#endless hours of fighting...

[unsettling-catboy]

rip barnabas you would've loved the chronolith's arcade mode

[delta-piscium]

barely being on tumblr for the past month has left me so vulnerable to the fuck-ass stuff you all post, got like ten posts deep on my dash and i need a break, gonna have to ease myself in and build my tolerance for this nonsense back up

[xiii-e]

//ooc posting: I NEED to find more fun/silly things to do with my two they are Not meant to be all agony all the time I swear- I just have a penchant for the dramatic and they're a little in the torment nexus o(-< but on god they will Have Fun too

[megafreeman]

Okay so something about new SR I love-hate is its notoriety system. Idk how much yall played, but when you get max notoriety level, the game spawns a mini-boss for you to fight, and once you kill them, that scares away the rest of the gang fighting you and causes them to flee in fear and wipe your notoriety. This makes sense for the gangs right? I mean they send the biggest guy that their faction gave their best resources to, and you destroy them like a wet paper, ofc they'd be scared shitless

What's funny, is that this system also applies to the Police/National Guard. When you reach max notoriety, National Guard will start spawning, with one giant tank in the middle. If you destroy the tank or kill its driver, that will cause the entire National Guard (or cops if they didn't despawn) to flee in fear from you and wipe away your notoriety.

And that's so damn absurd and funny to me. You commit the crimes after crimes, and level half the city with your cutting edge weapons, but if you manage to destroy one tank (which all it takes is one RPG rocket you can buy as soon as you get in game), it will cause the Santo Ileso Police Department to drop all criminal charges against you for doing a bare minimum of carrying one RPG and knowing how to use it

[eclipsetheskies]

Eclipse pauses from sharpening and polishing his switch axe, his head suddenly facing skyward as he starts sniffing audibly before his nose wrinkles in distaste. "...Why do I smell.... wet dog?"

[midnightwind]

busted out a rum cocktail to watch T1 vs HLE and wouldn't you know it, I'm so fucking tired now

[aheeheemwhimper]

if i could go back in time and tell myself anything it would be that one day i'm gonna be really fucking efficient at getting through panic attacks

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Get out!

Pairings: Lads men x afab!reader

Summary: Your 4 year old child, is fighting with their dad over you. part 2

If you enjoyed this, check this post out too!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ sylus

The sun had barely crept over the horizon when a small, warm weight landed on your stomach. You let out a soft groan, blinking sleep from your eyes as a tiny giggle filled the air.

“Mama! Wake up!”

A little girl with curly white hair and big red eyes beamed down at you, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement. Your daughter, Elena, was already full of energy despite the early hour.

You reached out, gently tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Sweetheart, it’s too early… come cuddle with us instead.” You said as you hugged your daughter to your chest and laid on your side, using her like a small warm plushie to hold

Elena pouted, but before she could argue, a deep, gravelly voice interrupted.

“Excuse me, little one,” Sylus drawled from behind you, his arm tightening possessively around your waist. “I believe your mother is mine in the mornings.”

Elena huffed, climbing over you to plant herself between the two of you, effectively shoving Sylus away. “No! Mama is mine today.”

Sylus narrowed his dark red eyes, feigning insult. “Oh? And what am I supposed to do, hmm? Spend the morning alone?” He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his white, tousled hair. “How tragic.”

You smothered a laugh as Elena folded her arms, her tiny frame full of defiance. “You have all day with Mama. It’s my turn now! Get out of bed dada”

Sylus turned to you, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Sweetheart, tell our dear daughter that monopolizing her mother isn’t allowed.”

You stretched with a soft yawn, brushing your fingers through Elena’s soft curls before placing a hand on Sylus’ chest. “Sorry, love, but she does have a point.”

Sylus let out an exaggerated groan, flopping onto his back. “Betrayed. By my own wife and child.”

Elena giggled and latched onto your arm. “Come on, Mama! Let’s go make pancakes!”

Before you could even respond, she was already tugging you out of bed. You barely had time to throw on a robe before being dragged toward the kitchen.

Sylus followed at a much slower pace, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway, watching the two of you. His lips twitched in amusement as Elena enthusiastically handed you ingredients, most of which you didn’t even need.

“Flour, eggs, milk,” you listed off, cracking an egg into the bowl.

“And chocolate chips!” Elena added excitedly.

“That wasn’t part of the original plan,” you teased, ruffling her hair.

“But Mama, chocolate makes everything better,” she argued.

You sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Chocolate it is.”

Elena cheered as you mixed the batter, and soon enough, the scent of warm pancakes filled the kitchen. You plated them neatly, setting them on the table, but before you could sit down, Sylus was already pulling you into his lap.

“Alright, little one,” he said, smirking at Elena. “I was patient. Now it’s my turn.”

Elena gasped. “No fair! You get Mama all the time!”

Sylus held you close, his lips brushing against your temple. “Exactly. Which is why I should get the first bite.”

Elena narrowed her eyes before suddenly grabbing a piece of pancake and stuffing it into your mouth. “Mama gets first bite!”

You nearly choked, laughing as Sylus sighed in mock defeat.

The morning continued like this, the two of them constantly bickering over who got more of your attention. If Sylus wrapped an arm around you, Elena would climb onto your lap. If Elena got you to braid her hair, Sylus would find a way to pull you into a slow, lingering kiss—only for Elena to dramatically cover her eyes and shout, “Eww, Papa!”

It was an endless tug-of-war, but one thing was clear: you were deeply, endlessly loved.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Caleb

The day had been long. Between running errands, cleaning up after a particularly chaotic dinner, and making sure your 4-year-old son had actually bathed instead of just splashing water everywhere, all you wanted was to crawl into bed and melt into your pillows.

But, of course, fate—or rather, the two most stubborn males in your life—had other plans.

Just as you pulled back the covers, ready to slide under the sheets, a little whirlwind of energy burst into the room. Your son, Noah, padded in with a determined expression, his favorite stuffed apple plush clutched in one arm.

“I’m sleeping with Mama tonight!” he declared, climbing onto the bed as if he owned it.

You sighed, already sensing the inevitable battle brewing.

“Noah,” you started patiently, “you have your own bed, sweetheart.”

“But I don’t want my own bed,” he pouted, scooting closer. “I wanna sleep here with you.”

Before you could formulate a response, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and in walked Caleb, still in his colonel uniform, just back from the fleet, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on the intruder in his domain.

“Noah,” Caleb said, voice edged with authority. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Noah puffed out his little chest, glaring up at his father. “I’m sleeping with Mama.”

Caleb raised a brow. “No, you’re not. I sleep with Mama.”

“Well, not tonight.”

“Yes, tonight.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Are you two seriously about to argue over this?”

Neither of them responded. Instead, they were locked in a silent battle of wills, Caleb towering over Noah, while Noah, unafraid, jutted his chin out defiantly.

“I got here first,” Noah announced.

“I’ve been here for years,” Caleb countered, placing a knee on the bed as if preparing for battle.

Noah tightened his grip on his stuffed apple plush. “Mama likes cuddling with me more!”

“Excuse me?” Caleb scoffed. “I am a very good cuddler. The best.”

“No, you’re too big! You take up all the space!”

“I do not—”

“You do! And you snore!”

