side waving his arm. “It’s [Name]! They’re here!”

You watch as your friends barrel around the corner. Miles trips a little bit as he runs towards you. Gwen is tearing up as soon as she spots you. They join your little group hug with yells of your name. Hobie rounds the corner with Peter B., hands in his pockets casually. You hold out a hand to him and he joins in, gripping you all tightly. Peter beams at your group, Mayday in his hands.

“[Name],” sniffles Miles, “where have ya been?”

Gwen wipes away a tear, her expression a mix of joy and concern. "Are you okay? What happened?"

You only hold them tighter, eyes shutting tight. A traitorous tear falls down your face. Hobie diligently wipes it away. You don’t want to talk right now.

You’re finally back.

notes: everytime i write a damian scene he gets 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 i swear (its not on purpose it just happens </3)

i actually wanted jon to have the first kiss in the fic, but i dont think he'd let reader get away tbh lol, and if he did he's sticking an ear out because he's worried ab em.

[babyseraphim]

A little list of silly Charles headcanons!

Charles collects beanie babies. He has a ton of them in his bag of tricks, and he always tells Edwin that they’re increasing in value, so he’s just collecting them as a means of trade/payment

Every time Edwin suggests he try and use any of them to trade, Charles always finds something else to trade instead

His favorite is a panther named Mercury (after Freddy Mercury), as well as a cat that he named after Edwin (he even made a little bow tie for it out of scraps of cloth)

"You ought to stop giving them names. If you keep personalizing them, they will become even more difficult to part with. Farmers and ranchers often employ the same practice with their livestock."

"Well, I can't just leave them nameless, can I? Everyone deserves a name, and the ones on their tags are always a bit daft."

"They are not people, Charles. They are sacks of cloth filled with beans."

"Oi! Be nice, yeah? They’ve never done anything to you."

“...You’re incorrigible.”

Given that he was alive in the 80’s, I think it’s plausible that Charles’s chosen mode of transportation is skateboarding!

I can just picture him hanging out at skate parks all weekend to avoid going home (I know he’s at boarding school, but maybe before he was sent there or on holidays), smoking cigarettes he isn’t supposed to have and falling on his face trying to learn how to do tricks

"Where did this scar on your elbow come from?"

"Oh, that one? Tried and failed to do a kickflip once. I was always rubbish at tricks, but it was fun trying."

"What on Earth is a 'kickflip'?"

"It's a skateboard trick, one of the more popular ones."

"..."

"Right, I knew I kept a spare board in my bag for a reason. Come on, I'm sure we can find a deserted skate park fit for some ghost...boarding. Skate ghosting? Eh, I'll workshop it."

"Please don't."

Also because he was an 80’s teen and needed some place to be that wasn’t home, I think he also spent a lot of time at arcades

I bet he would be super into pinball, mostly because they're really satisfying and stimmy. Plus, they’re kind of a test of fast reflexes, and we all know Charles has stellar reflexes

He held the high score in Pac Man at his local arcade up until after his death, and will sometimes visit after closing to try and reclaim the high score

"Charles."

"Uh-huh."

"Charles."

"Uhhh-huh."

"CHARLES!"

"What? Oh, sorry, mate. This machine is mint, I can't believe the quality of its cut scenes. It's like I'm actually at the cinema!"

"We are here to finish solving a case, yes? The Case of the Pinball Poltergeist, as you so aptly named it. We can revisit these games afterwards, though I admittedly cannot understand your fondness for a machine that produces such a terribly loud noise."

"Not a fan of pinball, ay? I bet you'd be aces at Tetris."

"Is that a game? It sounds like a contagious disease."

[perfectlysunny02]

spinnin' out in space, pressin' on my chest

It happens first when they’re in bed. It’s a rare lazy day, they’re both off and in comfortable pajamas. There’s no reason for them to wake up and leave their warm blankets, so they don’t.  “You’re a beast,” Evan laughs, straddling him, as Tommy’s fingers dance across his ribs. “And you’re incorrigible,” Tommy says with a smile, his hands stilling, and resting on Evan’s hips. There’s a funny hitch in Evan’s dying laughter, and he tilts his head concerned. “You okay, baby?” “Yeah. Yeah, honey, just sleepy.” Tommy frowns, even more concerned. They haven’t been anywhere. They haven’t even had breakfast. The most exercise they’ve done today was the tickle fight they just had. And sleepy isn’t a word that’s usually in Evan’s vocabulary.   “Sweetheart, maybe we should-” Tommy begins, his hands going to cup Evan’s cheek, before Evan’s eyes roll up in the back of his head. “Holy shit! Evan!”

tagging: @diazsdimples @theotherbuckley @tommykinard @bidisasterevankinard @cafe-con-letty.

@Ifjho @laundryandtaxesworld @kinkykinard @livelaughbuck @exhaustedpirate

@geniusjester @mintedwitcher @notacyborg @whentheresidentsareevil @babygirltommykinard

@swagmaster9k @sweaters-and-silly @loulou-land @shyaudacity @dearqueend

@quintessenceofdust88 @bibibibuckleykinard @dearqueend

[olailamajnoon]

The idea that Bruce Wayne might be Batman persists, despite countless videos of them standing side by side. Ironically, the footage only fuels conspiracy nuts into greater nutness.

“Why would Bruce Wayne and Batman be seen together so often unless they’re the same person trying way too hard to convince us otherwise?” one blog theorized. Another chimed in, “The ‘Bruce Body Double’ theory is a classic misdirection tactic. Follow the money, people!”

In the Batcave, Bruce stared at the latest trending thread titled "BatWayneGate Uncovered". His head sank into his hands.

“I hired a body double. I paid him six figures.”

Alfred, pouring tea with impeccable grace: “Perhaps if you paid him seven, sir, he might look less like you and more like someone who eats carbs.”

Bruce glared at him. “There’s no pleasing these people.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “And yet you keep trying, sir. Truly, your optimism is your greatest curse.”

Bruce folded his sleeves, his tone shifting. “Time for Plan B.”

Alfred froze mid-pour. “Oh dear.”

Bruce cracked his knuckles and began typing furiously. “Conspiracy nut named Matches Malone just drifted into their forums. He has opinions.”

Alfred stared into the teapot, his expression a portrait of quiet despair. “Sometimes, sir, I swear you enjoy your bizarre existence.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “Don’t be ridiculous. I—wait, what’s the hot key for posting GIFs?”

“You’re incorrigible, sir,” Alfred muttered, walking away. “Next, you’ll be making TikToks.”

Bruce paused. “…That’s not a bad idea.”

Alfred groaned audibly, but Bruce was already muttering to himself, brainstorming.

“Your father has just had a minor mental snap,” Alfred informed Tim as the boy wandered into the cave. “Nothing too serious. He should recover. Eventually.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “What happened this time?”

A voice called out: “Tim! I need help with a TikTok username!”

Tim froze, then turned to Alfred with wide eyes. “You weren’t kidding.”

Alfred sighed. “I rarely do.”

