#they’re a power couple together

[jalluzas-ferney]

I don’t think this is an unpopular opinions but lowkey fannon kailor is sm better than cannon kailor.

(Read the tags)

[yioh]

some of my fave ships over the last few years !!!

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

For the ship game: Tildy x Peter, and just for the sake of older women being menaces to society, Tildy x Astrid (I like to imagine if they ever met, it could have been a one sided crush that ended amicably. Like "God made me straight because She knew we'd be too powerful as a couple")

Uh oh my heterophobia is showing

[sikyurame]

I need some of that pkgyro content right now

[salethe2]

If the king isn’t feared he is powerless. If you are to be a strong queen you must cultivate love and respect, yes. But your subjects must fear you— Daemon

I just want to see these two burn the world together.

[garfield444]

Navier and Henry are literally a power couple.

[we-are-inevitable]

me backstage during a literal show: ok so.

well! the show is Once. so how would you do a singer/songwriter au? -💥

starting off by saying: i have no idea how the actual industry works and i don’t really care enough to look it up but !! starting in high school:

jack is our star.

it starts in his bedroom, in a little apartment in lower manhattan that he shares with his adoptive mother Medda and his younger brother, Charlie— but really, to jack, it’s him and his guitar against the world. he’s self-taught; he doesn’t know how to read music, he can’t write notes to save his life, he’s so talented and has so much knowledge and can create something beautiful on the fly but he doesn’t know how to translate it into something tangible. he relies on sound and sound alone most times.

that being said, he does have a following, albeit small. he has a few hundred YouTube subscribers, around two thousand on tiktok, and around the same amount on instagram. he’s happy with that, since all he does is post covers, because he’s not sure how to write his own stuff. he has the vibes, he has the energy, but he doesn’t have the words.

enter david jacobs, the most underestimated boy in school (i imagine they’re in their senior year of HS when they meet). davey doesn’t really have a whole lot of friends, and the ones he does have are all kind of,, eh,, and they’re just boring. all they want to talk about is academics or debate team or politics— yknow those annoying guys in AP us history that just monopolize the conversation and play devil’s advocate? that’s what dave’s friends are like, but he’s been with them for years so he feels obligated to stay.

davey’s outlet is songwriting.

i think,, maybe jack an davey have always kind of known Of each other, and sometimes they’ll talk in the classes they share, but they’re not close at all. one day though, davey is on instagram and sees a video that jack posted of some really complex guitar work— like this— and something about it just absolutely takes over davey’s brain, and within twenty minutes he’s written lyrics to go along with jack’s playing. it’s pretty simple, since most of the heavy lifting is done by jack’s guitar anyway, but davey takes a photo of the rough lyrics and sends them to jack with:

@david.isaiah: Hey, sorry if this is weird and I hope you don’t mind, but I wrote some lyrics to go along with that piece you just posted? Feel free to ignore. Your playing is really good.

and jack reads them, figures out where the lyrics are supposed to fit, and within two hours he sends davey a video of him singing the lyrics and playing the guitar and jack really likes it. when he sees davey at school the next day, he immediately comes up to him and just starts talking.

“David! Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for writing those lyrics— they fit exactly what I was tryin’ to do, and they were so good, and I was wondering if you’d want to work together on some more stuff?”

“Work together?”

“Yeah! I have a lot of song ideas, but I don’t know how to… put the words together, I guess. I’d be willing to pay.”

“I, uh— I really just write for fun.”

“Hey, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Just wanted to offer.”

davey thinks about it for maybe ten seconds, and that’s when it starts. after school jam sessions, with davey on piano and jack on guitar, davey writing lyrics and jack finding the sound that works for it, davey writing incredibly lyrical songs and jack posting them (with credit, obvi) until his follower count starts rising into the hundred thousands. they start recording the songs in a studio medda has connections with from past shows, and jack starts releasing everything on spotify and apple music and it’s crazy when he finally starts getting gigs, but no matter how popular he becomes he’s alway made sure to give credit where credit is due.

eventually there’s a label that really wants to pick jack up as an artist, but he refuses unless davey can stay with him as a writer, and they’ve barely just graduated high school but now davey has a career he’s passionate about and jack has a family of fans and supporters who have been with them from the very start.

years down the line, Jack Kelly is touring all across the country and David Jacobs is writing songs for some of the biggest stars on the planet, but they both come home to the same bed. they’re a power couple: there’s no Jack Kelly without David Jacobs, and vice versa. their wedding is small and beautiful and they’ve finally made it.

[blueish-bird]

burnout is sapping my hyperfixation of creative energy, but not to worry! I’m still thinking about Aki and Angel an incredibly abnormal amount

[deathsmallcaps]

Mirror Snow White for the WIP game, please!!

I’ve bolded the part you encouraged me to add onto! Thanks! :)

I met my true love while I was limping along an empty road cutting through the grey wintry plains of Sasriu. I had heard of a king with a mystery: the hand of one of his daughters and a title if solved, and three nights of hot meals, a warm bed and a quick death if not. Having no skills beyond war - for I had been sold quite young to become a soldier - and now possessing a pair of boots but only one leg, I despaired at the life I saw ahead of myself.

‘Retired’ soldiers rarely live long. It was the start of winter and already the nights dipped well below freezing. No forests stood for me to take shelter, and the little villages around I wouldn’t dare approach - this kingdom had been staunchly neutral in the nearby wars and many small towns chased out soldiers, for fear of involvement. There was no denying my past; I had been captured specifically because it would be difficult to confuse and lose me in the ranks of the local peoples, and the war raged still.

One kind, lonely farmhouse had offered me warm soup and a haystack to sleep in, but I saw the thin faces of each child and knew I couldn’t stay long. Thus, I headed for the city - I would hopefully find shelter and stability, and perhaps even an ambassador with knowledge of my homeland. And if my plans didn’t pan out, at least it would be a swift death - not ending up as a frozen stranger on the side of the muddy road or a penniless veteran on the cobbles of some dank alley.

So I hobbled toward the city. Being a plains kingdom, they didn’t build especially high buildings for fear of windstorms, but it stood out all the same against the flat earth surrounding it. Still, despite having such a clear goal, it seemingly didn’t get much closer, with night and what I hoped was merely a big cloud fast outrunning me. Knowing from my luck and the change in humidity, I knew it was rain. I tried moving faster, but the wraps around my crutch pads had worn away so it was even more painful than usual, so I soon had to return to my usual pace.

A small bump interrupted the tedium, coming from a side road I hadn’t noticed before. It moved slowly, but it was clear it was also heading towards the city, so with a slightly lighter heart I continued forward. A talking companion for the road would likely make the trip easier, and may even offer information on the king’s mystery. All I really knew at the time was that his daughters apparently had a problem with sneaking out at night.

Once I got close enough, it took me a moment to recall the local greeting, but then “All things must end!”

The shuffling figure, adorned in many ragged scarves, quickly flashed a look to me, too fast to make out any features. “But some begin now.” She replied in a raspy voice.

“What brings you to Wocosm this fine evening?” I inquired politely. I was desperate for conversation, but would drop it if she showed disinterest.

She laughed, a disused rattle that seemed to surprise her. She flashed her eyes at me once again. “You must be very hopeful indeed if you believe we will reach the gates before sundown. Still, it is no matter. I am looking for shards.”

“A shard? My good woman, I believe you are headed the wrong way! While I would not recommend any to enter a battlefield, there are broken bits abound back the way I came. I know my leader even pays people to go over the fields for arrows and other reusable things. As long as you do not have an apparatus that would impede your travel through the churned, bloody earth,” I gestured to my crutches for emphasis, “you could make a decent living doing as such.”