Caleb looked personally offended. “I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do,” you cut in, unable to hold back your smirk.

Caleb’s mouth fell open, betrayal clear on his face. “Sweetheart—”

“It’s true, Daddy,” Noah added smugly. “You sound like a big grumpy bear.”

Caleb scowled. “I am a big grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a tiny bed hog.”

Noah gasped dramatically. “I am not a bed hog!”

You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. watching the two go on and on “Alright, enough.”

Both of them snapped their heads toward you, watching as you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

“You two fight over me every single night. And honestly?” You sighed, dragging yourself out of bed. “I’m sick of it.”

Caleb and Noah blinked.

“What?” Noah asked innocently.

You grabbed two pillows from the bed, shoving one into Caleb’s hands and the other into Noah’s tiny arms.

“You two can take this argument somewhere else.” You gestured toward the door. “Both of you—out.”

Noah’s jaw dropped. “But—”

Caleb furrowed his brows. “You’re kicking me out, too?”

“Yes. Out. Both of you.”

“But Mama—”

“No buts! I am going to sleep alone, in peace, without a four-year-old climbing all over me or a six-foot colonel trying to wrap himself around me like an octopus.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Go fight over who gets the couch.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

Noah smirked. “Guess I’ll get the couch, then.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Caleb shot back.

You sighed and physically pushed both of them toward the door. “Out.”

Noah whimpered. “Mama, wait—”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” You kissed his forehead before turning to Caleb. “And you—” You gave him a pointed glare. “Good. Night.”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, clearly displeased with the outcome. “This is mutiny.”

“Call it whatever you want, Colonel, but it’s happening.”

With that, you shut the door in their faces.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

“This is your fault,” Caleb muttered.

“I still get the couch,” Noah replied smugly.

You grinned, sinking into your blissfully empty bed, enjoying the first real night of uninterrupted sleep in weeks.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Rafayel

Life with Rafayel was never dull. Being married to one of the most renowned artists in the world came with its own set of challenges—his erratic work schedule, his bursts of inspiration at ungodly hours, and, of course, the ever-looming threat of someone discovering his biggest secret.

Rafayel wasn’t just a celebrated painter, sculptor, and occasional recluse. he was also a Lemurian—a species of deep-sea mermen that most humans believed to be myths. Lemurians were creatures of the ocean, rarely venturing into the human world.

But Rafayel had. He had chosen to leave behind the waves, to live among humans, to build a life with you. And together, you had a daughter—little Seraphina—who had inherited his everything. His attitude, his stupidly handsome face shape, his genes left nothing for yours to take root in seraphina.

And now, the two of them were bickering. Again.

You rubbed your temples, exhaling deeply. “Can you two please stop fighting over me for five minutes?”

Rafayel, ever the dramatic artist, was sprawled on the couch with a faux-wounded expression, his purple hair draped over his face. “I cannot believe this betrayal,” he murmured. “I, your devoted husband, have been abandoned.”

Seraphina, all four years of attitude and tiny hands on her hips, stood her ground. “You had Mama all day! It’s my turn!”

Rafayel gasped, looking personally offended. “Excuse me, little guppy, but I believe it is always my turn.”

Seraphina pouted, her violet eyes—exactly like her father’s—narrowing. “Mama played with me first.”

“Mama kissed me first this morning.”

“Well—Mama let me sit on their lap while we ate breakfast.”

“Mama lets me sleep in the bed next to them.”

You groaned. “Rafayel, she’s four.”

“And?” He arched a perfect brow. “She must learn that a wife’s love belongs to her husband first.”

Seraphina huffed, turning to you with pleading eyes. “Mama, tell Daddy he’s being mean.”

You sighed, knowing full well that no answer would satisfy either of them.

Rafayel rolled onto his side, reaching a hand toward you as if on his deathbed. “My love, tell our traitorous offspring that no one can replace me in your heart.”

“I am not a traitor!” Seraphina stomped a tiny foot. “Mama loves me so much! Even more than you!”

Rafayel sat up instantly. “Oh, now that’s where you’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right!”

“You wish, little one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering how your life had come to this—caught between two extremely possessive, competitive merfolk.

Seraphina suddenly latched onto your leg, wrapping herself around it like a tiny octopus. “Mine,” she declared.

Rafayel narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Seraphina stuck her tongue out at him.

Rafayel smirked. “Well then.” He cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

In one swift motion, he scooped Seraphina up, ignoring her protests as he carried her toward the glass doors leading to the backyard’s infinity pool—built deep enough to accommodate his real form.

Seraphina’s eyes widened. “Wait—WAIT! What are you doing?!”

Rafayel grinned mischievously. “Throwing you back into the sea where you belong, little guppy.”

“NOOO!”

You laughed, watching as Seraphina clung to her father’s arm, suddenly realizing her fight for dominance might have backfired.

“Say it,” Rafayel teased, holding her above the water. “Say I win.”

Seraphina squirmed. “Never!”

Rafayel raised a brow. “Alright then—”

“MAMA HELP!”

You folded your arms, amused. “This seems like a father-daughter matter.”

Seraphina gasped at your betrayal. “Mama, no!”

Rafayel gave you a smug look. “Oh, so now you need me, hmm?”

Seraphina groaned dramatically before finally giving in. “Fiiiiiine. You win.”

Rafayel set her back on the ground, ruffling her purple hair. “That’s my girl.”

She huffed but then immediately clung to your side again. “But Mama still loves me more.”

Rafayel scoffed. “Dream on, little guppy.”

You sighed, shaking your head. This was your life now.

[delta-piscium]

“could a depressed person make this” meme and what i made is taking screenshots of characters holding up one finger during an argument and making gifs of them wiggling that finger

[stabthecode]

.

[maskedbyghost]

“you are on the couch tonight, riley!” you shout, pointing a finger toward the living room. simon stands there, his jaw clenched, hands clenched at his sides, clearly unhappy but resigned.

there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, masked quickly with his usual steely glare. he just nods, not saying a word, as he grabs a blanket from the closet and settles down on the couch without another look your way.

the apartment feels colder without him by your side, and the silence that follows is louder than any argument. you lie in bed, your head turned to the wall, arms crossed tightly as if that could keep out the ache creeping in.

you feel miserable, thinking over the fight, wondering if you were too harsh, if maybe he wasn’t entirely in the wrong. but you bury it, refusing to let yourself soften too quickly. this isn’t the first time you two have fought; being with simon means loving him as he is, stubbornness and all.

but tonight, it feels different. minutes stretch into hours, and you find yourself glancing at the empty side of the bed, missing his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. you turn over again, clutching the pillow tighter, but it doesn’t help.

meanwhile, simon’s on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, a sigh slipping out into the darkened room. his mind replays the fight in quiet fragments, the words that had been said, your voice still ringing in his ears.

he knows he messed up, though he’d never admit it to anyone but himself. he misses you too, even if pride keeps him rooted to the couch, where the cushions dig into his back, and sleep refuses to come.

after another endless stretch, you finally can’t take it anymore. you get up, padding softly into the living room. simon’s form is a dark silhouette against the dim light from the window, his breathing shallow, not quite asleep. he hears you but doesn’t move, as if afraid to let hope show too early.