Tim shrugged and smirked. “Oh well. It’s not like I can make things worse.” He strode forward and raised his voice. “Coming, B! I’ve got amazing ideas!”

“Traitor,” muttered Alfred under his breath, pouring himself a stronger cup of tea.

[missaengg]

Ice Skating with Crown

8 Days Until Christmas: Ice Skating Made for Ikemen Advent hosted by @queengiuliettafirstlady and @candied-boys A/N: Much thanks to @wistfulwanderingone for helping me brainstorm and for her contribution to Elbert's section!! Thank you for keeping me sane haha ❤️ Featuring: All of Ikevil and Robin Tags: humor Word Count: 1273

William Rex

Graceful. 

So fucking graceful. Seriously, how is it possible for one man to look like a swan on a serene lake? To look so majestic no matter what he does? Pretty sure he either had lessons growing up or had a lot of practice because this was a regular activity for him because the man skates like he’s had figure skating lessons. He skates backwards. He skates forwards. He does spins. He does jumps. He makes it look easy. And he doesn’t even break a sweat! His clothes don’t bunch or wrinkle. His hair doesn’t have a lock out of place.

It should be a crime to look as good as William does when he skates. Seriously, it’s not fair.

Harrison Gray

Bored out of his mind.

It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here in the cold with skates on his feet going in circles inside what can essentially be considered a fish bowl. He skates languidly along the perimeter, breathing out the occasional resigned sigh. His skating is just as boring as he feels. The unchanging steady pace. The repeating of the same actions. Push off with one foot, glide until he loses momentum, repeat. Push off. Glide. Push off. Glide. Just circle after circle around the rink.

The whole thing is too troublesome for him, and to make matters worse, the snack bar doesn’t have any strawberry milk.

Liam Evans

Daredevil. Speedster. Snack bar fiend.

He’s a magenta-colored blur zipping around the rink, hurtling forward as fast as he can. The wind blows back his hair. A fanatical gleam in his rose-colored eyes. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he attempts to mimic the moves William pulls off in the center, but of course, fails miserably because he’s not a trained skater. He also doesn’t really know how to stop, meaning he’s barreling into the other skaters and knocking both of them to the hard ice. He has to be patched up by Roger a few times for various cuts and bruises.

When he’s not whipping around the rink, he’s at the snack bar buying way too much candy and getting a sugar rush, which he has to burn off with another round of haphazard skating.

Elbert Greetia

Only there because of Alfons.

Elbert spends most of his time staring at William and asking, “Alfons, is Will beautiful when he skates?” 

Doesn’t skate on his own. Elbert has to be pulled around the rink by Alfons like a child, yet somehow still manages to look hauntingly beautiful. He’s obsessed with the figure skating costumes on some of the figure skaters practicing in the center, captivated by the sparkle of the rhinestones. Has to be saved from looking like a creep by Alfons because he tries to approach the young women and offer them a ridiculous amount of money to buy their outfits.

Notices you struggling to even stand in your skates, and for some unknown reason asks, “Al… Is Robin beautiful?”

To which Alfons laughs hysterically and replies, “She looks like a governess who mistook the ice for a polished parquet floor and a waltz partner. So no, unless you think that’s beautiful.”

Alfons Sylvatica

Elbert’s keeper. Incorrigible flirt.

Is very tempted to answer yes when Elbert asks if William is beautiful because that would be an entertaining exchange to watch. He doesn’t though. Not because they’re in public, that would just add to the entertainment factor. It’s because even though he tries to hide it, he actually cares for the taciturn blonde.

When not looking after Elbert, Alfons brazenly sidles up to you, whispering suggestive comments about what he’d like to do to your — *ahem* — kitty and finding great amusement in watching you nearly face plant as your face turns red in indignation.

Roger Barel

Crown’s Liam’s doctor and overall trickster.

Roger skates like a hockey player. He’s a bit of a show-off, complete with weaving in and out between the other skaters at high speeds and spraying ice when he skids to a stop. He thinks it’s great fun to scare the living shit out of you by coming up from behind and grabbing your shoulders with that shit-eating grin on his face, laughing boisterously when you almost fall on your ass, much to your chagrin. Your heart may have stopped a few times because of his antics.

When he’s not on the rink scaring the living daylight out of you, he’s on the sidelines patching up curious kitty Liam and only Liam because he’s the only one who has managed to hurt himself whilst skating.

Ellis Twilight

Residential good boy.

Sweet, baby boy Ellis is the one helping other skaters they fall, offering them a hand to pull them back up. He’s helped so many people that he’s mistaken as one of the employees with skaters coming up to him if they need any help.

Surprisingly graceful when he skates — though not as graceful as William — covering a lot of ground despite not skating very fast because of his long legs. He’s the only member of Crown who tries to teach you how to skate, doing the thing where he holds your hands and leads you around the rink while he skates backwards. He also tries to fend off the more mischievous members of Crown, but isn’t able to stay by your side the whole time.

Jude Jazza

Nowhere to be found.

Jude only came because Victor strong-armed him into attending. He disappears as soon as the group arrives at the ice skating rink, and can be found outside chain smoking cigarettes, grumbling about how the entire outing is stupid and a waste of time. 

When he sees Liam hurt himself, he gets a sadistic, wicked gleam in his amethyst-colored eyes. He seeks out the owner of the establishment and threatens them with a lawsuit unless they comp the entry tickets and the skate rentals. The owner complies immediately because Jude is so god damn terrifying, especially when his eyes narrow into slits, glaring at you as if his eyes alone can cut you into a million tiny pieces.

Also uses this to negotiate free snacks for the group.

Victor

The Mom.

The first thing Victor does is to buy a round of hot chocolate for everyone saying something about how they need to stay warm so they don’t catch a cold, but is devastated when Harrison, Roger, and Jude choose not to partake. He encourages his lovely Crown members to be free in their skating and follow the wicked desires in their hearts, even if it leads to havoc… aka Liam.

He doesn’t skate, but watches over them from the sidelines, happy and gleeful that his “children” seem to be enjoying themselves — for the most part, which for Crown means that it’s a relatively successful outing.

Already planning the next one. Sledding? Skiing? Something snow related. After all, it’s almost Christmas!

Robin

Skating? What’s that?

You wobble on your skates like a newborn calf, clutching the railing for dear life and creeping along inch by inch trying not to fall on your ass. Until Alfons, Roger, or Liam knock you over, and you’re sliding on your tailbone wondering what the hell just happened while they laugh like the assholes they are. Except Liam. Liam’s about to cry while he apologizes profusely over and over again even after you reassure him you’re okay.

Massaging your bruised butt and stiff muscles, you wonder why the hell you thought this would be a great idea when Victor first mentioned it because let’s face it… you’ve never skated before in your life! 

