logan howlett x reader (i imagine f!reader, but there are no descriptions so you may imagine what you like)
lydia's notes: this is my very first little story i'm posting on here! it's a very short drabble.
you wake up sometime in the middle of the night, eyes hazy with the memories of wispy dreams. your darling lo's arms are wrapped around you, holding you close to his chest. the moon casts a pretty silvery glow on his frame.
you reach up to touch his face, lovingly tracing the contours of his features with the lightest touches from your fingertips. his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his strong brow. rough edges softer in starlight.
logan looks so young when he's fast asleep beside you, almost boyish. it's the only time his troubles ever seem to leave him be. still, there is a crease between his eyebrows, a faint line, invisible to anyone who doesn't know him like the sea knows the warmth of the sun. to anyone but you.
you frown, trying to make him relax with the touch of your gentle hands and the softest of kisses on that very spot. logan wakes, blinking at you with remnants of slumber in his eyes, reaching to stroke your hair.
"sorry, lo. didn't mean to wake you", you whisper, kissing his nose.
"s'okay darlin', 'long as it's you.", he mumbles back, lovely amber wood eyes already closing.
that faint worry line is gone. you smile to yourself, stroking his cheek, before letting the moon softly rock you back to sleep in her glow. she looks beautiful tonight.
George has liked you for years without realizing that you like him back. When the Yule Ball enters the picture he sees this as an opportunity- though, perhaps not one he will take.
CW: Ravenclaw reader / mutual pining / fluff on fluff / not spell-checked
WC: 5k | MASTERLIST
"Did you see that in class?" George looks to his brother as they follow the swarm of black cloaked students leaving their Charms class. Everyone was rushing to exit what was an unusually boring lecture and set their sights on more interesting things, such as the dance that was encroaching upon them.
"Gideon's new hair? Yeah, mate," Fred nods, weaving through a group of Durmstrang boys. "Bowl cut looks horrendous on him."
"I think one of the house elves cut it," George snickers before regaining himself, backtracking to the point he meant to make. "Wait- no. I mean to say, she was looking at me in class."
Fred had heard of this crush of his day and night, long and often. "Congratulations, so did Flitwick, now you have a pick."
"Listen- I'm not joking. She was looking at me, and I looked back, so she looked away. That means something, right?"
"It means she's scared of you."
"Oh, yeah, terribly funny you are," George says, narrowly escaping a collision in the sea of classmates.
"And you are the last to notice this." Each day Fred thought George was over you was another day he was proven wrong. George had liked you since their third year, when you sat at the table beside him in potions. He could easily talk anyone's ear off, but he hadn't spoken a word to you- he was much too shy, and every time he tried, the words had caught in his throat before they could reach you.
There was a lot that he liked about you; your pragmatic way of speech, how well you suited your house colours of blue and bronze, he thought you gentle when explaining things to your friends, and your laughter light as air. Most of all, he loved the way you smelled- the scent of vanilla body spray, rose water face cream, and some sweet-smelling lip gloss. It had overwhelmed him completely in the process of making Amortenia.
He was haunted by the melody of your voice answering questions in Charms.
His thoughts stop entirely as a scene plays out before him and Fred. A Durmstrang boy, tall and bulky as the minotaur, bends down and places a ginger kiss onto the hand of a Syltherin girl. She brushes a long dark strand of hair behind her ear using her free hand.
"Will you do me the honour of attending the ball with me?" He looks up at her through his brows. Her friends stand behind her, squealing for her to say yes.
"Yes," She nods eagerly, and the boy fights a grin on his face.
"I look forward to it," He plants one more kiss on the back of her hand and leaves with the bow of his hat. His friends follow in tow, smacking him on the shoulder and hyping him up, striding right past the twins.
"Suppose we're meant to be finding a date," George says, watching the girls huddle amongst one another.
"I refuse to get on one knee; this is my last good pair of dress pants."