“simon…” your voice is quiet. you see his shoulders tense before he slowly drops his arm from his eyes, looking up at you. his gaze is guarded, but there’s an unmistakable softness there, a glint of something like regret.

“can’t sleep either, huh?” he mutters, breaking the silence, his voice rough from the hours of silence.

you shake your head, and without another word, he shifts to make space. you sit beside him and lean against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder, and after a beat, his arm wraps around you, pulling you closer.

“i’m sorry baby,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“me too,” you murmur, feeling the tension melt away as he holds you tighter.

neither of you says anything more. words don’t matter as much now, not when the warmth of his arm around you feels like coming home.

------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic

[erinwantstowrite]

while im here im going to try and convince you guys to write more "Tim Drake joining the Batfam late" aus because it's underrepresented

like, i love the fics where he joins early. that's cute! but a fic where he joins late for whatever reason??? i eat it up like a cat starved for attention. i want Tim Drake being the "perfect" heir to Drake Industries and being known as the polite, well adjusted young man that everyone knows. and then turn around and find out that Tim has not only been stalking the Bats under their radar since he was, what, 9 years old? but on top of that, he's started solving cases that they can't get to. Tim who stalked so hard he learned where they learned their martial arts and went "backpacking across europe" only to have actually been learning from Shiva. Tim who has become an urban legend to the Batfam because they can't tell if this vigilante exists or not, since they never catch him, they don't have footage on him, etc. Or if they DO know him, they don't even think to put Tim Drake in the suspect pool because Tim Drake whined for an hour when he broke a nail at a charity event once. the kid is smart, sure, but he's not going out at night fighting crime and solving cases that Batman didn't know about yet.

even better if Tim named his vigilante persona an adjacent name to the Robin mantle. him knowing he can't BE Robin (perhaps Jason hadn't died in this au) but he could be a hero that helps them from the shadows

and obviously he makes a mistake of some kind... maybe he saves someone at an event as Tim Drake and Bruce sees how little hesitation he had. or maybe he gets injured and can't get up himself, and that's when a Bat or a Robin or someone finds this vigilante they almost thought was a myth: bloody, broken, and needing help. pick him up and take him home and then there are endless possibilities to what happens next but the ending BETTER be Tim finding his home with his people

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Slasher x Reader

Staring down at the icy water below, you sobbed. How could you have known? How could you have possibly known that your life would unravel in a single, dazzling instant? Life was strange that way, you supposed—one moment, you were laughing with your friends, paddling down the river, and the next, their bodies were staining the current red.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, the stickiness of sweat clinging to your fingers. Carefully, you stepped over a corpse, its glassy, unblinking eyes staring up at nothing. Your stomach twisted, bile clawing up your throat, but you swallowed it down.

The wind howled through the trees, a bitter, keening sound, and crows cawed mournfully from their shadowed nests. A shudder wracked your body, and you swallowed your anxiety with a gulping, desperate whimper.

That man—that awful, blood-slicked masked man—was still out there. Lurking. Waiting. Watching.

Hours dragged by, and he hadn’t found you.

You were shivering in a tree’s gnarled embrace, the rough bark biting into your arms and legs, when you heard it—the slow, crunching of heavy boots against dead leaves. You froze, breath caught in your chest, fingers digging into the mossy branch beneath you. Your heart hammered, each beat a desperate, panicked drum. Maybe he wouldn’t look up. Maybe he’d think you’d run further. Maybe—

A creak. The tree shuddered. You bit your tongue, stifling a gasp, but your terror gave you away. The masked man’s head tilted up, the crude, dirt-streaked mask covering his face. His clothes hung in filthy tatters, stained dark with mud and crimson blood.

You didn’t even have time to scream. A massive, calloused hand shot up, fingers closing around your ankle like a steel trap. With one brutal yank, you were wrenched from your perch, the world spinning in a blur of twisting branches and sky. You hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Pain blossomed in your side, but before you could even curl in on yourself, that iron grip seized your arm.

He dragged you, half-limp and stumbling, through the forest. The world around you blurred—tangled underbrush, clawing vines, the endless, shadowed trees whispering in the wind. You tried to fight, digging your heels into the dirt, clawing at his hand, but it was like trying to pull against a mountain.

The cabin appeared out of the mist, an ancient, sagging thing with rotting timbers and a door that hung crooked on its hinges. The windows were black, smeared with filth. Your heart sank.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, the darkness pressing close. The man shoved you forward, and you stumbled, hitting the warped, splintered floor. Rusted chains hung from the wall, and without a word, he looped one around your ankle, snapping the iron cuff shut with a brutal finality.

You scrambled back, pressing yourself against the wall, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He loomed over you, his breath a slow, rasping growl behind the mask. For a moment, he just stared—those wild, animal eyes boring into you. Then, without a sound, he turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

The hours stretched into a sick eternity. The darkness seemed to pulse, shadows crawling at the edges of the room. Panic gnawed at you, your fingers scrabbling at the iron cuff, but it was hopeless. The metal was old, but solid.

Then, the door groaned open. The masked man entered, a dripping, bloodied slab of raw meat in his grasp. He approached, crouching in front of you. Slowly, he held it out—pushing it toward your face.

Your stomach twisted with a sick, frantic revulsion. The smell was sharp, metallic.

“I-I can’t…” Your voice was a broken whisper, shaking so violently it was barely audible. “Please. I… I can’t eat raw food.”

His head tilted, the mask’s rough edges catching the dim light. He didn’t speak, just stared at you for a long, unbearable moment. Then, slowly, he stood. The raw meat dropped from his hand, smacking wetly against the floor. He turned and stepped out, the door creaking shut behind him.

Silence. Time crawled by, thick and choking. Then, the door opened again. The man entered, now carrying something that was charred black, still sizzling. He crouched before you, holding it out again. The meat was overcooked—burned in places, tough-looking. But it was no longer raw.

He waited, head cocked, those wild eyes watching you with a strange, expectant intensity.

Your shaking hand reached out, and you tore a piece off. It was like chewing ash, but you forced it down, wincing at every bite. His gaze never left you. He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. His unblinking eyes bore into you, tracking every slow, hesitant bite you took. The charred meat was bitter, crumbling between your teeth, each swallow scraping down your dry throat. But you ate. You forced yourself to, your gaze never daring to rise fully to his.

And he never looked away.

When you finally finished, your stomach twisted, but you fought against the urge to throw up. He leaned closer, and for one dizzying moment, you thought he might reach out and touch you. But he didn’t. He only stared. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he stood and walked out, the door creaking shut behind him.

Darkness swallowed the room. Silence wrapped around you. You tried to fight the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, fear pricking at every nerve. But eventually, sleep dragged you under, your body crumpling against the cold, splintered wall.

You dreamed of blood.

Red, staining the water—your friends’ laughter twisting into screams. Their bodies drifting beneath the surface, limbs tangled like twisted reeds, faces pale and empty. The man’s hulking shadow loomed behind them, the crude, grinning mask dripping dark, sticky trails. He moved through the river like a monster, slow and unstoppable. And then he saw you. He lunged—

You woke with a choking gasp, the dream’s claws still raking at your chest. Panic crushed you, your breathing coming in frantic, ragged bursts. Your vision swam, the darkness of the cabin feeling thick, pressing close—

A weight settled on your forehead. A massive, calloused hand, rough and filthy, pressed against your skin.