Thank god for Ellis.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for lottie behind the cut; “a pocketful of Kons”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Star chirps encouragingly at Stud and starts to glow with solar light again, and Stud peeks up hesitantly over Tim’s shoulder for a moment, looking–uncomfortable, somehow, but almost immediately dives back down at the sight of Charger still in close with Flash. Admittedly, the “whole-ass adult” thing is weird and uncomfortable, but Stud hasn’t been acting concerned about that so far, and previous behavior indicates that it’s more likely that Charger trying to engage with him was what made him nervous. Which is, again, not something Tim understands coming from the incorrigible flirt of a soulmate he apparently has, but still seems like the likelier cause of Stud’s reaction all the same. 

He’d really prefer his soulmate were more concerned about the age difference issue, considering, but apparently that’s not a thing.

So he's not sure how he feels about that, considering.

Charger coos in Stud’s direction, and Saffie and Singsong both make little cooing noises of their own, and Tim only just manages to repress the frown this time. They sound like they’re trying to coax out a skittery pet or a shy kid, not . . . 

Stud peers back up over Tim’s shoulder, still hesitant but a little less uncomfortable-looking this time, and Charger makes an encouraging noise and holds her arms open. Stud stares at her for a second, then bolts the distance between them and wraps himself around her. Given he’s Superman-sized and she’s Linda Park-sized–comparatively, anyway–it looks kind of ridiculous, but Tim’s just not gonna comment on that. 

Charger squeaks smugly, wrapping her arms around Stud in return and reaching up to ruffle his hair, and then chitters impatiently back towards the table. Saffie bursts into violet light and snatches up Singsong, and the two of them fly over together to pile on top of Flash’s shoulder and clutter it up. 

“Okay, sure, guess I’m the Pocket party place right now,” Flash says with a snort. Star very clearly decides that counts as an invite, because she chirps excitedly and immediately scoops up Cat to fly over with her too. She doesn’t try to bring Red along, but Red does not appreciate flying Air Star, so Tim’s not surprised by that one. 

That is a lot of Pockets all jostling for position on the very limited real estate of Flash’s shoulder right now, though. 

“That was a joke, oh my god,” Flash groans, leaning his head to one side to keep out of the Pockets’ way and half-lifting his hands as he very obviously attempts to figure out how to keep any of them from falling off him while also mostly-smothered in them. “Nightwing, oh my god help.” 

“Naw, looks like you got it, party place,” Dick replies with a snicker, and Flash shoots him a very accusing look. 

“Oh, he thinks he’s funny,” he says. “Listen, buddy, let’s see how you–” 

Dick cuts him off as brutally as possible, meaning he cuts him off by holding up Red to be annexed into the Pocket-pile on his shoulder, smiling blithely the whole time. The other Pockets all cheer excitedly and envelope her into their tiny crowd, chair and all. Flash shoots Dick a very accusing glare this time, which as an expression is a little bit undercut by Star sitting half-on his head and Singsong balancing herself with an arm around one of the lightning bolts on his cowl and dragging it down an inch or so to one side, mask and all. 

“Not sorry,” Dick says just as blithely. 

“You should be,” Flash says witheringly. 

“Mmmmm, naw, not feelin’ it,” Dick replies with an easy shrug, then flashes him a teasing grin. “Anyway, you’re doing great, man, you haven’t dropped anybody!” 

. . . actually, Tim thinks belatedly, that’s . . . weird, isn’t it. Dick isn’t really looking at the Pockets’ positions as he says that, but he is, and Cat and Red are both way too precariously-balanced to actually be managing the perches that they’re sitting in–and Cat might like to take risks, but Red isn’t interested in wasting time on impracticality. And Saffie barely looks like she’s even standing on Flash’s shoulder at all, but also looks like she isn’t using her ring at all. 

So . . . what the hell, exactly? 

“I’m going to drop specifically Star and Red, actually–” Flash starts to threaten, and then hisses through his teeth as Red leans back in her chair just enough to jab her elbow right into the pulse point in his throat. “Ow.” 

“You deserved that,” Dick informs him, still grinning at him and entirely unsympathetic. 

“Yeah, I did,” Flash sighs resignedly, and then the door opens again and Captain Marvel leans into the room, looking really confused. 

“Flash, Green Lantern says–” Captain Marvel starts to blurt, then sees the currently-present Green Lantern at the table, also sees Dick and Tim, and then rephrases with–“not-this-Green-Lantern says he needs you down in meeting room 4. Um, Max Mercury called, there’s something, uh, kinda . . . weird going on with Impulse, I guess? Like, important-weird?” 

“That friggin’ kid always has the worst timing, I swear,” Flash says in exasperation, half-covering his face with a hand. The pile of Pockets on his shoulder rearranges itself a little for probably balance or comfort reasons, and Captain Marvel glances towards them and then–blinks, and looks puzzled. 

“Oh, they’re already here?” he asks in surprise, then looks around the room and frowns. “Or . . . not?” 

“What?” Flash asks blankly, and Captain Marvel points at his shoulder. 

“That’s Impulse’s Pocket, isn’t it?” he asks, and everyone in the room . . . pauses. “So where’s he?”

[yallthemwitches]

Whispers in the Dark

“And—I dunno. They’re barking mad but I love them. I’m an only child so I imagine you understand now why I’m like this.” He makes a rare self-deprecating gesture towards himself, something the James from a year ago would never have done. It makes Lily break into a real laugh.  “And this,” Lily mirrors his gesture, “meaning…” James grins, and it does something downright delectable to her heart. “This meaning an arrogant git who is too thick to notice other people’s personal lives.” 

When Lily is awarded her prefect badge in fifth year, they warn her that James Potter has a talent for disappearing. But if that's true, why does he keep coming to her night after night, hoping to be caught? Oneshot, Rated T--- AO3 Link Here

Fifth Year 

By the time Lily was awarded her badge, James Potter was already bestowed a nickname among the prefects: The Shadow. 

“Don’t you think that's a bit too ominous for a git who just mucks around all night?” Next to her, Remus snorts but keeps his eyes low. 

“You won’t understand until you have your first patrol—it's like he just…disappears.” The way the Head Boy says it, it makes James sound like some sort of spectre plaguing the corridors, not some untidy haired knob trying to explode the toilets. Lily’s eyes sink as Remus covers a cough that suspiciously sounds like a laugh. 

“Care to elaborate on your mate then, Remus?” She flashes him an innocent smile. Even under the newfound pressure he doesn’t straighten, rather pulling a pack of muggle cigarettes out of his cloak and tapping it on his knee. 

“Nothing to say,” Remus replies cooly, shooting Lily an equally saccharine grin, “just that you better hope he never hears about his little nickname if you don’t want him to be even more incorrigible.”

“Why? I thought you boys dug little nicknames.” She narrows her eyes, accepting the challenge to get him to respond with anything other than collected nonchalance. 

“Trust me on this one—he will be unbearable.”

* * * * *

The worst part of it all is that the senior prefects weren’t wrong, he really would just be there. 

“Alright Evans?” 

She whips around, wand already poised. The corridors leading to the dungeons are more shadowed than the rest of the school, but her eyes have already adjusted to the dark and from what she can tell, she is alone. 