"You don't own any good pairs of dress pants."
"What are you looking at then?" Fred challenges.
George's eyes rake him up and down, taking in the unruly appearance of his brother, whose uniform was not completely there. "I'm looking at a git with a tear on his knee."
Fred looks down immediately and surely finds a small rip in the black fabric of his leg. He groans, "Great, now I've got to ask mum to mend them."
"What a death sentence." His eyes follow a couple with their hands clasped, laughing amongst themselves. "Who are you taking to the dance?"
"I'll ask Angelina."
"Angelina?-
"And I don't need to ask who you want to take," He winks playfully. "Haven't made a move yet, from what I've heard. Have you spoken to her at all? That's a good place to start."
"We have spoken," George retorts. While it wasn't a lie, it seemed to stretch the truth. He had spoken to you, sure, but the conversation consisted of you asking if he had any spare parchment and George quickly handing it over while a jumble of incoherence fell from his lips.
"Go on and ask her out, then." Fred gestures to the happy syltherin girl before them.
"I can't," He shudders, "Not publicly like that, risk a lifetime of ridicule and a possible head injury.
Fred cast him a sideways look. "And yet, somehow, I think you'd survive. You've been pining for years, Georgie. If embarrassment hasn't killed you yet, rejection won't either."
George groaned, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm not pining."
"You are pining. You, brother, are a pine tree shedding your pinecones all over me.
"Alright, blimy, I get it."
"Then do it!" Fred urges.
George considers the possibilities. You could accept his invitation, and the two of you would have a great night. You might deny him such pleasure and send him into a deep spiralling depression that petrifies him upon the notion of asking another girl out. "How?"
"How?" Fred repeats, sputtering and looking around to be sure George was speaking to him. "How? Well, of course, you are going to keep avoiding her and never speak a word and graduate, then years later hear of someone else marrying her."
George frowns, "I don't like the sound of that."
"Then man up, do something, please." Fred gives his brother a firm slap on the shoulder.
"I'm manly enough as I am." George shrugs Fred's hand off him.
"Only because you look like me, you're sort of piggybacking off my masculinity."
"You're piggybacking off my grades."
"I'm co-opting."
"That's the same thing."
"Not the point," Fred waves him off. "You ought to pluck up some courage and ask her out before someone else does. I will not be sharing my date with you when you wallow."
He turns his head, eyes trailing back down the hall to his charms class. For a moment, he juggles with the potential outcomes and finally draws to one conclusion: "Tomorrow, I'll catch her before we leave class."
જ⁀➴
George had not caught you before he left class. In fact, you had left before it even ended, being tasked with aiding preparations for the Yule Ball. Now he was rushing through his assignment as if it would make the class end faster.
He was still running off an adrenaline high from the fantasies he projected in his mind the night prior to how swave he may be whilst asking to accompany you to the ball. In that head of his, he was a proper gentleman, and you accepted his invitation with eagerness.
"Oi," Fred nudges him, his voice a low whisper, "What are you buzzing for?"
"I'm going to ask her out," He states, quill shaking against parchment.
Fred swivels his head, looking amongst the rows of students stuffed in hardwood chairs. "Mate, she's not even here."
"Well, yes. I know this, but I'm going to go find her."
"Sounds... dangerous on her end," Fred mutters.
"Dangerous?" George furrows his eyebrows down at his ink-soaked sheets of scribbles. "Elaborate."
"You're wound awfully tight, wouldn't want to see you unravel. Are you sure this isn't another one of your delusions?"
"Just yesterday you were in full support of my delusion."
"Who said I was opposed to it?" Fred asks, "I think it's brave of you."
"Alright, taunt me now, but you'll be sorry when I've got the best looking date."
"Right, and are you aware how close that is?"
"You're not helping."
"I'm motivating," Fred corrects, eyes glinting with mischief. "Besides, we both know you'll choke the moment she looks at you. You'll forget your name, or worse, hers."