She shook her head. “I have seen that terrible place, and while it contains an evil most profound, it is human and mundane. The shard I seek is magical in origin, and to put it plainly, induces heinous thoughts and situations among even the most peaceable peoples.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, but before a true response could form I saw a terrible sight. “Holy waters, you do not have shoes!”

“Hm? Oh, that.” She seemed unbothered, but I knew the importance of proper footwear.

Unable to think of a particularly witty rebuttal, I merely said, “But it’s cold!”

She stared at me blankly. Finally, I could see her eyes - black like mine, but shaped in an uncommonly beautiful fashion and ringed with near translucent blond lashes. Her face seemed much more youthful than her posture and manner seemed to suggest, yet her eyes held an age unknowable. The woman quickly hid her eyes again once she noticed my returned gaze.

Unable to do nothing, I carefully stopped and leaned one crutch against my body while I pulled my pack around. “Here. I have no use for it.” I handed her my extra boot, my other sock, and then the same crutch. “If we both are to make it to our destination, we need to avoid frostbite.” I had practiced walking with one crutch, and showed her how. “Pull your naked foot into your wraps, and use the crutch to move forward. It’s better than wearing off your soles before you find those wicked shards!”

Her mouth twisted, but she took my offerings all the same, and we walked on as the darkness overtook us both. I told her my name was Walt, short for Walter Johnschild, and she did not proffer hers, but instead told me things about the castle.

“Do you know much about the king’s mystery?” she asked. When I told her no, aside from the reward, she continued, “No matter. It is thus: The king of Susriu has twelve daughters, and every winter’s night for the last decade, their dancing shoes are dashed to pieces, despite never leaving their rooms and the guards stationed outside reportedly merely hearing the occasional snore. The princesses tell their father nothing, and he apparently needs to start marrying them off soon. However, if they are sneaking out, he cannot guarantee their virtue,” we both scoffed, “and has become desperate. So, he will reward any man who can solve this matter within the three nights he is allowed to stay in their rooms.”

“How can h-” I broke off when the city walls’ bells started tolling, signifying that the gates were about to close. Coincidentally, the sky broke open a quarter mile behind us.

The woman turned to me and placed the coldest kiss I’d ever felt aware upon my forehead. “Now go!” And she puffed up her cheeks, blew out, and a great wind, cold and sharp, carried me to the gates, billowing a cloak that had not been on my shoulders a moment before. The guards did not seem startled by my sudden arrival, and I swung quickly past the gates and into town.

The castle was on the other end of the city, which was unfortunate. I did my best to make my way over, but the cobblestones were not kind to me or my crutches. The rain caught up to me before I was even approved to go through the castle portcullis, and I nearly slipped. A young guard sniggered, but an older fellow smacked his helmet in irritation, causing it to spin and cover his face somewhat.

We nodded at each other. The elder seemed hale, but not all marks of war are visible to the naked eye. The youth, grumbling as he set his helmet right, was ordered to escort me to the dinner hall. He slouched and side-eyed the entire walk, and when he opened the door and announced me, he tapped the crutch closer to him with his foot. I stumbled into the surprised feasting hall.

[neotheater-kid]

Power couples are so underrated. Like, they rule!

[ivysos2001]

For being two of the most dedicated and hard working people in Pawnee I love how annoying Leslie and Ben are to work with

Like when they first meet you just know everyone on both sides was so sick of hearing about how infuriating the other one was and then after they get together they’re *so* sickeningly in love that their coworkers can’t stand them lmao

[aego-philautia]

Also my Carmilla kisser Moth girlie has a name but I’m waiting until I finish some art w them both to reveal it ashsnfmksh

[karaokesoul32]

Jordan and Henry at the Gold Scholarship Awards at Claridges last night

Power Couple making their way in society

[inkoutsidethelines]

Thinking about how I would write an adult Scooby-Doo series, because I think it can be done.

The first thing I’d do is make the characters actually be adults.  Still young, but adults, in the mid to late 20s range.  Mystery Inc. is a private detective type business that they run together.  In this universe, the supernatural/ghosts/etc are real, but not necessarily common, so when they take on a case, the culprit might be a person disguised as a monster, or it might actually be a real ghost.  The stakes can be higher; sometimes a bad guy is legitimately trying to kill them.  Sometimes the mystery they’re trying to solve is a murder.  Sometimes they actually get hurt on their cases.

Fred: the core of Fred’s character should be that he’s incredibly kind.  Like, give a stranger the shirt off his back kind.  The “Fred can’t talk to potential clients because he might take a case for free and we need to eat” kind.  He’s an honest and good person and sometimes gets himself into trouble because he assumes other people are too.  While he’s not very good at reading people or noticing ulterior motives, he’s brilliant when it comes to mechanical or engineering type stuff, so he’s the one who keeps the mystery machine running, builds their gadgets, and of course, designs the traps.

Daphne: she comes from old money, and her parents absolutely despise her life choices, to the point where they haven’t officially disowned her, but they have basically cut her off, so she doesn’t actually have access to any family money.  Growing up wealthy has granted her a variety of skills, including speaking multiple languages, horseback riding, and fencing.  She’s very into fashion and jewelry (even if she can’t afford it anymore) and has extensive knowledge of both that can occasionally provide a vital clue in a case. And even though her parents have cut her off, Daphne still has a wide network of contacts she can ask for favors sometimes, because she’s personable, and people tend to like her.  Daphne is also very emotionally intelligent, and is usually the one who can spot when someone is lying to them.

Side note - I ship Fred and Daphne, so I think I would start them off as an established couple for this universe.  Dating, engaged, married, I don’t care.  They are stupidly in love, ride or die for each other.  There’s no will they, won’t they, no worries about cheating.  They are in a healthy, happy, loving relationship, and no one (not even Daphne’s disapproving parents) are going to mess that up for them.

Velma: she is the forensics nerd who sometimes gets super excited about the wrong thing at the wrong time (”He was mummified in seconds? That’s so cool!” “Velma!  His wife is standing right there!” “Oh.  Sorry.”).  She’s not purposely insensitive, she just gets laser focused on her work and forgets to filter herself sometimes.  She’s also the one who can get so fixated on solving whatever mystery they’re working on, she’s willing to bend or maybe break laws.  Is breaking and entering really so bad?  Not if it gets them answers.

Shaggy: he is still the comic relief, but he’s the comic relief by being the only person in the group that actually has common sense.  He manages the business’s finances, he’s the only one who knows how to cook, and the others tease him for being a coward sometimes, but Shaggy maintains that if a ghost with an axe is coming for you, running is the only sensible option.  He should also have a range of random knowledge that sounds useless, but sometimes saves the day (ex ventriloquism, origami, the history of spoons, etc).

Scooby: as this is a universe where supernatural creatures exist, Scooby is an ancient eldritch type being that took a shine to Shaggy when he was a kid, and took the form of a talking dog to befriend and hang out with him.  Aside from the talking dog bit and not aging, he never uses his powers in a way that anyone notices.  The audience is not told upfront that Scooby is an ancient eldritch being; it should slowly be hinted at throughout the series so the audience put it together, but the characters never realize it.  Scooby genuinely considers Shaggy to be his best friend, and cares about the rest of the gang too.