“Potter—I’m not in the mood.” 

There’s a shuffle and she hears a boy's voice murmur ‘when is she ever’ before a round of clipped laughs trickle in the darkness. She turns again, trying to find the source. 

“You gits—I know you are here and I'll give you detention whether I can see you or not.”

She turns again and lets out a small gasp. James stands at the far reaches of her wand light, eyes dancing with mirth behind the reflection of his glasses. 

“Congratulations on the ah…promotion,” he grins and she feels the bristle of anger pull at the hair on her neck. 

She wants to prove herself as the only muggleborn prefect—and what better way than to catch this so-called Shadow. She takes a cautious step forward, worried he will skitter away like a wild animal if she moves too quickly. James just continues to grin, a hand grasping something shimmery behind his back. 

“You’re not supposed to be out.” She takes another step and he eyes her warily. 

“Oh, is that right?” He makes a show of looking around, brow furrowed in confusion. “Wow–sorry about that! Guess I got the time confused.” Another round of muffled laughter comes from behind him.

“C’mon, I’m escorting you back to the tower.” She moves to grab his arm but he jumps backwards, running into something that she can’t see but an oof and hey! ring out from the shadows. 

“As much as I’d love a romantic stroll with you Evans, I’m actually late to another engagement,” he tuts, his smile turning into a sly grin. The hand that has been behind his back lifts up and a portion of his arm disappears, then the rest of his body until his face hovers completely detached in the dark. 

“Raincheck though?” His grin hangs in the air for a second longer before the darkness takes him, but his presence still lingers. Nothing remains but the cold feeling of being watched. 

* * * * *

She’s still not used to it. The random appearances, the floating grins, the whispers in the dark which make her feel like she is living in a rabbit hole rather than a castle. It’s no wonder the prefects leave catching him up to Filch these days—he haunts them. 

“Hey Evans—”

She hopes that wherever he is hiding, he doesn’t see her jump. Turning towards the sound of his voice, he appears just a couple of steps away, hand already running through his hair. 

“I’ll make you a deal Potter, if you fuck off and don’t talk to me, I won’t give you detention.”

She expects him to consider it, but he doesn’t. His eyes are missing the glimmer they usually have when she runs into him at night. Instead, he keeps his head bowed, a frown weighing down his features. 

“I came to talk…to apologize for today.”

She doesn’t want to hear it. Turning on her heel she stalks off in the other direction but he catches up easily. 

“I don’t want some fake apology. I want you to leave me alone.”

Of course he doesn’t listen. He keeps her stride, angling his face to catch her eyes with his.

“It’s not fake–I really am sorry,” he gasps out, “ I was a git and never expected for Snive–Snape to say those things about you–.”

She stops dead in her tracks, her whole body contracting in anger. 

“Sorry? Are you sorry for all the other times you have bullied him too? Sorry for all the other shite you do to everyone around you? I don’t want your apology from you or from him–and I especially don’t want to rehash it with you right now.”

James doesn’t coil back, eyeing her with a brooding pain that feels out of place on his features.

“I know he was your friend. He shouldn’t say those things to you–friends don’t do that.”

It catches her off guard. She certainly isn’t looking for friendship advice from Potter, but he also has hit the nerve that’s been plaguing her all day. 

“I know I’m an arsehole–especially to Snape...but I’d never say something like that to my mates…or to you.”

Her eyes start to sting but the thought of crying in front of him feels like the most incorrigible thing that could possibly happen. She jerks away, stumbling in the direction they had come from. 

“Leave me alone—please.”

He doesn’t follow her like last time and she forces herself forward, rubbing the tears from her eyes. At the end of the corridor, she turns around, expecting to see him standing where she left him and some sick part of her hopes for it. But he has listened for once: he is gone—actually gone. 

* * * * *

She wishes she could disappear as easily as he could right about now. 

“Uhm… Evans?” James leans against the trophy case, a wet rag hanging at his side on his pointer finger. 

She calculates the possibility of turning around and pretending she never entered. Zero to none. On the table, a detention slip sits idly. A scratchy hand reads:

James Potter, Gryffindor, 5th year

Offense: Hexing and physical altercation with Slytherin boys ( 5th and 6th years)

Punishment: Trophy polishing—2 hours

She sighs, placing the paper down and settling her bag on the floor. “Filch is out dealing with a hinkypunk—I’m surveilling tonight.” She doesn’t look at him, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. “So, go on—I’m told you have some trophies to polish.”

James’ eyes remain wide as he nods, turning back to the case. With his back to her, she steals a moment to take him in—his shoulders are squared and there is something more wooden about his movements than she remembers. They haven’t spoken since she told him to leave her alone and she wonders if that’s the reason she hasn’t been seeing him as often. She hates to admit it, but patrols have become boring without him. 

Too busy deciphering his body language, she doesn’t catch him pulling his wand out of his pocket. With one swish, all the trophies gleam. 

“Hey! That’s not the punishment.”

 He turns, an eyebrow cocked upwards. “Yes it is, you said to polish the trophies… So I did.” 

Arrogant little shit. She hates when he’s right—which unfortunately is more often than she wants to admit. She sits on the ground and starts to fish through her bag, pulling out a transfiguration textbook and a parchment.

“Fine, fine. Then just be quiet over there—I have to get this essay finished.”

But she’s a fool to think that he will follow directions. He makes it about thirty seconds before he is up off the ground, coming to lean down and read over her shoulder with his head tilted downwards.

“It’s pretty good so far but you mis-characterized the difference between illusionment and deflection charms.”

She looks up with an insult already poised on her lips but is stopped short by the proximity of his face. Leaning down, his glasses are slipping off and she can see a small bruise blooming on his cheekbone just under his rims.

“Did a Slytherin give you that?” 

He pokes at the bruise curiously, also just noticing it. 

“Ah bugger.” He sits down next to her, splaying his legs in front of him while leaning on his hands. “Mulciber’s work I think. He’s fine at dueling but shite at punching—surprised he even got a decent hit.”

“So what, you’ve moved on to physical violence for fun?”

He whips his head around. For once, his eyes are absent of anything other than seriousness. 

“No actually. Just sticking up for my friends.” His stare is so intense she has to look away.

“I think Black can stick up for himself fine.”

“Yeah, Sirius can, but Remus can’t—not always.”

Now it’s her turn to stare. She had been curious as to why Remus hadn’t been on patrols earlier. It was hard to imagine him in a real argument, much less a physical scuffle. 

“Is he ok? Remus I mean.” The worry in her voice softens his gaze a bit, shoulders relaxing. 

“Yeah—he’s…he’s going to be fine.” James teeters off, something hidden behind his words. 

“Well–I’m glad.” She means it, though it feels understated. Her mind wanders to how often Severus would theorize about Remus’ absences and pushes away the idea that he could be behind the fight. 

“Do you want something? I mean for the bruise?” She rummages around in her bag again and pulls out a vial of white liquid. Handing it to him, he eyes it warily before opening the bottle and giving it a sniff. 