George drops his quill and stares blankly at the parchment in front of him. "She knows my name."
"Does she?" Fred tilts his head in mock sympathy. "Remind me, which of the Weasley twins do you think she thinks you are?"
"Fred."
"I'm only saying," he shrugs, "if she thinks she's been smiling at me all this time, that's bound to get awkward."
George exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing. "You're insufferable."
Far off, Flitwick babbles of something, all George catches is his sentence, "That concludes the lesson today-
George shut his book closed in an instant, jamming his papers inside, quill and ink tucked into his pocket. He stood fast while Flitwick floundered upon the sight, he had seen George eager to leave class, but never so hungry to cross the threshold of his lesson.
"Mr. Weasley-
Flitwick began, but George was long gone, long legs carrying him fast away from his studies and hopefully to you.
Geore's shoes thumped against marble floors, his bag bouncing against his hip, quill ink bleeding faintly through his pocket. He barely heard Fred's cackling fade behind him before he was halfway down the corridor, heart hammering like a snare drum.
He could still see it all in his mind's eye: your startled but delighted smile when he asked; the way you would maybe laugh softly, say, tell him you would love nothing more. It was all so clear that he nearly crashed straight into a group of Hufflepuffs rounding the corner.
"Sorry! Terribly sorry- coming through, urgent romantic business!" he called over his shoulder, not slowing in the slightest.
A first-year squeaked as he leapt over her dropped quills, narrowly missing a Filch bucket brimming with murky water.
He took the moving staircases two at a time, scanning every landing for a glimpse of blue and bronze. "Where would she be? Decorations... ribbons... sparkly things..." he muttered under his breath, skidding into the next corridor.
"Mr. Weasley!" Professor Sinistra's sharp voice rang out as he burst through the door of the Astronomy Tower classroom. The students turned mid-lesson to watch him freeze in the doorway, panting.
"Er- wrong floor. My mistake. Carry on!"
He gave a half-hearted salute, backing out as Sinistra's eyes narrowed.
"You could knock, you know!" she snapped, but he was already gone again, sprinting down the steps, muttering apologies to anyone he passed. "Ten points from Gryffindor!" She called after him as he took another quick exit. He had lost his house hundreds of points in his years, what was ten more?
He caught sight of Angelina halfway along the corridor and nearly collided with her.
"Oi, have you seen-" he panted, "-you know, Ravenclaw, helps with decorations, bit shorter than me, smells like- er-never mind. The dance committee business, where's that at?"
"Hell would I know?" Angelina frowns at him, dark eyebrows knit.
"Right- thanks," George continues on his pursuit, his pace a rigid strut. George nearly collides with the doorframe as he skids to a stop, chest heaving from the sprint through the castle. The placard beside the door reads Authorized Students Only. He knocks anyway, too impatient to care about protocol.
The door swings open, and there stands Hazel, sleeves rolled to her elbows and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She raises a brow. "Oh, you," she steps partly into the doorway like a guard at a gate. "You're not supposed to be in here. We're very busy."
"I just need a word," George says quickly, his grin lopsided and breathless. "Just a moment, promise. Won't take long."
"We've got enough volunteers-
"Erm, no-" George cranes his neck to peek over her shoulder. "I'm looking for a girl, Ravenclaw, I think she's helping-
Hazel tightens her grip on the clipboard and squares her shoulders, blocking his view. "Everyone in here is helping, Weasley."
"Yes, yes, that's all very noble, but I really must-" He ducks to one side, spotting a flash of familiar hair near the back of the room- you, bent over a table, carefully charming the candle arrangements to float in even lines. His stomach tightens.
"There!" He points, the word bursting out before he can stop it. "That's her! I'll be two ticks, just let me-"
Hazel plants a firm hand on his chest. "Out," she says, in the same tone McGonagall uses when he's crossed the line at last.