[avocado-writing]

pairing: logan howlett x afab!reader. 18+, minors dni. angst; smut (p in v unprotected sex; handjob - logan receiving; oral - reader & logan receiving). canonically bisexual reader. mentions of pregnancy attempts. dp+w movie spoilers.

synopsis: in the Void, after leaving the other dead in your own timelines, you and Logan are reunited.

words: 8.5k.

notes: this was inspired by not your man by @studioghibelli and the worst logan by @coweye! please go and read both these fics and show their authors some love, they are both incredibly talented writers who deserve it! dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕

The past couple of days have been a lot. 

To be honest, anything that isn’t sitting at a bar drinking the place dry is a lot to Logan nowadays. He’s used to low lights, rumbling conversation around him, the fuzzier end of consciousness. Even now he aches for a drink, knowing he’ll have to wake up sober next to the asshole in red he spent the night putting down in that fucking minivan. 

He hopes, at least, he has been met with all the surprises that this place can afford him. 

Ah. But that’d be too fucking easy, right?

That Cajun bastard’s liquor sits comfortably in the cradle of his palm and he chases away lucidity one swig at a time. Tries to block out the half-baked plan Wade is concocting with the other poor bastards who have been stuck here, even if it’s all probably pointless. He only chimes in to laugh at their hope. 

Then Elektra turns, withering pity in her eyes, and seems to properly assess him for the first time. 

“They’re gonna be so disappointed when they see you.”

“Who?” he snorts, past the point of caring that he’d disappoint anyone. It’s then that Elektra hits him like a fucking freight train with just one word spilling from her lips: your name. 

Logan feels a flood of memories come back to him. Ones he’s spent too long trying to drink away. The early morning when you’d hide under the blankets together, your hand cradling his face and letting the whole world consist of just the two of you. The stolen kisses in quiet corridors so the students at the mansion wouldn’t catch you and start silly little rumours. 

Him holding your lifeless body in his arms surrounded by the rubble of what used to be your bedroom, your powers unable to save you. 

He doesn’t have anything to say, merely spitting vitriol to anyone who tries to speak to him, even that damn kid who still prefers the other dead Logan to him. Why wouldn’t she? He’s a fucking mess, worth less than nothing, and that Logan was a hero. 

He retreats in the evening to lick his wounds or, hopefully, drown them. People keep trying to fucking talk to him and he does not want it. Yet they’re fucking relentless, like the Void is perfect at creating gut punch after gut punch for him. Laura walks away into the darkness after successfully making him feel like shit - not that it’s difficult these days - and when he hears more footsteps he assumes it’s Wade coming to harass him about tomorrow. 

“Oh, will you fuck off - ?” he snarls, but the sight of you there, half lit by a dying fire with orange dancing on your skin, oh, it just kills any venom he can muster dead in his throat. 

Logan is looking at a ghost and he has never been less prepared for anything in his long, long life. 

Your mouth has fallen open into a soft “o” as you look at him, brows knitted together as you take in every imperfect aspect of his being. 

“Lo?” you whisper. Your voice hasn’t changed. 

“Logan,” he replies, gruff, unsure if he’s confirming or correcting. But fuck does it sound good to hear his name out of your mouth again, even if it’s just a syllable. 

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear and take a seat on one of the logs which has been pulled up as a makeshift bench. He tries not to watch the way the fire lights up your eyes. There’s an agonisingly long pause before you finally attempt conversation.  

“Long time no see, huh?” you ask with a weak grin. Fuck. It’s like a dagger. Your humour was always something which endeared you to him. Unlike Wade you never took it too far, cultivating your sincerity with your silliness in order to grow yourself into peoples’ hearts. 

His heart especially, and now it aches. 

He grunts, because he can’t bring himself to actually say anything. Can barely look at you. You keep talking, either not noticing or barrelling on regardless. 

“You know, when the gang said that you were here… I didn’t believe it. Thought there was no way a fucking Wolverine would fall into this place.”

“Let me guess,” he sneers, taking another long drag of bourbon, “I’m not what you expected.”

You laugh, an easy little thing, and part of him hates you for it. For reminding him of how it sounds. 

“I mean, you’re not. But not because of what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” It comes out as a snap, lip curling back over his teeth in disgust. You do not look bothered in the least, just crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. 

“Because I know you, Logan. Knew my Logan too. Bet you’re spiralling, making yourself out to be some kinda disappointment. Well you’re not. You could never be.”

He desperately wants to argue but he simply doesn’t have the gumption. Besides, it’s nice to hear someone say something kind about him after all these years. 

“So,” you say after another one of those painful pauses, “considering every time you look my way you wince, you have a me in your timeline?”

He laughs without any humour in it, stares into the flames for so long they start to hurt his eyes. 

“Yeah. I did.”

“Ahh. ‘Did’. I died, then?”

You say it so flippantly, he can’t fucking stand it. 

“Mmm.”

“Makes sense. Don’t think I’d leave you in any timeline, so the only way I could see us ending would be if I wasn’t there any more.” You sigh, stretching your legs out to warm them. “Can I ask how it happened? Call it morbid curiosity.”

He absolutely does not want to talk about this. But, also… it’s you. Maybe not the you that was his, exactly, but it is you. Perhaps you deserve to know. He tries to stay dispassionate, as if he is a doctor quietly recounting the facts of death to a family member. 

“Mansion was attacked. Everyone died, including you. I wasn’t there. We’d had a fight, I went out drinking. When I got back you were gone.” He flexes his fist around the neck of the bottle, trying to avoid shattering it, but desperately needing to hold onto something. 

“Oh.” The fire crackles loudly. “What did we fight about?”

This will kill him. He will die in this Void. 

“You wanted to do another round of IVF. I didn’t want to be disappointed again.”

The words settle like a cloud of choking ash over the two of you. He takes a long drink. What a fucking failure he is, couldn’t even knock you up properly. 

“Fuck, Logan. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Does it help if I tell you I probably wasn’t that mad? I’ve never been really angry with you, you know. My Logan… we used to bicker a lot, we both had short fuses, but it never meant anything in the long run.”

He doesn’t know if it does help or not. Is it better to know that you died hating him, making it easier? Or that you were snuffed out while loving him the whole time?

“Your turn,” he says, because he can’t bear to continue this particular line of conversation, but for some reason he wants to keep talking to you. Your voice is a comfort he thought he’d long since lost. 

“You wanna see a picture?” you ask, a grin pulling at the sides of your mouth. No, he doesn’t, but when you reach into your jacket to grab the photograph, he finds himself holding his hand out to take it. You slowly float it over, telekinesis absolutely unnecessary - but you always did use it to make the little things easier. 

It’s old. Frayed and disintegrating at the edges, a thing which has been held and looked at over and over again. Faded slightly despite the fact that you clearly try to take good care of it. 

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening. You chuckle. 

“I know.”

Because, despite the lack of facial hair and addition of a decent rack, the woman with her arm around you in the photo is him. 

The Logan in the picture is about as butch as they come, decked out in a Wolverine’s trademark flannel and leather. One of her arms is wrapped around you to keep you close against her, the other playfully flipping the camera off with a middle claw, and she’s laughing with a joy he hasn’t seen on his own face for years. You’re pressing a kiss into her cheek and hanging onto one of her thick biceps. The two of you exude happiness. 

“She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She could be a mean cunt sometimes, smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, but fuck we were the centres of each other’s world.” You let out a long sigh and hold your hand out - Logan goes to give you the photo but instead you gesture for the bourbon. He passes it and you and you drink deeply, gratefully. “I’d been in a string of bad relationships. Guys who took me for granted, women who were toxic but I didn’t realise until I was in too deep. Then she came along and well… she was a fucking angel in plaid.” 

Logan’s thumb absentmindedly strokes the photo. He’s pretty sure there’s a near-identical one back in his timeline. 