“It’s Mountain Arnica. I made it myself—heals cuts and scrapes pretty well.” 

James pulls his glasses up to his forehead and uses the pad of his finger to dab some onto the bruise. She makes a subconscious note that his eyes are much clearer without the glasses covering them. 

“You getting into a lot of tussles to warrant a bottle of this?” He flashes her a sly smile, warming back into form. 

She shrugs. “In second and third there were some Slytherins that liked to bother me. I guess I got used to carrying it.”

All amusement drops from his face, eyes flooding with concern. “But I thought you were mates with Snape.”

“Yeah well,” she sighs, “we’ve both seen Snape’s track record for sticking up for me.”

She waits for a cutting jab at Severus’ expense but he gives none. 

“Thanks for this,” he says and reaches the vial back out.

“No, you keep it.” She doesn’t know what compels her, but she gives him the first genuine smile in years, “I’m sure you can find better use for it.”

The smile he offers back feels warm, real. 

“Thank Evans,” he says as he slips the vial into his pocket.

“Remus will love it.”

* * * * *

For once, and unfortunately so, she finds him completely visible.

“Ah don’t be such a puss Evans. James was just escorting me back to my dorms.” 

She finds the two walking down past the kitchens, easily detected by the way Olivia’s voice bounces off the cold stone of the corridors.They weren’t touching when she caught sight of them, but as she approaches, Olivia clasps onto James’ limp arm, giggling with a coy smile.

“Don’t know if you can read a clock, but whatever you could have possibly been doing to need an escort was already past curfew.”

James shifts his weight, being more silent than she has ever seen him in five years combined. Olivia gives another high pitched giggle, tightening her hold on his arm. 

“Sorry Evans, we were just busy. Lost track of time y’know?” Lily can feel her dinner resurfacing in the back of her throat.

“Well, I don’t care to know about your extracurriculars,” she turns her head, hoping to mask the flush she can feel on her cheeks, “it’s still twenty points each and a round of detention.”

James raises his head and eyes her with a curiosity that she is unwilling to acknowledge. Beside him, Olivia feigns a pout.

“Ah, bugger. Well, I guess that means we will be seeing each other again, right James?” 

Lily’s eyes flick over to him. His curiosity has settled into a tense stare, eyes blown out and focused solely on her. 

“Er, probably not,” he says with a wooden tone. Olivia’s eyes narrow, her fingers uncurling slightly from his bicep but not letting go. 

As per protocol, she escorts them the short distance to the Hufflepuff dorm which they do in silence. Olivia keeps herself attached to James’ arm, but he gives no reciprocation, letting it swing loose at his side. At the entrance, Olivia casts another hopeful glance at him, expecting some form of goodnight, but he remains distant, pulling his arm away from hers like removing an annoying arm brace. With a huff, Olivia ducks into the common room without as much as a goodbye. 

With Olivia gone, it’s business as usual and Lily escorts James back to the tower like she’s done so many nights already. But instead of the teasing, the idle small talk, the quippy banter, James remains quiet, their steps echoing through the halls. 

Even in the silence, even with James’ new pensive behavior, Lily feels lighter with Olivia gone. She steals a glance at him and she can see there is red blotching under the rims of his glasses, eyes focused only ahead at the darkness. A sick part of her wants to demand what he was doing with Olivia– wants to hear it even if she knows her stomach will fill with bile from the answer.

“I really was just walking her back.” His voice cuts through the silence, clear and firm. 

So maybe he is a mind reader now. 

Like him, she doesn’t stop walking. “Bad luck Potter. Maybe next time choose a snog partner who can be a little quieter.” She means to tease, but her voice is cutting, filled with a malice she didn’t realize she was holding. 

He stops and she feels fingers curl against her elbow. For the first time that night, their eyes lock. 

“I wasn’t going to snog her.”

She ignores the feeling that her heart is about to take flight and searches his face for a glimmer of sarcasm.

“Coming from you, a serial liar, it's hard to believe.” She snorts.

“But I’ve never lied to you.”

She doesn’t know what to say. Suddenly, the corridor becomes very hot, the hand still holding her by the elbow now constrictive.

“Whatever, just drop it Potter, It’s really none of my business.”

And he does drop it, letting go of her elbow and taking a few strides in front of her. She rushes to catch up, wondering who is leading who back to the dorms now. 

Their newfound silence and the change in power dynamic makes something like anger take form, twisting her guts into a perilous place of recklessness. 

“Y’know, you could do a lot better than Olivia Gueresso.” She waits for a physical reaction but nothing comes. 

“Well it’s not like you're interested.” He says. His voice is so low and so quick she almost misses it. Almost.

“Potter–” she warns, but James is already bounding through the portrait, hand passing through his hair. She follows him down the tunnel, footsteps echoing around them.

 She doesn’t know what else she wants from him, but if they reach the firelight of the common room it will be too late. 

“Hey, Potter,” she calls louder and the sound bounces. He turns quickly on his heel and Lily runs straight into him, ricocheting back against his chest. Two calloused hands steady her by her shoulders. 

“You know Evans, you’re really lovely in the candlelight.”

It’s that look again. His eyes glazed on her like there is nothing else in existence. It’s the second time he has touched her that hour but this time it feels familiar, perhaps even welcome. 

“What are you—”

But the light of the fireplace takes him. He lopes away up to his dorm, not even giving a goodnight. 

* * * * *

Sixth Year

He wants to be caught. 

Like normal, he steps out of the shadows but it no longer jars her like it did back in fifth. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him at the welcome ceremony but now she can see he has grown over summer. His body is somehow more lean and muscular all at once; his hair wilder, curling farther down his neck. Instead of his typical urge to immediately run a hand through it the second he spots her, his arms stay casual by his sides. 

“Trying to be awarded the first detention of the year, Potter?” She says cooly, but her heart is already betraying her—something it’s been doing more and more often as her thoughts drifted to him over the summer. 

“If it’s from you, it would be an honor.” His grin grows, his dimple more pronounced. 

Lily attempts to scoff, but finds it much more bearable to avert her eyes. Maybe he had stumbled into some good candlelight, but the longer he remains in front of her the more it’s clear what’s so different about him: he is now infuriatingly fit. 

“Ok–so where’s the gang? Might as well give it up since you are getting detention no matter what.”

His smile doesn’t waver. “No gang-–I’m solo tonight.”

She dares to look him in the eyes, ignoring the whooshing feeling in her chest. He’s telling the truth. 

“Alright, so what? You gonna get early revenge on the Slytherins by yourself?”

He makes a humming noise and his cheeks start to take on a bit more color. 

“No– actually I just wanted to see you.”

It stops all of her thoughts dead. Something about how a small blush colors his cheeks makes her heart beat a bit faster.

“And you couldn’t see me at dinner or in the common room like a normal person?” 

“Yeah well, it’s not like any of our mates would act normal if I tried to ask about your summer over the welcome feast,” he mumbles, running his hand through his hair, now clearly a move of anxiety more than arrogance.