You froze, your breath caught, your heart a pounding thunder. The masked man was crouched in front of you, his dark eyes fixed on your face. His hand was hot against your sweat-slicked brow, the pressure firm but not painful. He leaned closer, head tilting slightly, as if studying you.

Your breath trembled, but your body was locked in place, paralyzed by fear. He didn’t speak—he never spoke—but something in his gaze seemed to shift.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he pulled his hand back. He stood, the old wood creaking beneath his weight, and walked away. The door groaned as it opened, then thudded shut again, leaving you shivering, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin. You stayed awake after that, too shaken to sleep again. The darkness felt alive, pressing against you from every corner of the decaying cabin. Your breaths were shallow, your pulse a frantic rhythm in your ears. You rubbed at your forehead, trying to scrub away the sensation of his touch.

Hours must have passed. Time twisted strangely in the darkness. Your throat was dry, your muscles stiff and aching. Hunger gnawed at you, but the thought of that charred meat turned your stomach.

The door creaked open again.

Your body tensed instinctively, your hands gripping the cold chain around your ankle. The masked man stepped in, his hulking frame filling the doorway, blotting out the thin slivers of pale light behind him. His mask seemed even dirtier now, streaked with dried mud, one edge cracked, exposing a bit of dark, matted hair. His wild eyes found you immediately.

He carried something in his filthy hands—an old, metal cup, its edges dented and rusted. Water sloshed inside, some of it spilling to the rotting floor as he crossed the room. He knelt in front of you again, and without a word, thrust the cup forward.

You stared at it, then at him. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, your tongue sticking to the roof. But you hesitated. Was it clean? Did it matter?

His head tilted slightly. When you didn’t take it, his thick fingers wrapped around your wrist. He guided your hand to the cup. You flinched but didn’t fight. Slowly, you raised it to your lips, tipping it cautiously.

The water was stale and metallic, but you drank it greedily, too desperate to care. Some of it dribbled down your chin.

When the cup was empty, he didn’t pull away immediately. His hand still gripped your wrist, a faint, pulsing pressure against your racing pulse. Then, his thumb brushed against your skin.

You froze, breath caught in your throat.

He released you, rising in a slow, heavy motion. The cup clattered to the floor, rolling a little before settling. Without a word, he turned and walked out, the door groaning and slamming shut behind him.

Your heart thundered in the silence. You stared at the rusted cup, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you.

Was he trying to take care of you? Or was this something else—something darker, something worse? Your mind raced with possibilities, each one more desperate than the last. You were his prisoner. His toy. His… his what?

You couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t live in this darkness, in his strange, silent shadow. Your eyes fell to the chain at your ankle, thick and rusted but solid. Your fingers probed the iron cuff—cold, heavy. No matter how you twisted, it wouldn’t slide off.

But there had to be a way. Some weakness. Some escape. Even if you had to…

The door crashed open.

You flinched, a startled gasp escaping you. The man stormed in, faster than before, and your heart lurched. His breathing was louder, harsher, almost a growl beneath the mask. His shoulders heaved, and something dark and wet dripped from his hands—water? Blood? You couldn’t tell in the murky light.

He moved directly to you, and before you could even think to shrink away, his massive hand closed around your jaw. The pressure was firm—not enough to hurt, but enough to lock you in place. His eyes blazed down at you, and his head tilted, that animal curiosity returning.

You whimpered, a tiny, broken sound muffled by his grip.

Then, slowly, his other hand rose, his thick, filthy fingers brushing against your cheek. A dark smear trailed across your skin. His thumb pressed gently, almost as though he were wiping something away. It was water. His hands were dripping with water. But the water on his hands was murky, tainted with dark streaks of grime. His attempt to clean you only smeared the filth across your cheek, leaving a sticky, mud-streaked cheeks. Panic clawed at you, your skin crawling beneath his touch, but your body remained rigid, locked in place by his iron grip on your jaw.

You tried to turn away, but his fingers tightened slightly, forcing your gaze back to him. His eyes searched your face, the erratic flicker within them giving no hint of reason, no trace of humanity. His breathing grew slower, his chest rising and falling like the tide.

“P-Please,” you whispered, barely daring to speak. “Please, let me go.”

His thumb brushed over your lips, smearing another streak of muck across them. He seemed almost… fascinated, watching the way your skin yielded beneath his touch, the tremble of your mouth against his rough, filthy thumb.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears burning behind your lids.

“Please…”

For one dreadful, endless moment, you were sure he wouldn’t stop—sure that he would press harder, force you to endure the filthy, clumsy attempt at… what? Comfort? Control? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

But then, abruptly, he pulled away. His hand fell to his side, leaving your skin streaked with dirt and cold with lingering dampness. He stood there for a moment, staring down at you. Staring.

Masterlist

[paarksunghoon]

resignation | sunghoon

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: desperately need to rant about my life and I’m doing it by way of enhypen 😩 this is a small little chapter and I have no idea if I’m gonna make this a whole thing, but we’ll see. enjoy for now and let me know your thoughts! xx

WARNINGS: none :)

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

Like a bird stuck in a metal cage, you feel trapped in an enclosure that’s meant to prevent you from flying away. That’s what it feels like to work at Park Inc., an international venture capitalist firm that serves Asia and the greater North American and European landscape. Your job is boring and meaningless, and today is the day you decided to do something about it. 

Your alarm rings every morning at 5 A.M. on the dot and today is no exception. Since becoming Park Sunghoon’s assistant six years ago, you’ve learned the masterful art of never hitting snooze after hearing an earful from Sunghoon himself when he requested your presence the following hour (you failed to arrive in time and learned to never go back to sleep unless it was your day off). 

This life seemed like a dream at the ripe age of twenty-one. Freshly graduated from college with no real career goal in mind, one of your academic mentors suggested entering the workforce as a personal assistant to gain social capital and learn about different areas of industry that could potentially lead you towards a career. Your measly business degree left you feeling unfulfilled and your parents’ aloof demeanor towards the lack of job offers lining up after graduating wasn’t the kind of news you were ecstatic about. You jumped at the chance to work as a personal assistant with the assumption that it would be the kind of job that you could pursue in the meantime until something else came along.

This position at Park Inc. fell into your lap like some kind of dumb luck. The role wasn’t posted on any job site. Rather, your name had been submitted on behalf of your academic advisor, which got you your first interview. You suppose that must be some kind of nepotism. After six separate interviews over the course of three months, the job was yours.

You’d saved up enough money, working the night shift at a local restaurant to afford a rundown apartment and a new office-appropriate wardrobe from the local second hand stores in your neighborhood. Pencil skirts, fashionable blouses, heels that promised to last a long time, and blazers that looked professional enough lined your closets for future use. It was an exciting prospect and starting your new life after graduating university felt like a different ball park than when you were still pursuing your degree. 

Despite all of that, you feel listless.