“Our mansion was attacked too. She died getting the kids out.”

Fuck. Fuck. No, he can’t do this. He can’t face the way he should have died. He really is the fucking worst Wolverine. He snatches the bottle back from you, you give no resistance, and he polishes it off. The photo flutters to the ground. 

“I think it’s time you fucked off,” he growls out. You roll your eyes, fucking roll your eyes at him, something his version of you did on pretty much a daily basis, and the knife in his heart twists further. 

“Well, Logan, I’m not gonna do that. Because this conversation is the most whole I’ve felt in a long time, and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way.”

He doesn’t. He does. He wants you to disappear forever. He wants to hold you close and kiss you, beg you never to leave again. He hates you. He loves you so, so much. 

He’s such a ruined man that it is laughable. 

“So what, I come along and just replace your little girlfriend? First Wolverine that you manage to get your hands on; is that what you’re hoping for?”

You bark out a laugh. It echoes around the trees. There are tears in your eyes when he turns to look. 

“Girlfriend? Logan, you were my fucking wife!” 

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that the laughter engulfs you, peals of giggles that double you over. You hold your head in your hands and it soon turns to bitter sobs. He wants to reach out and hold you, apologise for ever making you sad. He tries to get any lingering drops from the bourbon instead. 

“We got married at the mansion. Charles officiated. The kids made us cards. We didn’t get a honeymoon because we didn’t have the fucking time. We had five years. Five really happy years and you know what? We wanted a baby too. We were getting a donor lined up! And then when the attack happened you were the one getting all the kids out I begged you to come with us but you were too fucking good, you had to stay behind and make sure nobody followed us. And it cost you your fucking life. They ripped you apart Logan. I know because all I found of you was your head and your wedding ring. I didn’t even get time to mourn because I had a dozen children to fucking take care of! And I did because I knew that’s what you’d want me to do. It’s what you died for. So I lived in the fucking woods with all of them for years, and they were my family, and I made sure they were as safe and happy as I could make them. And you know what happened then? When they were all grown? A fucking TVA agent appears out of nowhere and tells me, ‘oops! Sorry! Your Logan wasn’t supposed to die, it was meant to be you!’ So they fucking throw me in this hellhole to rot away into nothing and I’m sorry, Logan, I’m sorry that when I heard you were here I got my fucking hopes up that you might be happy to see me, because if there was one person who understood all of the shit I’m going through then it might be you.” You throw your head back up to stare him dead in the eyes. “And it’s pathetic because you know what? Even after all this? I’m still not angry with you. I’m still happy you’re here. Because seeing you makes me feel better, despite everything.”

It’s a long-ass rant, and your words hang in the air after you’re done. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He opens his mouth to apologise but the words just won’t come out. Because, yeah, if he really dissects himself and looks at the parts laid bare, he’s glad you’re here too. 

He reaches down to rescue the photo before an ember lands on it, gingerly extending into you. When you take it back his fingers brush yours. He wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves. 

“Who was the donor?” he asks eventually. That does a lot to alleviate the mood, and you smile through tear-streaked cheeks. 

“You might not like the answer.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me it was Scott.”

“The two of you got on okay! Butted heads a lot but he was always a good friend to us. Plus it was cheaper than going through an agency.”

He growls to himself and it makes you laugh, but properly this time. Things have started to soften and it’s… nice. To be like this with you again. You pause for a moment, stuck on whether to ask a question; hesitate over whether it’s a good idea, then barrel on regardless. 

“Can I ask a weird question?”

“You’re dangerously close to sounding like Wade,” he replies. You groan at that idea. 

“Ugh. Fucking Deadpools, man. We get one come along every now and then and trash the place before fucking off again. Apparently there’s like, a tribe of them out there somewhere.” You give a full-body shudder. “Imagine. No, it’s nothing like that, I guess. Can you… can you take off your glove? Left one.”

He has a horrible feeling about this but when you ask so nicely, that air of vulnerability around you, well it just seeps into his fractures and breaks him open. It takes a moment but he does, flexing his bare hand in the cool air. 

You reach around your neck and pull at a thin chain he’d barely noticed. The ring at the end slides up from where it’s been resting on your sternum under your shirt, glinting as you remove it. 

“Give me your hand.”

This is a bad idea. 

He does anyway. 

You slip the ring on his fourth finger, softly twisting it to fit over his knuckle as you go. It is the perfect size. 

“Will you look at that,” you mumble, not releasing your grip on him. “She… you always told me your hands were kinda big because of the claws. Like I cared. One of my favourite parts about you.”

Your fingers trace along his, finding the spaces between them and gently slotting your hands together. Logan isn’t sure if he’s the one who closes the grasp or if it’s you, but a beat passes and suddenly you’re holding hands. 

He’s not done this with you for so fucking long. An age of aching which is relieved at the feeling of your palm up against his. 

“So now what?” he eventually has to ask. You smile. 

“Well, I mean, your Deadpool is probably gonna get us all killed tomorrow…”

“Ugh. Don’t call him ‘my Deadpool’.”

“… so I’d quite like to just spend tonight holding your hand, if that’s okay. Seems like a pretty nice final night to me.”

When you hit him with those soft eyes, what other fucking choice does he have?

You don’t speak much for the rest of the night. Eventually the fire dies out. Laura comes to seek you out the next morning, and is surprised to find you lying side by side with this other Logan, the most deeply asleep she’s ever seen you, fingers laced together so tightly with his it looks like it might hurt. 

He comes to the fight, of course; dredging up what little courage he has left in him in order to prove he’s not totally pathetic. You catch his eye and smile so wide that he feels likes he’s done at least one good fucking thing in his life. He hears the sound of you ripping into people with an enthusiasm he hasn’t witnessed for years. The last glimpse of you he gets before he jumps through the portal is you using your telekinesis to tear a man’s head off and he does not want to examine himself too closely when it sends a jolt of arousal down his spine. 

They leave you all there to face the end, but everyone knew that’s what you were all getting into. There has been a net gain and loss of nil. He never had you again. Not really. Not for anything longer than a night, and maybe that will be enough. 

Yes. That’s enough. It has to be. 

When he tells Wade he’ll go into that room, when he volunteers to die, he does it with the knowledge he’ll be doing something good, finally. Something you’d be proud of him for doing. And with you waiting for him on the other end of oblivion it really doesn’t seem too bad a fate. 

But then Wade does what he always does and fucks up his perfectly meticulous plan, and they both make it through, so he has to keep going. 

When Wade asks the TVA agent to help the group of you they left behind, Logan is sure to add on that people should get the opportunity to go back to their timelines - surely it’s what you’d want (this oddly selfless request has Wade raising an eyebrow which he ignores). After all, why wouldn’t you want to go back? It’s where you belong. Where you’ll be happiest. Putting things nice and neatly back into their place after this whole fucked-up venture. 

He doesn’t have you, but he’s still alive and wants to be, and that’s something. A lot more than he’s had for a long time now to be honest. 

His life becomes this strange little thing that’s wrapped up with Wade’s. He sleeps on his pull-out sofa until he has somewhere proper to put down his roots. Tries to lay off the booze as much as he can even if each day is a fucking struggle. Makes steps towards finding a proper place for himself; even gets a job on the door at the bar across the street. It’s okay. One step at a time. He can put himself back together like that. 

Imagine his surprise, then, when a week later there’s a knock at the door. 

He assumes it’s Al who’s forgotten her keys, or is too drunk to fish them out of her purse after bingo, so opens it without really thinking. 

The second time you’ve nearly stopped his heart in seven days. 