She takes a small step towards him. “That’s really what you want, Potter? You broke school rules on night one to ask me about my holidays?”

“I mean—-yes?” He rubs a hand through his hair again, eyes starting to shift away. A rush of something that resembles pride takes over her. James Potter is feeling sheepish because of me.

She lets him stew for a minute, mostly to take in the rare power she is wielding before giving him a smirk. 

“So do it.”

“Do what?” James gives her an incredulous look, face now so red he could have been slapped. 

“Ask about my summer—or did you already forget that’s what you are here for?” 

It takes a second, but a grin breaks out on his face, returning him back to form. “Alright Evans—how was your summer?”

Lily hums clasping her hands behind her back. “Well my dad died so—”

“Bloody hell,” James runs both hands through his air, all facial features frozen in complete shock. “I mean, Godric, Evans I’m so sorry–that’s…that’s…”

Lily waves a hand in dismissal to distract from any emotion that could be peaking on her face. 

“Eh, don’t worry about it. He was a raging arsehole anyways.”

He looks at her, eyes wide and fixated. “Yeah but still—is your mum ok?”

She looks down the hall, trying to stay nonchalant. “Yeah, I mean she’s fine—seeing as she’s been dead since fourth year.”

“Godric Fuck.” He does a quick spin on his heels, taking a step away from her with his head in his hands before turning back.

“I’m– shit--How did I not know this?”

Lily frowns at him, tilting her head. “What do you mean? It’s not like we’re close or anything.”

Something about saying that feels false but she pushes the thought away.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we’ve been in the same class, same house since we were eleven. I reckon I’d at least know something—something like that.”

She finds it quite endearing that he reels from this—that they could cohabitate in the same space for so long without knowing the most basic facts about the other. He continues to rub his face in his hands, looking more tortured by the second. 

“Well, to be fair, I don’t know anything about your family either.” She offers.

He straightens up a bit, sensing her attempt to level the playing field. A glimmer of discomfort still sits in his eyes and despite her being the one newly orphaned, she feels a pull to comfort him. 

“Well go on,” she prods, hoping to shift attention away from her, “Tell me about yours. I know they are purebloods…”

He raises an eyebrow, wary to move away from her loss, but letting her take the lead. 

“There’s not much to say—”

 Lily bats her eyes, urging him forward. He sighs.

 “They are still together and disgustingly still in love, which I guess I should appreciate.”

It makes her giggle, thinking about some old wizarding couple making kissing faces while James feigns puking in the corner. His shoulders relax further, leaning into her amusement. 

“And?” 

“And—I dunno. They’re barking mad but I love them. I’m an only child so I imagine you understand now why I’m like this.” He makes a rare self-deprecating gesture towards himself, something the James from a year ago would never have done. It makes Lily break into a real laugh. 

“And this,” Lily mirrors his gesture, “meaning…”

James grins, and it does something downright delectable to her heart. “This meaning an arrogant git who is too thick to notice other people’s personal lives.” 

It is a sentiment she would have agreed with a thousand times in the past, but hearing it from him now makes her reconsider. It might have been true a year ago, but the boy standing in front of her is decidedly changed—for one she likes standing next to him in the dark corridor. 

But she can’t say that.

“Your words.” She doesn’t elaborate but she offers him a real smile, not one with any edge to it and he returns it. 

“Yeah,Evans. My words.”

* * * * *

It starts a sort of friendship between them.  

He learns her schedule quickly, finding her in various places of the castle on any given day. She questions him about how he does it: disappears and reappears, knows exactly where she’s going to be despite intentionally changing her route to confuse him— but he never answers more than a teasing finger wag. “I’ll never reveal my secrets–you know that Evans.”

He no longer hides from her but hides from the others to get to her. Once found, he appears as usual but with conversation already on his lips. He asks about her life, about the muggle world, about music and films and anything that he can think of—making good on all the lost time in the past six years they have been so close but knew nothing of each other. In turn, she does the same: she finds out that Sirius moved in with the Potters, that his dad is celebrated for a hair taming potion that miraculously doesn’t work on his own son (“I swear, it’s my genes Evans, it openly rejects the stuff—I can’t help it.”), that he likes autumn and quidditch in the rain and the color green…

And she is surprised how much she starts to look forward to it. Time has treated him well, the looming war knocking more sense into him than previous years. Instead of being arrogant and self serving, he listens intently, hanging on her every word. They talk passionately about the rising conflict with blood purity and their shared disdain for the dark arts, life after school, their fears for the future. They have more light-hearted moments too: he charms the corridors to play music, daring to take her hand and dance down the hall, brings her a bit of warm bread with cinnamon and sugar from the kitchens, and consistently offers her silly anecdotes that make her laugh harder than she thinks she ever has in her life. Even the silence is comfortable—warm and encompassing like she imagines his physical touch would be if one of them just made the move…

“God, I love Halloween.”

 They sit inside a bay window in the charms corridor, pulling out candy from a plastic bucket shaped like a grinning jack-o-lantern.

“Alright Evans, what in Godric's green potion is this bloody candy?” He holds up a package of candy corn and she giggles, snapping it out of his hands. 

“Don’t act like you’re too good for muggle candy—we both know how disgusting the wizarding stuff can be.”

James feigns aghast, clenching his chest. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t like bogey flavored sugar beans–how could you Evans? An outrage!” 

She lets out a real laugh, one that makes her head tilt back. He’s been making her do that more with each meeting and every time she does the same look crosses his face: one of triumph mixed with something tender.

“Here, just try one—I swear it can’t be worse than anything you’ve already tasted.”

His eyes squint in a mischievous way, turning his head back and forth like a baby refusing a spoon. 

“Nope, no way.” 

She leans over more, encroaching into his personal space to poke his tightened mouth with the tip of the candy. 

“C’mon Potter? Where’s your courage? Your sense of adventure? Your—”

He opens his mouth, sucking in the piece. Her hand falls to his lips, feeling the warm press of his tongue on the pads of her fingers. 

She jerks back, her face blazing hot. Something burning and raw takes over her senses, flooding all vision. 

“Sorry,” he sputters, trying to not choke through his flustering, “I didn’t–”

She doesn’t wait to talk herself out of it. She leans back in, pressing the soft line of her lips to his. His mouth immediately molds into hers. Eager and warm, he tastes like sugar and something unmistakably him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says when she pulls up for air, “ I just wanted to know…we don’t have to—,” but a calloused hand cups her cheek, pulling her mouth back to skim over his. 

“I don’t want your apology,” he whispers and the heat of his breath makes the room spin, “but I would like you to kiss me again.”

Her mouth is already opening, slotting into place with his. He sighs into her and she can’t think of a more wonderful sound in the world. 

“Alright Potter, I’ll allow it.”

* * * * *

“Are you sure they can’t see us?” It comes out more as a pant than a sentence. James’ lips are working down her neck, hands taking advantage of her open shirt to explore undiscovered skin. 