Your days begin before the sun rises and ends just after sunset. Anticipating Sunghoon’s needs is seamless for you, to the point where you’re able to think on his behalf without second guessing yourself. He agrees on most days and doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to business matters because you’ve been by his side for over half a decade. You’ve picked him up from many late night rendezvous with women who definitely wanted more than he was willing to give, and you’ve accompanied him to events where he couldn’t bother asking somebody to be his date. You’re his assistant, and therefore you’re always available. 

But you’re just the help. You don’t have any real stake in Park Inc., nor does anybody take you seriously unless Sunghoon agrees with your opinion. You know this company inside and out, and you know exactly how Sunghoon envisions this company to succeed. You act like you’re a managing partner without the title because you’re by his side nearly every hour of the day, and it’s gotten to a point where people me either whisper about a silent affair, or look at you with sympathy because Sunghoon can’t seem to function without you. 

It was fun, at first. Learning how to stand on your own two feet while leaving everything you knew behind felt exhilarating. Abandoning your hometown to explore the big city was a dream come true, and you envisioned all of the late night food runs you’d go on in an attempt to explore each neighborhood within Seoul. The beginning was tolerable at best—if you count crying in your small apartment after thinking you’d never get the hang of this job—and Sunghoon knew to delegate tasks to you based on experience level. He had you fetch coffee and take care of his dry cleaning in the first few months, on top of organizing multiple reports until you were ready for more. He was kind like that, and you’re sure his willingness to help you in your career was why you stayed for as long as you have. 

Six years ago, receiving the amount of responsibility you carry felt like you’d reached the top of the tallest mountain after dreaming of the day Sunghoon could trust you enough to let you do your job without much supervision. You could complete a task for him before he delegated it to you, because you understood his workflow and what needed to be prioritized. The both of you worked well like that, and after six years of getting to know each other, many would say you’re both joined at the hip professionally. 

It comes to a point where you learn that the Sunghoon you see is far different than the Sunghoon everybody else sees. He’s naturally funny and a bit clumsy. He’s professional and stoic when he needs to be, but behind closed doors, Sunghoon laughs your ear off about old men who think they can walk all over his business tactics and people who are too rich to see that they’re the problem. Sunghoon is the best boss you’ve ever had, bar none. 

He’s unlike any of the wealthy, stuck up assholes you deal with on a daily basis. Sunghoon hides his witty, flirty personality behind a professional face in the eyes of higher ups and investors who he does business with. He keeps his personal and work life separate, as far as he can, with the exception of occasionally letting women he meets accompany him to select events that almost always end up in having to kick them out of his penthouse apartment the morning after if they haven’t left already. His lifestyle is one you’ll never get used to. Even after six years working beside Sunghoon, you go back to your humble one bedroom apartment, the same one you moved into once you were able to afford living without any roommates. 

It seems as though life moves for Sunghoon. He doesn’t have to do or say much to get people to fall to their knees or grant his every wish. He’s good looking (that’s something you’ll never deny because he’s objectively handsome), he manages to say all the right things, and he’s really good at his job. Sunghoon comes from a powerful and wealthy family that’s existed in Seoul for as long as anyone can remember, and there aren’t many bad things people say about him behind his back. He’s risky but strategic, gambling on chances that would typically slip through the cracks if not for his watchful eye and modern approach to business. 

You’ve learned a lot from him, too. Sunghoon grew into the man he is today. He’s no longer the overly arrogant and cocky person he was when you first met him, and he’s gained a deeper understanding of the company he’s about to inherit once his father transitions his title unto him. There’s much to be said about powerful men who choose to view everybody he works with as an equal, and while you might legally be his personal assistant, Sunghoon has allowed you to partake in the business too. You’ve been his right hand man ever since he realized you knew the company as well as he did. Yet, you can’t help but feel utterly stuck in this endless cycle of work, work, and more work.

There must be something out there for you that doesn’t consist of answering emails and letting your inbox pile up until the stress eats you alive. Being able to travel alongside Sunghoon for business opportunities has granted you a pathway to see the world, but it’s not enough to accompany somebody else. You want to explore the world by yourself and create agendas for your taste and likeliness, not Sunghoon or potential business partners while you sit in the back and take notes during every conversation. You want to live your life without being chained to a desk and learn what it feels like to try something new. 

For the past six years, your life has been dedicated to Sunghoon and only Sunghoon. 

“Sir?” You say tentatively, knocking on his door while pushing the heavy wooden door open. 

“Come in.” 

You know well enough he’s got nothing on his schedule that would impose a distraction. You slip into the room and close the door behind you with your fingers gripping a beige Manila folder behind your back. Sunghoon wears a suit that’s tailored to his likeness and his hair is slicked back like he’s trying to resemble Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of an unscheduled interruption?” Sunghoon asks with humor in his tone. He knows you typically keep to your inbox unless something is imminently urgent.

He turns around from looking outside of his window and watches as you hesitantly walk towards his desk. The office space is huge, bigger than your entire living room, and the sudden realization that you’re about to make the biggest change of your life is weighing on your shoulders. Your feet feel heavy beneath you when Sunghoon glances between your face and the folder in your hands. 

“What’s this?”

You don’t hesitate to open it and put it on his desk facing up.

“My resignation letter.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sunghoon stares at the letter you’ve typed out and notices the large, black signature at the bottom of the page. His eyes flicker back at you as if to detect any lie in your face before he scoffs with a short laugh.

“Right. April Fool’s Day has already passed. No need to keep me on my toes like you usually do, though I appreciate a good joke.” 

You shake your head. “I’m being serious, Sir. I’m quitting.” 

The seriousness of your voice seems to catch him. He takes a seat on his leather chair and pulls himself closer to the desk to fully examine the letter.

“Dear Mr. Park, I am writing to inform you that I will be resigning from my position as your personal assistant at Park Incorporated. My final day will be two months from the day I hand you this resignation letter. I am committed to ensuring a smooth transition, and will facilitate seeking a replacement while I complete projects and tasks on my docket.” 

He looks up at you.

“You’re breaking up with me.” 

“No, I’m quitting this job.”

“Which is the same as breaking up with me. You’re my business partner, for God’s sake. You come with me to every meeting and important event that requires my presence.”

“I’m your assistant. There are many people who would die to be able to do that for you.”

He looks at you like you’ve set his office on fire. “I will not let you quit.” 

You tilt your head. “That’s not how it works, you know. Soobin from HR will process my resignation, even if you beg him not to. I’m giving you a two months' notice because that is how much I value my time here.” Sunghoon clasps his hands as if trying to make sense of the matter.

“But why? Why now? You’re impeccable at your job. Is the pay not suitable enough for you? I can give you a generous bonus and pay raise, if that will convince you to stay. Do you want a bigger office or reduced working hours?” 

“I don’t need any of that. I’ve made up my mind, Sir.”

“Why?” 

With a sigh, you sit down in front of him. “I’ve spent nearly every day for the last six years catering to the needs of you and this company. I’ve loved my time here, and I credit my ability to navigate this industry to you and this job. You’ve given me incredible opportunities that I probably wouldn’t have gotten elsewhere, and it’s been fun learning the ins and outs of this business.

“But I don't have a personal life at all. My days are spent catering to your needs. I don’t have many friends aside from the people I see in this building. I don’t travel and I’ve had to miss important family milestones because of work obligations.”