“Hey,” you say. 

“Oh,” is what he can manage. You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Your go-to. 

“Yeah. Sorry. I uh, followed you back, I suppose. The TVA were gonna send me home but I asked where you were and when the answer was ‘here’, well… didn’t make sense for me to be any place else.”

He blinks at you. After a beat of silence he can tell you hate, no doubt wondering if your choice was the wrong one, he lifts his hand to cup your face. You stiffen for a second and then nestle into his palm. 

“You’re real,” he states. You press your hand to his. 

“I am.”

He pulls you into his chest and you are more than willing to come. He feels the way you bury yourself into him, nose first, remembering what he smells like. Your arms wrap around him so tight it’s like you’re scared he will disappear when it should be the other way round: if anyone is dreaming it’s him. You bothered coming here for him. You uprooted your whole life for it. 

He could hold you forever but the neighbours are nosy and the apartment is a mess. He presses his mouth close to your ear. 

“Wanna get a coffee?”

You pull back to meet his gaze. 

“I’d love that.” Your eyes drop and you pull a face. “Oh, uhh, you might wanna get changed first, though.”

He looks down and realises what shirt he’s wearing before letting out a groan, which gets you chuckling. 

“Wilson’s letting me borrow his shirts until my first paycheck comes in. Just to slum around the apartment.”

“Oh, so you’re not ‘employee of the month at the dick sucking factory’?” You ask, reading the slogan on his tee.

“No. Looks like Wilson won out over me.”

The fact he’s made a joke hangs in the air for a moment and you burst into laughter, real actual laughter, and it’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever heard.

He grabs the only plain shirt Wade has left out, slices off the sleeves just because, and grabs twenty dollars from his roommate’s wallet. Soon enough you’re sitting in the little café near his building. The sky is grey and overcast, just threatening to rain but not quite bothering, and the two of you are tucked away in a corner table while Taylor Swift plays over the sound system. 

Logan does not like that he knows it’s Taylor Swift. This is what living with Wade has done to him. 

You watch him with affectionate eyes across the table, making sure nobody is paying close attention before using your telekinesis to stir the little metal spoon around in your latte. You nod at his mug. 

“You take coffee the same way as she did. Boring and black.”

Logan’s nostrils flare a little in a laugh. 

“Yeah, and you take yours the same way too. So fucking dense with syrup that it’s not coffee at all.”

“Oh you were always such a coffee snob! ‘Babe you gotta try it plain first so you can appreciate the aroma’,” you say, putting on a gruff affectation as a parody of his voice. 

“You do need to try it plain f—”

He’s interrupted when a sugar lump floats into the air from the pot in the middle of the table and launches itself at him, bouncing off of his pectoral. He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Real mature, bub.”

“Grouch.”

“Contrarian.”

“I’m not a—” you pause, realising there’s no way to win against that accusation, and grin at him instead. 

“Where are you staying?” he asks after a long drink. It’s not booze. He kinda wishes it was booze. But also, he knows it’s best not to go down that path again, for everyone’s sake.

“The mansion. Turns out I died in this timeline too, so you and I are two for two here” - there’s a hint of a smile at your own macabre observation - “but they were using my room for storage so they just let me have it back.” You grimace a little. “It’s been weird. It’s my space but it’s not, y’know?”

“I get that.”

He probably gets it better than anybody. Nice to have someone to share this strange, singular feeling with. 

“You should come around. Laura’s there too, I know she’d be glad to see you too.”

“She settling in okay?”

“Yeah. It’ll take a while, but everyone has been really understanding and kind. I think she’ll thrive here.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

You give him a smile that lets him know you believe it. Your eyes cast over him, taking in this new, slightly more settled Logan, falling still when you see what’s pressed against his fourth knuckle. 

“You’re still wearing the ring.”

“Oh,” he replies, surprised. Flexes his fingers as he looks at it. It’s been so comfortable there, so utterly unobtrusive and right, he hasn’t even noticed. “You want it back?”

A beat passes as you consider the question. Coffee is sipped. Another sugar added and stirred, perhaps just for show. 

“I don’t know,” you settle on. “I kinda like seeing you wear it but… if you were gonna have my ring, I’d want it to be one that was meant for you.”

He lets that idea settle between the two of you. Suddenly, slowly, you’re reaching forward, laying your smaller hand over his thick, rough one. 

“Logan. I want to be with you. In every way you’ll have me, all of it. I don’t know if it was fate or god or plain luck that threw us back together but I’m certain I don’t wanna waste this opportunity. I’d love you in every lifetime, in every timeline. I can’t be without you ever again, I think it would just kill me - and if I know you, you feel the same.”

He doesn’t even bother arguing because he does. When you turned up on his doorstep a scant couple of hours ago a part of his soul had been healed; your existence like kintsugi to piece him back together. A man made of adamantium and gold. 

“I’d like that,” he manages. 

“Yeah?” Your eyes glimmer with a hope which he’s not been privy to for a long time now. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, okay then,” you say with a smile, and drink your coffee. 

The two of you do not take it slow. How does one take it slow when your soulmate comes back into your life? You are not exactly the same person he once knew, but you understand each other in every way which matters. Your souls fit together like puzzle pieces. The two of you are whole again. 

Then again, perhaps he doesn’t need the version of you he used to have. Maybe, now, he needs this you - rougher around the edges, a little older and more wary, a fit which is better for him. Someone who can put up with his bullshit as Al once bluntly put it. 

You barely spend a night apart. You stay over with him on Wade’s pullout (inciting an input of, “something the two of you had better do, we can’t afford a kid on my income—!” before Logan had hurled a water bottle at him) meeting up with him after his shift is done in the small hours, getting something to eat at one of the greasy spoons which remain open. He devours full plates of fatty food; you stick to slices of pie which you feed him bites of from your fork. When you get back to the apartment you cuddle up on the uncomfortable mattress which folds from the sofa and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

He sleeps pretty well nowadays. 

The two of you only realise you haven’t kissed yet when you do it for the first time. You’re making a coffee run, tugging on his jacket because you like the smell of cigar smoke and it’s thicker than yours. A little act of intimacy which has become commonplace. 

“Same as usual?” 

“Mm-hm.”

“Boring,” you make an exaggeration of a sigh, before leaning over the back of the sofa to press your lips to his. He automatically leans into it, tilting his head up so that he can meet you; it’s a chaste little thing, a peck between two people who will only be parted for a moment, but you pull back in surprise when you realise what’s just happened. 

“Oh!” you say with delight, eyes sparkling.

Your hand slips around his neck to cradle him, fingers playing with the hair at his nape. You gently pull him back for another. Longer this time. Lips slip together, moving carefully in something a little deeper. When you break for a moment it’s Logan who pulls you back. This third kiss is on the brink of hungry. He slides his tongue to swipe against your mouth and you let out a happy little hum at the intrusion. 

His arm curls around your back. With a little tug he pulls you over the back of the sofa and into his lap, making you yelp with glee. His mouth returns to yours, crushing, greedy for any little noises you’re able to make. You relax into it and are happy to take whatever he gives you. 

Wade finds you making out on the couch like a pair of teenagers, coffee forgotten. He does not let Logan live it down for a week. 

The apartment is fine, but not a long term solution. Wade and Al are constant presences that stops the two of you being fully at ease together. Logan knows that invitation to go to the mansion is always there, but it’s a while before he takes it - he really isn’t sure what he’ll feel, being back at a place he last saw burned to the ground because of his pigheadedness. Might just break him all over again. 

But ah, when you nock your fingers in the spaces between his, he can face anything. 