"Hazel, please-"
"Rules are rules," she says primly. "Manage your time better, mate."
"But-"
She shuts the door in his face, and George is left to stare at the spruce panel before him. He wanted to bang again, but that wasn't a very good look. What would you think of him then? With his head hung low, all courage vanished, he takes this one as a loss and at a normal pace peruses back down the hall.
Hazel struts back over to your table, continuing on sorting through dozens of ornaments, all golden, white, and silver- seemingly ancient. You thought they must've been used for dances centuries ago with the thick layers of dust on them.
As Hazel settles back into her task, you fight the words to ask, but your nosiness once again gets the best of you, "What did he want?"
She looks up at you, face indifferent, bored even. "He was looking for you, actually."
You froze, the candles you had charmed to levitate dropping and rolling off the table, hitting the ground with a thump. "Me?"
You had long had a crush on George. In your mind, you always assumed George didn't care for you. He and his brother were both impossible, extroverted, and you thought that you kept to yourself a bit too much for his liking.
On the off chance you tried to speak to him, you were either outright ignored or shut down in an instant. You had gushed to your friends about him while they booed and told you to move on, less supportive of this specific endeavour. You knew well the heart wants what it wants and that your crush on George would not be going anywhere, anytime soon.
"Yeah," Hazel says, eyes focusing back onto her mission, "I told him you two can sort it out later."
"You didn't think to tell me?" You press.
Hazel shrugs, "He's just being a bug, he's always going off on some kinda stunt." That's why you liked him, he seemed so easygoing, oddly the calmer of the two Weasley twins, despite all the ruckus he still falls into.
"Well, I care to know," You abandon your candles, wand clutched in hand, you storm across the room. Maybe he was still waiting outside. This was eating you alive.
When you push the door open, there is no tall ginger boy waiting outside for you, only students rushing to make it to their final classes of the day, some stroll leisurely without a care for being late. You take a step out and let the door shut behind you, walking down one length of the corridor before turning and going down the other. You give up hope and slink back to the committee room.
જ⁀➴
The sky above Hogsmeade was a muted grey that brought with it a strange sense of comfort while students and residents bundled up in their warmest clothes to visit the shops. The cold air carried through the scent of cinnamon and firewood. George elbowed Fred, who was cackling already at the string of jokes his brother had spoken. Just when he prepares to make another one, his words falter, stopped in his throat completely as his eyes fixate on one spot.
"Fred."
Fred kept walking, clutching his ribs to aid the pain of laughter as it fizzled out. "What?"
"Fred."
"What?"
George grabbed his sleeve and spun him around so abruptly that a passing third-year nearly dropped their butterbeer. "Look," George hissed, pointing toward the window of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
You stood in front of a velvet sofa, your friends all fawning at the sight of you, the shopkeeper fussing over the hem of a dress that shimmered like fresh cream under candlelight. It wasn't flashy, no sequins, no sparkles, but it fit you, soft and simple, and when you smiled, twirling slightly to show the movement of the flouncy skirt, George thought he might actually be sick.
"Oh, bloody hell," Fred muttered. "You've got that look."
George didn't even hear him. His expression was all wide eyes and parted lips, "Fred, I might be ill."
"I'm ill, that's certain," He grumbles.
George's smile falters upon the realization that you were trying on a ball gown. "She's trying that on for the ball. She's got a date then, does she? Oh- blimey, Fred, what if someone's asked her out already?"
"Then you missed your million chances to do it yourself."
George groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I'm doomed." Inside the shop, you twirled once in the mirror, the skirt catching the light. You laughed at something your friend said, speaking animatedly, and George swore his knees went weak. One of your friends, Hazel, follows you into the dressing room to help you take off the intricate garment as Madam Malkin slips away to ring you up.
Fred let out an exaggerated groan that startled nearby birds. "Alright. I've had it. You're pathetic."
George tore his gaze from the shop window. "What?"