He hardly lifts his mouth and her body reacts to the heat of his breath, arching forwards into him for more. 

“We can go somewhere else...”

Her mind is screaming a loud, resounding yes, but the clock is telling her she still has an hour of patrols. She forces her eyes open. Looking past the hazy screen of James’ cloak she can see the portraits sleeping soundly as though they never existed. Between the discovery of an invisibility cloak and the feel of James' body against hers, it's too much for her to take in at once. 

He lets out a sigh and she feels the words so lovely being mouthed into her skin. Everything is crackling around her, the world disappearing besides him and his hands and his tongue now dragging lower…

“Tomorrow,” she gasps. “Find me tomorrow right when I get off patrol—-then take me anywhere you want.”

James detaches his mouth and looks up at her, his swollen lips hung open in wonder. 

“Does that mean we need to stop today?”

He tries to pull back, but she grips onto him, not ready to lose the hard line of his body against hers just yet. There’s still an hour left of patrols, but is it not still patrolling if she can see the corridor?

She pushes up on her toes to capture his mouth again, their lips slanting together in hot melding kisses. 

“No–never stop.”

* * * * *

It turns out James Potter can actually follow directions. The next night he shows up with only five minutes left of patrols to spare and they don’t waste a second to slot together, making good on the promise to go wherever he pleases.

Over time her speculation of his invisibility cloak lessens, almost preferring the danger of it to the dingy passageways and small alcoves that he pulls her into each night. But she will take whatever she can get—waiting impatiently through her patrols for that moment when he slides out of the darkness to pull her back in with him. 

In the safety of the cloak or the darkness of some secret hiding spot, she feels a hunger she has never experienced. It’s almost pavlovian in nature—the second the clock nears eleven, her body vibrates at the thought of him, prickling under the anticipation of his touch. When reunited, they wedge together like two pieces of the same stone, hands and mouths frantic and roaming, words coming out in soft sighs and quiet pants that rise into the air like smoke. 

Patrols are no longer enough and nights feel achingly short for the amount of desire they have for each other. Their meetings start to seep into the daytime— ending up in the same passageways and closets but now with the added danger of roaming students and curious friends. During classes, they steal glances and sometimes dare to sit beside each other to let hands travel deliciously out of sight. When no one is looking, they pass notes between classes, trying to convey all the sweeping emotions into tiny phrases like I can’t wait to see you, I need you, you are so lovely, you make me so happy.

It stays like this for days, then weeks. Him always coming to find her, her letting him take the world away. Their time together always a sure thing.

Until it isn’t. 

A quarter past eleven and he hasn’t shown up. She stands in the hall, one of the many recurring places he has found in her the past couple weeks. Her body still vibrates on cue, hungry to feel the scrape of his hands on her, but mentally she knows that something seems wrong.

Would it be impossible for him to not come?

Hearing a noise echo down the hall she turns on her heel, excitement flooding her cheeks, but instead of James loping out of the shadows, someone else stands there, face twisted like a predator hunting prey. 

“You look happy to see me.” Antonin Dolohov purrs out, his eyes scanning down her body with a salacious grin.

“It’s past curfew Dolohov. That’s 20 points and two days detention.” She doesn't let his lewd gaze affect her, keeping her chin high while her hand hovers over her wand pocket. 

“Detention,” he tuts, “I much prefer doing the detaining if you catch my drift, but I’m interested in how a mudblood like you plans to go about it.”

He takes a step forward and Lily pulls out her wand, pointing it straight between his eyes. 

“Enough.”

His smile twists again, nonplussed by the threat. “ I see why Snape has always had such a hard on for you, Evans. You are a pretty girl for a mudblood. Why don’t you be a good little girl and get on your knees for me like you do to keep old Slughorn—

“Stupefy.”

She doesn’t even blink. The proximity of her wand to his forehead makes him knock back and he lands with a thud on the ground. The anger and fear that has been mounting since he appeared boils over and rushes out of her, her wand hand moving on its own accord. She can hear herself as though through a tunnel, hitting Dolohov’s motionless body with spell after spell, each one landing and sizzling into him like a lightning rod. Tears fall hot and globbing on her cheeks. 

Lily! Lily!

She feels strong and familiar arms wrap around her, pulling the wand out of her hand and throwing it to the ground. She makes heaving noises, pushing away from James as he wrestles her in his arms, trying to reach her through the fury. 

“Lily, that’s enough, You have to stop.”

But something inside her doesn’t want to stop. Her time with James has been a good distraction, but she is tired. Tired of the blood purity talks, tired of the endless bullying and spiteful words, tired of forever being a freak no matter what she does and no matter how much she tries to prove herself. Her prefect badge, her good grades, her perfect transitions from one world to the next will never be enough, because people like Dolohov won’t let it. 

 Her legs give out, letting the tears fall in choked sobs. James collapses on the ground with her, pushing her head into his chest, letting his shirt become soaked through.

“You didn’t come…” She cries out. It’s the smallest of the things on her mind, but it’s the only one she can accurately put into words. 

“I know, I’m sorry, I was just coming to find you—-Sirius’ mum had sent him a howler and–”

“So now you're selfish too,” she hisses to herself. Pushing herself into him more, she tries to calm the animal noises that keep spilling from her mouth. From behind them, Dolohov groans, some of the hexes starting to wear off. 

“Lily, I need you to breathe. We need to get out of here—did he touch you?” He pulls back to surveille her.

She is still taking ragged, shallow breaths, eyes burning from the salt of her tears. Sounds echo from down the corridor and James quickly scrambles to pull her into his arms, hoisting her into a cradle against his chest. 

Like always, they disappear together, this time behind a tapestry where there is enough room for them to spread out—though they don’t.

“It’s alright–I’m right here.”

She clings to him, and he continues to whisper comforting words, caressing her hair, her ears, her neck. Finally, she drifts off to sleep, the smell of him and the rhythm of his breathing the only thing tethering her from some sort of madness. 

* * * * *

Seventh Year

“Lily, please–”

But she keeps walking down the corridor, actively looking in directions that are anywhere but at him. 

“I’m not going to give up. Why did you stop answering my letters? Everything was so—so perfect…”

It had been. The summer days were spent writing letters back and forth, exchanging photos, filling in for time spent apart. At first they had to come up with creative excuses to see each other without anyone finding out (“Oh, well I was just thought a quick run to Diagon Alley would be nice.”) before Dumbledore gifted them with the greatest excuse of all (“Sirius, you’ll be at your Uncle’s, yeah? Lily is popping in to do some Heads’ planning—don’t worry, it will be more of a chore…”).

The days they spent that summer bouncing between each other’s houses were some of the best she had ever experienced. Safe from the wandering eyes of classmates, they held hands openly, caressed each other without shame, and spoke admiringly for the first time in normal speaking voices. They snuck into the other’s house at night, crawling into the other’s bed unable to wait the days or hours to press together again, unable to bear wasting another second without their breaths intertwining, bodies always unimaginably hungry for the other’s touch. 