“Is more time off what you need?” Sunghoon interrupts. “You’ve earned your fair share of requested time offs, even if it’s a personal day for no reason. You’re responsible enough for me to know you can handle your workload when you get back.” 

You shake your head. “It’s not just that. I…I don’t meet new people anymore. I don’t make new friends and I don’t date because this job eats up my life. I feel like I’ve been wrapped up in this company and doing whatever it takes to help it succeed while neglecting my own needs. I’ve had six incredible years, but it’s time for me to move on.”

“…Date?”

With a sigh, you respond. “Yes, Sir. Just because you can find women at the snap of your fingers doesn't mean that everybody else can too.” 

“You don’t date at all?”

You scratch the inside of your wrist at his question. “I can’t date. I don’t have the time to.”

“So you’re quitting because you want to date.”

“No. I’m quitting because I want to experience life without being on call for when you need my help.” 

Sunghoon purses his lips and you can’t read his expression. In the years you’ve worked with him, learning his every mood has been critical to maintaining cordial balance between the two of you, and with other people who Sunghoon isn’t particularly fond of. You’ve extinguished emotional fires just by glancing at him, but the way he looks at you is something you can’t seem to figure out. 

While you wouldn’t say you’re exceptionally close with Sunghoon, you’d argue your relationship to him is far closer than other assistants in the firm. He might be hard headed and stubborn, but he’s compassionate and understanding. He doesn’t expect you to stay in the office until he leaves unless explicitly stated (which consists of half the week, but you can’t complain when some of your colleagues are constantly working longer days than you). 

He compensates you well from time to time, buying you new wardrobe for events he’s requested you to be at. You have a drawer full of exquisite jewelry. You’ve had the privilege of accompanying him on international business trips. From the outside, your life looks like one glamour shot that’s been afforded to you through diligent work, which is partially true, but seldom do people see the dark circles underneath your eyes or how many meals you skip because you need to cater to Sunghoon’s needs. 

For as lucky as your career has been thus far, it’s all on company time, and nothing is ever because you want to. You get the perks, but it’s a transaction. There’s nothing you want more than the freedom to choose what time you wake up and what time you go to bed.

“I can’t say I’m too happy with this news,” Sunghoon says as he leans back on his chair. “You and I work together really well. I don’t think I’ve ever had an assistant as diligent and as smart as you.” 

“You had three assistants before I came into the picture.” 

“They were terrible. Why did you think you went through six interviews?” 

“I can train my predecessor to be as excellent as I can be. I can do it in two months because that’s the time it took me to get used to you and your habits.” 

Sunghoon remains silent for a moment. 

“They’ve got big shoes to fill.” 

Part of you thinks he’s accepted your resignation. He doesn’t immediately grab the Manila folder with the papers in it. Rather, he closes it and keeps it shut on his desk with his hands clasped like he’s afraid it’s going to materialize and escort you out of his office.  

“You’re still needed for events and other internal-facing meetings until your time comes to an end.” 

“Of course, Sir.”

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards. “There’s one tonight. I wasn’t going to have you come to this one initially, but given the circumstances, I think it’s fair that we squeeze in as many as possible before you’re off the hook, no?”

You can’t say you’re incredibly excited by the idea, but knowing Sunghoon, he’s either forgotten he needs someone to act as arm candy or one of his many flings bailed on him at the last minute. 

“I’ll have my car pick you up from your apartment at 8 P.M. Don’t worry about checking in early tomorrow, either. Come in at nine instead, and get some sleep tonight.” 

Nine is still early, especially if you’re going to accompany Sunghoon to an event this evening, but it’s better than getting four hours of shut eye before you’re needed the next day. 

***

A section of your wardrobe is dedicated to items Sunghoon has gifted you throughout the years you’ve been with him. They’re far more expensive and of higher quality than the garments you buy for yourself, and the jewelry is far too precious for you to mix in with your everyday wear. They sit in their own designated section, away from your business attire and weekend wear.

Back when you started this position, Sunghoon found it amusing that you refused the luxurious gifts he’d offer for large tasks such as acting as a liaison at black tie events or helping him with projects that required you to look more presentable than remaining in an office. He bought you enough dresses, shoes, and jewelry until you were able to rotate a few pieces so that you’d never have to wear the same thing twice in a row. To assuage your mind about the prices of each item, Sunghoon would tell you to wear it out on a date with a special someone or to important events that required you to dress up a bit.  

When you pull out a sleek baby blue powder dress that hugs your body in all the right places and jewelry to match, the memory makes you laugh. There hasn’t been any time for engaging in those types of things and your life does not reflect that of Sunghoon’s. They gather dust in your closet until you’re needed to make an appearance as his well-trained, capable assistant. His colleagues know to defer to you unless Sunghoon’s word needs to be confirmed, and that’s how the dynamic has been for the entirety of your working relationship with him. 

You don’t put much effort into your appearance tonight. After touching up your makeup and slipping on a pair of black sling backs that match a black Italian clutch purse he had gifted you on your first international trip, you wait for the car to arrive at your doorstep. 

Surprisingly, Sunghoon steps out from the backseat and holds the door open for you.

“…Sir?” 

“Right on time. You look stunning.” 

His compliment flies over your head as you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. You’re used to meeting Sunghoon at the fairgrounds and not holding the door open for you in his personal mode of transportation. The only time the two of you arrive together is when you depart from the office. Sunghoon is a busy man who makes work his priority. He doesn’t escort you from place to place. That’s your job.

“What are you doing here?” 

He beckons you inside of the car. The partition is raised to give the two of you some privacy. Sunghoon slides into the backseat and puts a respectable distance between the two of you when the driver begins to drive away.

“It dawned on me that I rely you on you for so many things, and yet, I can’t seem to take an hour of my day to ride with you to events I’ve asked you to be at.” 

“It’s my job.”

“No, your job is to make sure I don’t lose my head.”

“If letting you work while I drive alone makes your head stay on your shoulders, I think that’s a job well done.” 

He purses his lips. “Still, I don’t think ending my workday early to pick you up will kill me.” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“This isn’t changing my mind, Sir. I still plan to leave the company.”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Worth a try. But I meant what I said about accompanying you. We’re a team, even if your position is just my assistant.”

“Sir—”

“Sunghoon,” he interrupts. “Call me Sunghoon.”

“...Sunghoon.” He smiles.

“That’s more like it.” 

***

will there be a part 2? who knows

[midnightwind]

I'm on like crash 25 of MonHun Wilds and I'm five seconds away from shelving this game forever and going back to Rise

[not-neverland06]

we're dating? ♡

logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've decided using the same X-men name/powers for the reader in my Logan fics is easier because coming up with superpowers is hard and stupid. They call you flux, like once, it's really just a nickname incoming warning for fluff so bad you'll get a cavity Summary: You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader

You’d had an accident, a few weeks ago. Well, accident might be downplaying it too much. You’d destroyed the garden and left a ten-foot crater in the backyard of Charles’ prestigious grounds. In your defense, you had warned them all that it wasn’t a good idea to take your cuffs off. 

The metal bands are entirely necessary to make sure you can’t lose control and wipe out everything around you. Manipulation at an atomic level is beyond fatal. You don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d had the meltdown and the kids were anywhere near you. 