"You heard me," Fred said, already marching toward Madam Malkin's. "I'm not spending another afternoon watching you yearn from behind glass like some pervert. You're going in there."
"I most certainly am not!" George protested, tripping after him. "Fred, don't you dare-"
"Oh, I dare," Fred tossed back over his shoulder, pushing open the door with the force of a man on a mission. "You're buying a tie."
"I don't need a tie!" George hissed, trying to plant his feet.
"You do if you're taking someone to the ball," Fred said cheerfully. "Now come on, before you burst into tears."
The shop bell jingled as they entered, warm air wrapping around them, thick with the smell of fabric and lavender polish. Madam Malkin looked up from behind the counter, blinking at them through her half-moon spectacles.
"Back again, Mr. Weasley?" she asked.
Fred grinned. "Ah, you remember me."
"Hard to forget," She shrugs.
George shot his twin a glare. "We're just looking-"
"-for a tie!" Fred interrupted, slapping a hand on George's shoulder. "My brother here's desperate for one. Something elegant, if you will."
Madam Malkin raised a brow. "Colour preference?"
Fred pretended to think, tapping his chin. "Something to match the dress that dress, I reckon." Fred narrows his eyes, pointing past the racks of fine-tailored clothing to where you stood just outside the fitting room, the dress you had on, now folded neatly in your arms.
"Oh! Are you two going together?" Madam Malkin's face softens, her voice drawing your attention. You lift your head up, staring dead at the twins, trying to make sense of the situation
Your gaze had found him- properly found him- and in that moment, every clever, charming word he'd rehearsed in his head for weeks turned to smoke as his body fell rigid.
"Go on, lover boy," Fred whispered through a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat. "Here's your big moment."
George's voice came out an octave too high. "No, no, we're not- I mean- not yet- I mean- not ever- well, possibly- I mean- it depends-"
You blinked. "What?"
Fred slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Madam Malkin, entirely oblivious to the mortal crisis unfolding before her, smiled pleasantly. "Well, she does look lovely in that gown."
George's heart thudded in his throat. "Yes! I mean- she does. You do. Look lovely. In general. Not just- not that you don't always-" He winced, feeling his soul leave his body. "Shit."
You bit your lip to hide a laugh, eyes flicking shyly down. "Thank you," you say, just as nervous as George, only more composed.
Fred was beaming, rocking back on his heels like he was front row at a play. "My brother was actually just saying he's been dying to-"
"Is that the dress?" Hazel peeps up from the couch. "We need to head back soon if we want to meet McGonagall on time."
"Oh- right," You snap out of your George-induced trance, "I suppose it is."
Hazel was on her feet before George could summon another word, snatching your parcel from the counter and thrusting it into your arms with practiced precision. "Perfect! You've tried it, loved it, bought it, and now we've got to fly," she announced, tone brisk and final.
Your other friends gathered their things in a flurry of chatter and wool scarves, all too preoccupied to notice the way you lingered, your eyes darting toward George, who looked about two seconds away from melting into the floorboards.
"Wait- Hazel-" you started, clutching the parcel to your chest, voice small beneath the bustle.
Hazel didn't slow. "Come on, Professor McGonagall will have our heads if we're late." She gave a polite nod to Madam Malkin, ignored Fred's smirk, and began steering you firmly toward the door.
George panicked, his brain short-circuiting as you turned halfway back to him. "I- um!" he blurted, stumbling over his own feet to catch your attention. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
You stopped for a heartbeat, halfway out the door, your cheeks pink with either embarrassment or the cold. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft smile on your face. "I've actually had something I've been meaning to ask."
It was that smile, your eyes as sharp as knives and your face softer than snow, he would've asked you right then had Hazel not tugged your sleeve sharply. "We're going, now," she hissed under her breath, shooting George a look that could've curdled milk.
And just like that, you were gone, swept into the swirl of chatter and laughter as the door swung shut behind you, the bell chiming its little goodbye.