One night, exhausted and full of diner food, he agrees to go back to yours - the two of you have had a late night coffee meaning you’re still a tiny bit buzzed, a little too much to fall asleep on the pullout. Instead you get a taxi to yours, near enough, tipping the driver well when he drops you in the middle of a random street and choosing to walk the last minutes hand-in-hand.

The mansion is quiet. Everyone is mostly asleep. And Logan does feel strange being back here, but it isn’t a bad strange. Just another aspect of this new life he has to compartmentalise. 

You drag him through low-lit halls, confident in the steps which will lead you back to your room; he recalls a similar journey from his own timeline in the night you first hooked up, smuggling him to your bed down the corridors all wandering hands and breathless kisses and giddy giggles; but there’s no part about you that wants to hide this. 

You’d show your Logan off to the world. 

You’ve tried to make the room your own, he can tell. It’s pretty big and spacious. Good view. Has an ensuite which he plans on monopolising. He shucks off his clothes and sleeps in just his boxers, arms holding you to him so he can feel every part of your body against his. His chest hair bristles between your shoulder blades and you hum contentedly. 

He agrees to come to breakfast the next morning and, to their credit, people are good at not staring. The members of the team he recognises from his past keep their distance unless he seeks to close it. Hank gives him a smile. 

“Good to see you, Logan.”

“Mmm,” he manages. Laura comes down to grab something to eat and lights up when she sees him. She gives him a hug which skews on the side of awkward but he’s grateful to receive it, and he can see how pleased you are watching this development. 

He comes around more and more often. 

Less time spent at the apartment with Wade - who constantly complains about the fact and Logan cannot tell if he’s sincere or not - more living in the pocket of you. He helps you sort out the furniture in the room so that there’s more space; you’re moving a chest of drawers to another corner together when a photo falls out from behind them. Trapped against the wall for years. Long forgotten. 

“Oh,” you say, lifting it up and bringing it to your hand with a wave. Your face twists into something strange and bittersweet, a mask Logan isn’t quite sure how to comprehend, but he quickly understands why when he joins you. 

It’s a picture of the two of you. 

Not exactly the two of you, of course; the ones of you who lived in this timeline. Logan is posing on the back of his Harley, you’re propped up on the seat next to him with your head thrown back in laughter. The two of you look… young. This must have been taken when you first started going out. 

Your thumb caresses the photo in a movement he’s familiar with. 

“Huh. Looks like we were together here, too. Who’da thunk it,” you mutter.

He slips an arm around you then because he’s feeling oddly sentimental. It’s reassuring. No matter what timeline it is, there’s a you who loves him and a him who loves you. A simple and irrefutable truth, like the fact that the sun rises every day or the moon moves the tides. 

“Apparently Magneto got me in the late noughties. Feels like a bit of a pathetic way to go, but diverging timelines, I guess.”

Logan knows that in this timeline, he stuck around for a while after. Poor bastard, he thinks. Having to live those years without you. That’s a misery he understands all too fucking well. 

But not any more. 

You leave the photo on your dresser, loathe to throw it away, and continue moving furniture to make room for the TV you just bought. Logan hates sharing the one in the living room, especially when the hockey’s on.

Eventually Logan is spending so much time with you he’s barely living at Wade’s any more. You’ve suggested they’d be happy to have him back in the mansion for a “teaching job” like you have, though he knows there’s never much teaching involved, more helping kids learn to defend themselves without too much collateral damage. Still it’s a fair chunk of change better than his current miserable doorman’s salary and it means he’d be living at more sociable hours.

Plus he’d get to move in with you, an idea you’re both secretly happy about. 

So he hands in his notice at the bar and packs the scant few belongings he has at Wilson’s into a cardboard box from Bad Dragon, which is strangely the only one Wade could find him (“god Peanut that’s so weird, oh well!”). Looks around the apartment he’s called home for some time, feels not entirely pleased to be leaving it. 

“And remember sweetie, if it all goes incredibly wrong and you realise the place you’ve belonged the whole time is on my undoubtedly piss-soaked pull out sofa bed, Al and I will be happy to have you back with minimal taunting.”

Logan fixes him with a look. 

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” The word is odd coming from his mouth but not insincere. Wade goes to say something that’s no doubt stupid and inappropriate, however he softens at the last moment. 

“Any time. Go get ‘em, tiger, I’m rooting for you.”

You’ve moved your stuff so he can have a side of the closet, and drawers in the dresser, and he resumes his life with you. 

It takes only a couple of days for him to settle and realise how much he prefers this. Living with you properly. How, really, he couldn’t stand to be apart from you. How he wants to be there for every second, hear every laugh which drips from you, comfort you whenever something threatens to ruin your happiness. 

He falls asleep with you wrapped in his arms every night. Wakes up with you there. Pretty fucking perfect if you ask him. 

There’s nothing special about the morning when you first make love except for the fact it’s the morning when you first make love. It’s a border the two of you haven’t quite crossed yet. Almost as if you’re both afraid to make the commitment, like it may break you apart; there’s perhaps an underlying fear that you’re being unfaithful to your partners from your own timelines. That being together like that dishonours their memory. 

It’s a salve, then, that the longer you’ve been together the more you realise that you don’t love each other as a stand-in for the ones who died, but entirely on each other’s own merits. He doesn’t look at you and see the body he held in the manor. He sees someone who he’d protect, give his life to, become a dog for because he’s utterly in love with this you, the one who was so happy to find him in the Void, the one who patched him back together when he was at his most broken. 

There’s nothing to second guess in this relationship. It is the most solid foundation he’s ever had, and from the way you look at him every morning as if he’s hung the stars, you feel the same. 

That morning he’s holding you particularly tight. It’s a Sunday, the quietest day at the mansion, and the two of you are in bed later than you’d usually be. You’re both awake because you’re pressing more and more into each other’s bodies, nestling together like nesting dolls. His arm slung around your waist, hips against the swell of your ass. 

You shift slightly and he feels his cock harden in interest. Why wouldn’t it? Most beautiful person in the whole world right here in his bed. He might be old but he’s not a fool. 

He’s aware your hips are moving again, pressing yourself into him harder. He lets out a quiet, gruff laugh. 

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Mmm, maybe I am, Howlett. What are you gonna do about it?”

You squeak with laughter as he surges upwards, pinning your hands to the mattress either side of your head so that he can look down at you. Such a pretty picture beneath him. Hair all fanned out, eyes sleepy and sexy, ready to take in the syrupy-slow pace of the morning. 

His lips press into yours softly but firm. You hum into the kiss, slipping your wrists from his grasp so that you can wrap your arms around his broad neck and tug him closer. Your legs slowly match pace, looping at his waist. His cock is free to press against your clothed core now and he doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity; he grinds down, never letting it distract from the kiss for a second, even smiling into it when he can feel the blunt head of his dick catch your clit. You gasp. 

“Logan…”

Oh yes, that’s it. That’s the voice. He could listen to you say his name a million times and it would still be the sweetest sound in the whole fucking universe. 

He kisses you again and again, getting more fierce now. Tongues slide together and you moan into his mouth. Teeth clack with the force of it. He wants every sense to be drowned in you. Your smell, your taste, your touch. You’re holding him so tightly it’s like you’re worried you’ll just float away from the bliss of it all.

He’d never let that happen. He’ll keep you right here in this bed, forever, if you’d let him. 

With a display of telekinesis he’s not expecting, Logan finds himself on his back. You stare down at him with wide, hungry eyes, and he’s never been more turned on in his entire life. 