Charles had been able to shut you down, but now he’s keeping you on probation. You’ve been locked up in the mansion, unable to leave until you managed to get your abilities under control. There’s never been a problem with wearing the cuffs before. You don’t understand why he’s so against them now. 

You’re going stir-crazy. There’s only so many times you can pace your room before you start to lose your mind. He’s not even letting you teach classes anymore. You’re stuck training, all day, every day. 

“Focus!” Charles snaps and you resist the urge to turn his bones liquid. Maybe that would get him off your back. 

Instead of killing your friend, you glare at the large tank of water in front of you. You do what you’ve been doing for the past half hour. It fluctuates from liquid to gas to solid, and then liquid again. An endless cycle of repetition that makes you want to melt your brain so you don’t have to do this anymore. 

You drop your hand and huff. “This is pointless, Charles. What’s this even teaching me?”

He crosses his arms, walks over to you, and pointedly glares at the tank in front of you. You roll your eyes and look back at it. “Shit,” you hiss. In your frustration, the glass has cracked and splintered into dust. Water pools around your stool and leaks through the wood of the floor. You flick your wrist, the glass swirling around you before reforming into the tank. The water follows along, droplets lifting from the floor and dropping back into the container. 

“One moment of frustration, of distraction. That’s all it took.” Charles shakes his head and walks back over to his desk. He picks the cuffs up and you slip them silently back onto your wrists. “How can you be trusted to protect your team on the field if you can’t control this? What are you going to do when you’re panicked and fighting for your life?”

Shame bubbles in your gut. It makes you nauseous and forces your eyes to the floor so you don’t have to face him. He sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing gently. You glance up at him briefly and he offers a strained smile. 

“This is for your protection, as much as you hate it, Flux. It’s necessary.” You scoff at the use of your X-Men name. Not much of an X-Man if you’re not even on the field anymore. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks for the lesson in incompetency,” you don’t let him respond and slam the door to his office closed behind you. You feel bad the second you get outside and onto the porch. He doesn’t deserve your bitchiness. It’s your own fault you can’t get a handle on this. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing yourself into a rocking chair and running your hands over your face. The once comforting weight of your cuffs is now oppressing. It just feels like a constant reminder of your failure. You should already have a handle on all of this, but you struggle to even manipulate water. 

“Rough day?” You don’t open your eyes as Logan walks by. He takes a seat on the rocking chair beside you, letting out a low groan as he stretches. 

You let your hands drop into your lap, staring at the sunset so you don’t have to face him. You’ve already dealt with enough dejection today. You don’t need to look at him and be reminded that you want him in a way you can never have. 

“Mhm,” you hum, propping your head in your hand as you watch the sun disappear behind the clouds. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange that seem too hopeful for how you feel right now. 

Logan chuckles, the sound low and gravely. It makes your heart stutter in your chest and you cringe in embarrassment. You know he can hear the way your heart practically beats free of your ribs when you’re around him. You’re sure with that nose of his he can smell some sort of hormonal change in you every time you lay eyes on him. 

You swear you’ve never felt this way about a man before. You haven’t had many boyfriends before, it’s not really common among mutants. Not many people are accepting of you when they know what you are. And some people are too into you. 

But you've had crushes, and none of them have been as bad as this one is. You want to gnaw on him. It sounds fucking insane every time you think about it. But when you train with him and he tears his shirt off, you want to sink your teeth into him and never let go. 

You feel feral around him, a side of you surfacing that you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because of his mutant abilities. They are very animalistic, it’s easy to blame that on how desperately you crave him. 

You hate being around him and despise not being in his presence. It’s conflicting, and more often than not you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak to him because your brain is going in a million different directions. 

You hear the familiar click of his lighter and then he shifts again. You risk a peek over at him and regret it the second you do. His head is tilted back, eyes closed in relaxation as he stretches across the porch. Smoke leaks out of his lips as he groans in satisfaction. 

You have to pick your jaw up off the floor and make sure there isn’t drool on your chin. This is insane. You’re a grown woman, how does he have this much of an effect on you? He’s not even doing anything! He’s just sitting there and you want to jump his bones. 

You whip your head around, mumbling incoherently to yourself to get it together. Logan peaks an eye open and you miss the mischievous tilt to his lips. “Something wrong?”

I need to have sex with you or I’m going to explode. 

You stutter for a few seconds, getting your mind back together. “Just training with Charles,” you mutter. 

He sits up a little straighter and quirks a brow. When you don’t continue he sighs. “And?” He prods, impatient for your answer. You hope you’re not reading into it, but you think he’s been as disappointed by your absence from the team as you are. He always complains about being partnered up with Scott. You like to think it’s because he misses you. But you’re probably just delusional. 

“And, nothing,” you sigh. Your hands flop against your legs and you glare at the bands on your wrists. “No progress. I still can’t control them without these on, and my abilities are watered down and useless with the cuffs.”

Logan huffs, you’re caught off guard by the sudden warmth on your thigh. You glance down, eyes widening ever so slightly when you see his hand on your leg. It nearly covers the whole thing and when he squeezes your thigh you think you’re going to pass out. 

You’re friendly. But you’ve never been touchy. At least not like this. The placement of his palm is very intimate and you are struggling not to just get on your knees and profess your undying love. You take in a deep breath, looking up at him so you can get your heartbeat under control. 

But looking at him just makes it worse. Because there is so much faith and fondness in his gaze as he looks at you. His lips are tilted up, eyes soft, and you’ve never had someone make you feel so warm and secure from just a look. 

“You aren’t useless,” he tells you. He squeezes your thigh again before he retreats back to his chair. You have to clamp your jaw shut so you don’t beg him to keep touching you and never stop. “You’re just stuck in this house all day. You’ve got nothing to do but sit in your failure.”

You scoff and throw yourself back in your seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve begged Charles to let me out.” Your gaze drifts to the crater in the backyard. Some of the kids have been working on filling it in, but whatever energy you’d let go of has left a permanent mark. “He refuses to give me permission.”

Logan laughs, the noise teasing and a little mean. Your brows furrow and you glance over at him with a questioning look. He tilts his head in disbelief like you’re an idiot. “Seriously, Flux? Just fuckin’ leave, who gives a shit?”

“Uh,” you think on it for a minute before weakly settling on, “Charles?”

His face falls and you sink lower into your seat. He looks out at the yard, gaze distant. His jaw clenches a few times before he puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him. He gets to his feet and you think he might just leave. Instead, he turns towards you. 

You’re caught off guard by the little smirk on his face. “Wanna have some fun?”

Only an idiot would say no. 

You grin and place your hand in his, yelping slightly at how easily he pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and are hesitant to back away when his hand drifts to rest on your waist. He looks down at you, smiling, he squeezes your waist once before he backs up. 

“Come on, kid.” He tugs you inside the house, leading you downstairs to the garage. You already know what he’s going for before the door is even open. 

“Didn’t Scott tell you to leave his bike alone?” Logan takes a step inside. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and grinning at you. It makes your breath catch in your throat, the happiness on his face. You never see him like this around the others. 

You hate thinking like that. Placing too much importance on your relationship with him will only lead to heartbreak down the road. But, you never see him act the way he does with you with anyone else.

“Since when have I ever listened to Cyclops, sweetheart?” 