For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet swish of fabric and the creak of floorboards as George stood frozen, staring after you like someone who'd just witnessed a miracle slip through his fingers.
Fred crossed his arms, a grin spreading wide. "Well," he drawled, "you nearly had her, mate."
George blinked, dazed. "Did I?"
"No."
જ⁀➴
The snow had fallen thick overnight, a new layer of sleet adorning the already frigid castle. The courtyard glimmered beneath the winter sun; it was quiet as everyone trailed down to Hogsmeade aside from two ginger boys, bathing in their muffled laughter.
"Alright, watch it with that bit." George says, shoving Fred's hand away, "Be gentle, it's not Ron." George ordered, holding up the lopsided middle section of their snowman as Fred attempted to balance the top.
"I'm incredibly gentle. Why, I am so gentle I don't even leave footprints in the snow."
"I always knew we had an invisible triplet," George shakes his head at the large tracks they had left in the snow.
"Mum never told you?" Fred teases. "Clearly, she has a favourite."
"And it's Ginny," George answers.
"Maybe you'd be the favourite if you weren't sighing and moaning every five seconds."
"I am not sighing or moaning. I am simply mourning the loss of what could've been the greatest love of my life."
"You are sighing," Fred said. "Loudly. I'm not enjoying this. It's like building a snowman with Snape, and he's long given up on life."
George scowled. "Maybe I have."
Fred stilled, half-smile fading into something quieter. "You really think she's going with someone else?"
George shrugged, reaching for a stick to use as an arm. "She was trying on a dress, Fred. What else would that mean? I took too long. Someone else probably got there first."
Fred leaned on the snowman, arms folded, watching his brother jab twigs into the figure's sides. "You're assuming a lot, you know."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're moping around like you've been dumped and you still haven't even talked to her."
"I'm much too melancholy to; she'll smell the sadness on me and run away."
"I doubt she'll smell it over your natural stench."
They fell quiet for a bit, focusing on the snowman and letting their twin telepathy speak for them. Fred would like to say the snowman was taking shape, but in truth, it wasn't. It was crooked, snow patched on in odd spots to keep its structural integrity.
"Wow," George says, "Looks ghastly."
"And I think he's going to get a date before you."
George opened his mouth to make a retort when a snowball hit him square in the shoulder, and all he said was "Ow!" He froze, turning slowly as a splatter of white slid down his coat. Fred was already laughing before George could say anything.
"Oh, that's stunning," Fred wheezed. "Didn't even see it coming-"
Another snowball sailed through the air and clipped George right in the back of the head, and then one into Fred's chest.
That did it.
"Oh, now it's war," George said, brushing snow out of his hair and scanning the castle's arched windows. His eyes narrowed. "Where'd that come from?"
Fred cupped his hands around his mouth and called out toward the high stone walls. "Show yourself, coward! You've angered a Weasley!"
A third snowball whizzed down and hit Fred in the face, cutting off his laughter with a splutter.
George frowned. "Guess they don't like gingers."
Fred wiped snow off his nose. "Go avenge me."
George was already headed toward the entrance of the castle. He remembered the exact window balcony he was a snowball was propelled from and he was headed right for it. He climbed the steps two at a time, boots squeaking on the stone, and slipped through the heavy oak door into the corridor.
Cold air followed him in, leaving a trail of melting snow behind as he scanned the hallway. The tall windows framed the courtyard below, the perfect vantage point for a snowball ambush. He crept forward, listening for movement. The muffled sound of giggling reached his ears before he saw anyone. Peering around a corner, he caught sight of three girls ducked below the sill, hands full of half-formed snowballs.
You were among them, all laughter and wool sweater. You were covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, cheeks pink from the cold, a stray snowflake still caught in your hair. "Hi." You squeak, smile still wide. George's breath caught in his throat. For a second, he forgot why he was there at all.