“Can I suck your cock?” you ask breathlessly, and he finds himself huffing out a laugh because fuck, as if you’d ever have to ask. You take his meaning and giggle before you start to make your way down the plain of his chest. A kiss dropped on the top of his pectoral, followed by you moving that sweet mouth around one of his nipples to play with it. Logan huffs and arches into your touch like a schoolgirl. You use your teeth to continue the trail, tracing around his abs - which have become less pronounced ever since he started eating right, and you’ve often expressed your pleasure at this fact - mouthing at where his muscles shape his Apollo’s belt. 

Your hand goes to palm his cock through his boxers and he has to make a concentrated effort not to come. It’s been a while since he was touched properly like this, and though he used to be able to go all night when he was a younger man, he truly doesn’t know if he has it in him today.

You seem delighted by this development though. Holding his gaze you slowly drag his waistband down to his thighs, watching in delight as his cock bobs up, half-hard. You take him in hand and pump him lazily, languidly, enjoying every stroke which makes him firmer. You prop yourself up on your free arm, elbow on the mattress and palm cradling your jaw, eyes on him like he’s the show of the century.  

“Handsome, handsome, handsome man,” you sigh, dreamily. 

“Old man,” he chuckles. 

“Not mutually exclusive.”

He has to concede that with the way you’re looking at him like you might eat him alive.  

When he feels your mouth around his cock his brain almost short-circuits. It’s warm and wet and willing, your tongue gliding along the thick vein you find there before caressing his head. Logan grunts, fisting the blankets, and a familiar snik has you looking up. You grin around his shaft when you see his claws have popped out from the intensity of his gripping hands. 

Pleased, you continue with your work. You bob up and down as the fire builds in his belly, a low heat which is soon bubbling over when he feels you press the tip of your tongue into his slit, humming with pleasure as the taste of his pre floods you. Logan is aware he’s beginning to tighten in a way which suggests that if you don’t stop now things will be over entirely too soon.

Claws retracting, his hand comes to grab your hair. His cock is enveloped in the sweet velvet of your throat, in fact he can feel himself brush against your uvula, and when you look up at him like that he almost gives up completely. He powers through though, carefully guiding you up and off. You wipe your spit-soaked mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Oh… was it not…?” you don’t voice the word ‘good’ but it hangs there anyway. Logan rumbles with a laugh.

“Fuck, it was the best thing I’ve felt in years. Wanna fuck you properly, though. Come up here and sit on my face, baby. Need to taste you.”

Your eyes go wide. Like he’s come up with the idea of the century.

“Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

There is nothing elegant about the way you pull yourself up the length of his body, but it is filled with a primal need which is far more sexy. You pause at his abdomen in order to rub your soaked cunt across his abs a couple of times. Fucking the muscles there. You throw your head back in gratification and continue up along his chest before a strong thigh is planted either side of his face.

Looking up at you from his back is his favourite view. Logan wastes no time in clamping an arm around either one of your legs and pulling you cunt-first onto his tongue, you gasp and writhe in delight.

“Oh fuck, Logan!” you hiss. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the voice he wants to hear. All strung out with sex and pleasure because of him. He fucking buries himself in you. Kisses your pussy sloppily, changing his attention from between your clit and your folds, no rhythm to his need. When your fingers scratch his scalp in your need to grab a fistful of hair he thinks he might be in heaven. His hips buck into the air, imagining the action of taking you before he’s even properly started. You start to fuck yourself on his face. Hips grinding down onto his beard, groaning at the stubble there which prickles and pleases.

“I’m gonna--”

“Fuckin’ do it,” he mumbles from between your legs. You cum in his hot, wanting mouth; all the furniture in the room rattles as you let out a little involuntary telekinetic jolt.

You are not done. This was the appetiser. Eyes still ravenous you peel your pussy off of his face, sweeping down to kiss him so you can taste yourself there. Moaning in delight at the musk.

“Wanna ride you…”

“Anything,” he breathes because, yeah. He will do anything you ask, anything you want. He’s a loyal hound at your heel. 

When you take his cock it’s with less teasing this time, more intent. Spreading your legs wide you line him up with your entrance and slowly sink down. He wants to grab. Your flesh, the blankets, anything. Sensing his desperation you hold out your hands when he’s far enough inside you and he meets them in midair, pressing his fingers between yours, knuckles white from the effort.

Hips nestle against his. You begin to move.

“Logan…” 

Your name leaves his lips in a similar whisper, dragged out through his throat from his very heart. You look down at him, eyes clear and wide and lucid despite the heady pleasure.

“Logan. I love you. I love you.”

Yes, you love this him. Not as a stand in for the Logan you lost, not as some sort of idol on a pedestal, but because you’ve fallen for him just like he’s fallen for you. He is worth loving. He is. He is worthy of you. It is a realisation which hits him with the force of a bomb. He grips you tighter.

“I love you too,” he confesses. He feels his pulse sync with yours from where he’s sheathed inside you, grips your hands tighter because he knows you can take it; you hold him back just as hard. Your hips rock in a wild rhythm as he brings his own up to meet them. It’s hard to know who’s fucking who, it’s wild and desperate and raw, but you keep chanting those words as a manta.

Logan. I love you. Logan. I love you.

He only lets go of one of your hands when he can feel he’s about to finish, dropping it to your clit in order to press rough circles there. You come messily over his cock and he spills inside you, pumping you full of him. Marking you as his.

You collapse into his arms, sweaty and spent. He holds you with arms like iron. Cock still inside, softening now, but he doesn’t want to to break the contact.

You pull back after a moment of breathing together, propping your elbow on his chest.

“Hey.”

He smiles back, a real smile, something he’s not been truly able to produce for years.

“Hey.”

“I meant it, you know. I love you,” you trace a pattern on his collarbone, silly and intimate. 

“I know. So did I.”

“Mmm, okay, good.” You kiss him and hum into it. “We should get up.”

“Probably.”

“But let’s not.”

“Sounds fuckin’ good to me.”

You laugh, and oh you are the sunlight. 

The summer heat is cloying but Wade has set up some parasols on the top of his building to hide under, he did not specify where he got them but a few local restaurants seemed to be without on the journey back to the apartment. The group of you are definitely not meant to be up here, but with the weather so hot, nobody cares enough to cause a fuss. 

It’s a small gathering. Logan stands at the grill because it’s where he’s most comfortable, supervising the chaos. That awful mutt of Wade’s is looking up at him with expectant eyes and, when he’s sure nobody is watching, he throws her a hamburger which she goes crazy for. 

And it’s… nice. He didn’t even complain when Wade put on the 1989 album. A few of his old roommate’s friends, a couple of them now mutual - Piotr is a pretty relaxed guy to be in the mansion with, and the two teens who Wade somehow befriended get along with Laura. You’re talking with Peter who for some reason is always at these gatherings but he’s probably the least offensive person here. 

He says something which makes you laugh, and you look over to Logan as you both settle. You gesture at the bottle of soda in your hand, an invitation; he nods. 

You stand, rummage in the cooler, and close the gap. He eyes the glass bottle of Dr Pepper with disapproval; you give him a playful shove. 

“C’mon, be good. You just got your one month chip. Keep it up, we’re proud of you.”

He grumbles his acceptance and takes it. It is pretty refreshing to be fair. He settled the hand he’s not using on the grill around your waist, pulling you so that you settle nice and snug against his flank. You grin up at him, pleased with the show of affection.

“Hey handsome,” you chuckle. 

“Hey gorgeous.”

“You make me the happiest I’ve ever been, you know that?”