But then there was silence. 

“Is it about the sex? Because we can go back to taking things slow I don’t–”

“Of course it’s not about the bloody sex,” she spits out, unable to contain her shock. “That—that was incredible but–”

“But what? Lily, I’m going mad. Ask Sirius–I've nearly burrowed a path into my sitting room floor from all the pacing I did in the last week.”

She doesn’t want to look him in the eye because she knows if she does he will see it all: Snape coming to her door, warning her about the Dark Lord’s rising, his plan to kill anyone who is a traitor to his cause…

If I did something, I will fix it, I swear,” his voice cracks, tears on the brink of falling, “I just…really need you back. I miss you.”

This time it’s her turn to disappear. She continues walking down the hall, snuffing out her wand light so he is left in the dark. 

* * * *

He isn’t looking for her, but he gravitates towards her anyway.

He was lucky he didn’t miss her entirely. Way up in the highest rung of the stands, the light of the stars betray her by reflecting auburn hair like a beacon. He knows it’s only self-sabotage at this point to approach, having spent exactly two weeks now with no communication whatsoever, but he does it anyway because he can see her shivering from all the way down on the pitch—and because he has never been able to resist her, even now. 

“It’s too cold to be out here like that.” 

He takes off his quidditch cloak and offers it to her, but she doesn’t even look at it, staring off into the distance. 

Taking her silence as an invitation, he sits, leaving enough distance between them to show his caution. Just like in the candlelit corridors, the light from the stars mingle with the color of her eyes, making them glimmer like jewels on her face. It takes everything in his body not to reach for her, fearing that the sparkle will subside the minute he does. 

“There’s a war out there,” she says, her voice hollow and cold like the wind. 

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

There’s silence again. The wind cuts through the stands and brushes her hair up into the air like fire dancing. 

“The potions master I applied to apprentice under owled back today—he says he won’t accept my application because I’m a mudblood.”

His head jerks in her direction. He has never heard her say that word before. Instinctively his hands clench at his sides, anger like waves in his chest. 

“Then he doesn’t deserve you, the tosser—-People should be lining up to work with you, you’re bloody brilliant.” He means every word, and he can tell she knows he means it too. A small, pitiful smile tugs at her lips. 

“Bloody brilliant doesn’t change my birth—might as well revert back to a muggle at this rate…”

He doesn’t want to hear anymore. He stands and forces himself in front of her and she looks up at him with a deep, pained look.

“What has gotten into you? The Evans I know wouldn’t say shite like this. The Evans I love wouldn’t—”

He stops cold, watching her catch the word before he does. Love. The Evans he loves. 

“You don’t want to love me,” she whispers, tears falling hot now against her cheeks. 

“But I do—” It comes out as a gasp, the suffering of two weeks without her pouring out of him like a broken dam. “Is this what it’s all about? That you’ve decided you aren’t good enough?”

“I’m not though,” her voice rises, face twisting into a sob. “I’m not good enough for the bloody wizarding or muggle world, not good enough to find work after school, not good enough for you.” 

The last word comes biting out and James freezes in place, feeling as though he has been stunned. 

“Lily, what are you talking about? When have I ever, ever said you aren’t good enough for me.”

Her eyes dart around, hands thrashing to remove the tears that keep coming. 

“You don’t have to say it. You’re a pureblood—I’ve heard the talk. The death eaters will come to your family eventually and ask for support. If I’m with you…” a sob cuts off her words. She stands up, preparing to bolt but he grabs her by the forearm, holding her there with the wind tugging at her hair. 

“If you’re with me than fuck them.”

The tears make her eyes glimmer but not in the way he wants to see them. He expects her to try to run again, but she doesn’t. 

“Lily, I don’t care. I don’t care. You could be half troll and I would still want to be with you. Don’t you see? This is what they want, for you to be afraid—to give up.”

He takes the chance to slide a hand onto her cheek, wiping away some of the tears she has failed to stop. 

“I–I love you, Lily. And if you don’t want that because you don’t feel it back, then I will disappear. But if you don’t want it because you are scared then…then I won’t accept that.”

He searches her eyes, wondering if he is making the biggest mistake of his life by pushing her. She looks back and even with all the pain he can’t stop thinking about how absolutely lovely she looks in the moonlight. Her hair, her eyes—even the tears. He burns the image into his memory, knowing that even if it’s the last night next to her, at least he will have her beauty in this moment forever. 

“I don’t want you to disappear.” 

The wind carries her voice and places it right into his beating heart, suddenly as warm as sunlight. 

“I don’t want you to disappear, because I love you too.”

* * * *

Now, they disappear into each other. Instead of dimly lit corridors, he pulls her into a kiss the second she leaves class. Whispers and hidden notes are replaced with laughter and shrieks of joy as he lifts her up and spins her after a quidditch game, not caring to even glimpse at the house cup. In the sunlight by the lake they tangle together, studying, laughing, snogging–especially snogging, making up for all the lost time in the weeks they were apart and for all the other years they could have been together. The night becomes a special place—one of nostalgia and hope. Instead of meeting in grimy alcoves, she follows his lead to his bed where they slot together like two pieces if a whole, trying to meld back as one. 

He was always a beacon of light in the darkness, but in the sunlight he is breathtaking. Always a presence of comfort and joy and love. So much love that she wonders if she had ever felt it before—not even the love of family could compare to what  he is capable of showing her. She gives it back tenfold, keeping him impossibly close and hoping she will never have to let go. 

“James–you can’t just hide.”

It’s odd to see the shimmering movement of the cloak in the daylight. A muffled voice calls out from where he was just next to her, sheepish and frantic.

“Don’t mind me—just completely turned to dust from embarrassment.”

A smile cracks on her lips, her heart makes fluttering beats in her chest.

“You don’t have to answer me today—-or at all. We could just pretend it never happened.”

She reaches out towards where his voice is coming from, but hears his feet move back on the grass. 

“James,” she sighs, “ I was going to say yes.”

It hangs in the air. She can practically feel his heartbeat from whatever distance away he stands hiding. 

“So, if you would stop freaking out–” she adds, cheeks filling with pink, “I’d really like to kiss my new fiancé.”

His head pops out, floating detached in front of her. It would remind her of the first time she ever caught him past curfew, but instead of a mischievous grin, his face is flush and eyes blown wide. 

“I’m not freaking out,” he murmurs, “But—just to be sure, did just call me your fiancé?”

She moves quickly, grabbing hold of the cloak and pulling herself under into his arms. She can feel his body buzzing against hers, fingers moving in shock to wrap around her body. 

“Yes, I did,” she says, pressing her lips into his. “And yes, I will marry you.”

If the cloak falls away, they don’t notice. He picks her up and she wraps herself around him, the warmth of his skin and the May sunlight working in tandem. His shock has worn off and he kisses her in earnest, and she is more than happy to reciprocate. 

They could have stayed like that for hours, days—it didn’t matter anymore. With him, everything else disappears.