George folded his arms, feigning his most serious expression, though not one person believed it. "I'm afraid this is a grave matter," he said solemnly. "You've assaulted a student, defied a prefect in spirit, and damaged a snowman of great national importance."
Your friend snorted, "You built that lumpy thing."
"Watch your tone," George shot back, pointing at her. "Or I'll double your sentence." You were laughing now, trying to hide it behind your scarf, but the slight shake and muffled giggles gave you away. George turned back to you, lowering his voice. "You especially, miss. You're the prime suspect."
"Oh, am I?" you teased, matching his tone, lilt light with laughter.
"'Fraid so," he said, stepping closer. "And I take these things very seriously. So, if you'd come with me, we can discuss your punishment privately."
You stand up, swiping some snow off your trousers and following George, your heartbeat quickening with every step. The hallways fell quiet once you rounded the corner away from all of the chatter. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore how loud his heartbeat was in his ears. "I must admit this was mostly for dramatic effect. I'm not going to arrest you."
"What a relief, I don't have a lawyer."
"I do need to ask why you are assaulting me and my well-loved snowman."
"Well, I've heard a rumour," You say, coyly despite all the nerves that stood on end.
"A rumour? Do tell."
"I couldn't; it may shatter you."
"Then you must tell me. What?"
You bite your lip for a moment, grinning, "That you really, desperately want to ask me out."
George froze. For once, his mouth, usually so quick and full of quips, betrayed him entirely. His freckles stood out stark against the pink rapidly creeping up his face. "I- er- well, that's a bold rumour," he managed, his voice cracking halfway through.
You laughed softly, tilting your head. "No denial?"
He blinked at you, caught between a smirk and panic. "Well, I'd hate to spread misinformation. Doesn't follow my family values." You grinned, and the sight of it seemed to knock what little sense he had left right out of his head. "Alright," he started, rubbing the back of his neck again, "maybe there's... a bit of truth to that rumour. A small bit. A rather enormous bit, if I'm honest."
You took a step closer, close enough that he caught the faint scent of snow and something warm- like cinnamon and parchment. "I really thought I would have to suffocate you with snowballs to get a confession."
"Please don't," he said quickly, though he was smiling now, lopsided and flustered. "I'm trying very hard to be suave right now."
"Suave?" you teased. "You just threatened me."
"Ah, yes, part of my charm. I'm going for intimidating yet approachable."
You laughed again, soft and airy. The flakes of snow rested gently on your head, and it made him all the more sure of his decision that he had made years ago. He liked you, terribly, desperately, hungrily. He couldn't dare ask another to the dance because he knew there would be no replacement for you.
"Alright, then," he said, quieter this time. "Since we're on the topic of confessions, and I've already humiliated myself thoroughly, would you... Want to go to the ball with me?"
You pretended to think for half a second, tapping your chin. "Hmm. I'll have to consult the lawyer I don’t have."
"Very funny."
"I mean," you added, letting your grin soften, "if you're asking nicely..."
He straightened, mock formality returning for a moment. "Miss," he said with an exaggerated bow, "would you do me the great honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"
You dipped in a tiny, teasing curtsey. "I'd love to."
He blinked, then lit up like the castle itself had turned on all its candles at once. "You- really?"
"Really," You confirm.
"You're joking," He says, dumbfounded.
"I never joke," You shake your head.
"So, honestly, you'll go with me?" His tone is earnest, eyes widened in disbelief.
"Are you high?" You laugh, furrowing your eyebrows.
thinking about Logan leaning against the wall near the open bedroom window shirtless with his pants unbuckled hanging so low on his hips that you can see his v line. He’s smoking a cigar and grinning from ear to ear because he’s just railed you into next week and you’re lying on the bed a complete mess with his cum still dripping out of you.
It’s nice and quiet and the only thing he can hear is your soft breaths and the crickets chirping in the night and he thinks that this is right where he wants to be for the rest of his life.
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