Day by day he’s letting himself believe it. That he’s the kind of man who could make someone as amazing as you happy, as over-the-moon with joy as you make him. 

Before he can answer Yukio appears by the grill, pointing a Polaroid camera in your faces. 

“Smile!” she says, and the two of you do, because she’s a nice kid and you don’t wanna let her down. She snaps a photo and watches it quickly develop, shaking it loudly in the air before admiring her work. 

“Awww, cute! I hope me and Ellie are like you guys when we’re your age. Here ya go!”

She passes over the photo before skipping away to find her next victim. Logan has to try and hide a laugh at the indignant splutters that are escaping you. 

“Our age…?!” you mutter, but soften when you look down at the picture. It’s nice. The two of you make a good-looking pair that’s for damn sure, he can almost understand Wade’s insistence of “letting him watch one night”. But most importantly, the two of you look… happy. With each other. With this slice of life. 

“This is a great one,” you declare. 

“Yeah,” he says, but he’s looking at you. 

When you get home tonight, late by the time you pull up to the mansion, you’ll toe off your shoes as you walk in through the door like you always do, but this time you’ll pause to put this photo in front of the one you found behind the chest of drawers, and Logan will feel content that he never has to be without you again. 

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[pucksandpower]

Clickbait

Toto Wolff x Ferrari team principal!Reader

Summary: in which a reporter learns not to mess with the power couple of Formula 1 … the hard way

Based on this request

The bustling newsroom of BusinessF1 magazine hums with activity as Graham Lowell, a junior reporter with more ambition than scruples, hunches over his laptop. His fingers fly across the keyboard, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he types out what he believes to be the scoop of the century.

Conflict of Interest in the Pit Lane: Ferrari and Mercedes’ Love Affair

Graham leans back, admiring his handiwork. He’s certain this article will catapult him to journalism stardom. Little does he know, he’s about to learn a harsh lesson in the dangers of sensationalism.

As the article goes live, the Formula 1 world erupts into chaos. Social media platforms light up with speculation and outrage. Within hours, the story spreads like wildfire, reaching the very subjects of its scandalous claims.

In the Ferrari motorhome, you stand before a group of wide-eyed team members, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. “I assure you, these allegations are completely false. Our team’s integrity is not, and will never be, compromised.”

Your phone buzzes incessantly in your pocket, but you ignore it. You know who it is, and you know you’ll need to face him soon enough.

Across the paddock, in the sleek confines of the Mercedes garage, Toto Wolff paces like a caged lion. His usually calm demeanor is nowhere to be seen as he barks orders into his phone.

“I want our legal team on this immediately,” he growls. “This is slander, pure and simple. They’ve gone too far this time.”

As the day wears on, the pressure mounts. You find yourself fielding increasingly hostile questions from reporters, their microphones thrust aggressively in your face.

“Is it true that you’ve been passing Ferrari’s secrets to Mercedes?” One shouts.

“How long have you been manipulating race results?” Another demands.

You maintain your composure, but inside, you’re seething. The blatant sexism in their questions is not lost on you. They seem all too eager to believe that a woman in your position must have achieved it through nefarious means.

As you push through the crowd, a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. “That’s enough!” Toto’s commanding tone silences the mob instantly. He strides forward, placing a protective arm around your shoulders.

“My wife and I will be making a statement shortly,” he announces, his steely gaze daring anyone to object. “Until then, I suggest you all refrain from spreading baseless rumors.”

The crowd parts reluctantly, allowing you both to escape to the relative quiet of a nearby hospitality suite. As soon as the door closes behind you, Toto’s fierce expression melts into one of concern.

“Are you alright, liebling?” He asks softly, cupping your face in his hands.

You lean into his touch, allowing yourself a moment of vulnerability. “I’m fine, Toto. Just ... frustrated. They’re so quick to believe the worst of me.”

Toto’s jaw clenches. “It’s disgraceful. But we’ll fight this, together. I promise you, they won’t get away with it.”

A knock at the door interrupts your moment. Toto’s assistant pokes her head in. “Sir, the lawyers are here.”

What follows is a whirlwind of legal jargon and strategy discussions. You listen intently as your shared legal team outlines the plan of attack.

“We’ll issue cease and desist orders to every outlet that’s republished the story,” the head lawyer explains. “And we’ll be filing a defamation lawsuit against BusinessF1 magazine and the reporter responsible.”

Toto nods approvingly. “Good. I want them to feel the full force of our response. This ends now.”

As the lawyers file out, you turn to Toto, a hint of worry in your eyes. “Do you think this will be enough? The damage to my reputation ...”

Toto takes your hands in his, his gaze intense. “We will rebuild it, stronger than ever. I won’t let them tarnish everything you’ve worked for.”

Meanwhile, back at the BusinessF1 office, Graham Lowell is beginning to realize the gravity of his mistake. His editor storms into the bullpen, face red with fury.

“Lowell!” He bellows. “My office, now!”

Graham follows meekly, his earlier bravado evaporating with each step. As he enters the office, he sees his editor isn’t alone. A grim-faced man in an expensive suit stands by the window.

“Sit down,” the editor growls. Graham complies, his legs feeling like jelly.

The man by the window turns, fixing Graham with a steely glare. “Mr. Lowell, I’m representing Mr. and Mrs. Wolff in this matter. I’m here to inform you that you and this publication are being sued for defamation.”

Graham’s mouth goes dry. “But ... but I had a source! They told me-”

“A source you failed to verify,” his editor cuts in. “Did you even attempt to get a comment from either party before publishing?”

Graham’s silence is damning. The lawyer continues, his voice cold and precise. “The damages we’re seeking are substantial. Your reckless journalism has caused significant harm to my clients’ reputations.”

As the full implications of his actions sink in, Graham slumps in his chair. His dreams of journalistic glory crumble before his eyes, replaced by the stark reality of legal consequences.

Outside, the F1 paddock buzzes with new excitement. Word of the impending lawsuit spreads quickly, and suddenly, those who were so quick to believe the scandal are backpedaling furiously.

You and Toto stand united before a sea of cameras, your hands clasped tightly together. Toto speaks first, his voice resonating with controlled anger.

“The allegations made against my wife and me are not only false but malicious,” he states. “We have always maintained the highest standards of professionalism and integrity in our respective roles.”

You step forward, your head held high. “I’ve worked tirelessly to earn my position as Team Principal at Scuderia Ferrari. To suggest that my success is due to anything other than my own merit is not only insulting to me but to every woman fighting to make her mark in this sport.”

The press conference continues, with you and Toto presenting a united front against the baseless accusations. As you field questions, you can see the tide of public opinion beginning to turn.

Later that evening, in the privacy of your hotel suite, you finally allow yourself to relax. Toto wraps you in a warm embrace, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“You were magnificent today,” he murmurs. “I’m so proud of you.”

You smile up at him, feeling the tension of the day start to melt away. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

Toto chuckles, a mischievous glint in his eye. “The best. Although, I must say, I’m almost disappointed we don’t actually have any juicy secrets to share. It might make things more exciting.”

You playfully swat his arm, laughing despite yourself. “I think we have enough excitement in our lives, thank you very much.”

As you settle into each other’s arms, you know that whatever challenges come your way, you’ll face them together. The storm may rage outside, but in here, in this moment, all is calm.

And somewhere across the continent, in a small, cluttered apartment, Graham Lowell stares at his laptop screen, watching his career and reputation crumble in real-time.

Social media is ablaze with backlash against him and support for you and Toto. As he scrolls through the endless comments condemning his shoddy journalism, one thought echoes in his mind.

“I am so, so screwed.”