“Good point,” you mutter, moving to stand next to him. 

He straddles the seat and looks over expectantly at you. “Don’t you need a helmet?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no, it’ll ruin my hair.” You laugh but he gives you a deadpan look. You don’t regenerate the way he does. An accident would be a lot more fatal for you than it would be for him. You huff, “Relax, Lo, I can use my powers.” When he looks like he’s not going to drop it, you let some energy swirl around your fingers. It solidifies the air around your skin, you reach up and flick at his skull hard enough to hear the metal ding. 

He grunts, glaring down at your hand while you grin. “See,” you whisper, sliding onto the back of the bike and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m perfectly safe.” He shakes his head and starts the bike. 

The ride to the arcade is spent in silence. Logan always seems to break every speeding law known to man whenever he takes Scott’s bike out. You’re not sure if he does it to purposefully piss the man off, but it makes you cling to him like a wild animal. You feel like if you hit one speed bump you’re going to go flying. 

By the time he parks your legs feel like jello. He laughs a little at the way your face has blanched. Again, he offers you a hand and holds the door open to lead you inside. You’re trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this whole thing is odd. 

You guys are friends. And you’re friendlier with each other than most of the mutants in the school. But this feels different somehow. For one, Logan kind of despises the arcade. It’s an amalgamation of bad smells and loud noises, and it overwhelms his already sensitive senses. You’ve heard him complain about the smell of body odor and fake cheese enough times when you went on a field trip with the kids. 

Secondly, he’s being more touchy than he normally would. You’re not complaining. You weren’t exactly hugged a lot as a kid, mainly just passed between different mutant fetish clubs. Logan isn’t known for handing hugs out so easily. But right now, he doesn’t seem to be ready to not have at least one hand on you. 

Maybe he’s just cheering you up. You need to stop drifting so far into your mind and just enjoy the night. “Alright, what’s first bub?”

You grin and drag him towards the claw machine. “I’m horrible at these things,” you inform him as you put your quarters in. “But, I hold out hope that one day I’ll be able to actually beat this monster.”

Three failed attempts later, it’s become embarrassingly clear that you will never beat the claw machine. Logan isn’t even trying to hide his amusement as you become increasingly more frustrated. There’s a certain point where this game stops being fun and starts to be an affront to your character. 

Logan peers into the machine and asks, “What are you going for?”

“The pigeon,” you mutter. Your tongue pokes between your lips, and your eyes narrow in concentration. You aim the claw over the pigeon perfectly and slam your hand down on the big red button. 

You’re allowed five seconds of celebration before the damn thing slips out of the claws grasp and tumbles into the pile of stuffies below. “Dammit, Bart,” you let the ridiculous name you’ve come up with for the toy slip.

Logan snorts, leaning against the glass while you jam another quarter in the slot. “Bart?” He teases. 

You shake your head and give him a look out the side of your eye. “What, you think I call myself Flux because I’m good at coming up with names?” You give up after the last failed attempt and turn to face him with a huff. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tough luck, kid.” He slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards the concession stand. 

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping lightly at his chest. 

The rest of the night is nice. He doesn’t play much except for the strength-oriented games. And then you kind of just exploit him for more tickets. By the time you get back to the mansion, you’ve forgotten all about why you were upset in the first place. 

Nothing had gone wrong, you didn’t have a total meltdown and wipe out the entire arcade. You don’t know why Charles was so afraid of letting you out. 

Logan walks you back to your room, his hand heavy on your lower back as you head up the stairs. You’re talking endlessly, filling up any gap of silence with rambling you’ve lost track of. You don’t know what it is about him that invites you to yap the way you do, but you’re always embarrassed by it the second he leaves. 

You reach your door and smile up at him. “Thanks, Lo.”

He gives you a soft smile, his eyes wrinkling endearingly at the corners. He reaches up and brushes some hair off your shoulder. There’s a certain shift in his expression that has your breath stopping short. Whatever else you were going to say to him tumbles off into an incomprehensible whisper. 

He leans down and every inappropriate thought you’ve ever had about him suddenly surges to the front of your mind. Your lips part in anticipation, thinking he’s going to kiss you and your fantasies are going to come to life. 

His lips brush against your cheek so gently you almost don’t feel them. “‘Night Flux,” he leans back and your body goes with him. He backs off with a smile, walking down the hall to his own room. You feel dazed, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you fan your cheeks and try to come to terms with what just happened.

He didn’t kiss you, but you oddly aren’t disappointed. You go to bed that night with a lovesick grin on your face. Well, you would have. Were it not for the annoyingly British voice ringing out in your head, “Training’s at four tomorrow morning. Consider it your punishment for sneaking out.”

“Fuck,” you hiss to yourself. Stupid fucking telepaths. 

You thought the arcade was a one-off moment. But Logan keeps sneaking you out of the mansion. Charles hasn’t officially lifted the house arrest, but he’s given up trying to keep you inside. Besides, you’ve essentially got a chaperone since Logan is always with you. 

You make lunch for the two of you and he’ll take you out to the woods for a picnic. Or you’ll go to the movies together. Sometimes you don’t even do anything, just linger around each other. You enjoy the company, and you love having these quiet moments together with no one else around. 

Your favorite part of all of this has to be the way he’s started touching you. He’s always got a hand on your leg or back. And if he can’t do that, then you’re tucked into his side. It’s feeding into a starved part of you that you’ve left neglected for far too long. 

It’s only been about two weeks of these fun little adventures and odd behavior. You’re dreading the moment they’ll stop. You’re not sure when Logan’s going to deem you properly cheered up, but you’re hoping it’s not anytime soon. 

There have been a few more moments where you think your friendship might turn into something more, and every time you’ve been interrupted. You’re actually starting to feel a little edged. You’ve been considering just grabbing him and planting one on him. But every time you think about it you get sick to your stomach. 

You don’t want to make a move on him and end up getting rejected. You know he’s just being a good friend and taking care of you so you don’t end up spiraling too far in your head. It’s happened before, when you’ve been struggling with your abilities. He’s just keeping you from shutting down again and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable because you’re hopelessly in love. 

When you walk out of your room this morning you’re immediately smacked in the face. “What the fuck, guys?” You yell at the two kids running past your room. Not the best language for someone who's supposed to be a role model. You can’t be bothered though, not when they’re running around throwing pink rolls of streamer at your face. 

“Sorry!” Mary calls over her shoulder, laughing as she pins a heart up onto the wall. You’re sure Charles won’t appreciate the hole in his old ass mahogany wood. It’s only as you watch her run down the stairs that you register just what is going on. 

There is pink and red everywhere. It looks like Dollar Store Cupid has thrown up all over the mansion. You’ve been so caught up in your attraction to Logan that, ironically, you’ve forgotten what month it was. 

You grumble bitterly to yourself as you trudge down the stairs. Another Valentine’s Day alone and single. How lovely. You spot two kids giggling to themselves by the banister, they lean in like they’re going to kiss and you gag. “Hey!” You snap, and they jump apart, eyes wide with fear. “Quit it, get out of here.” They scramble off and you feel just a little bit vindicated. 

“Not a fan of young love, Flux?”

You groan and roll your eyes, turning around to find a very smug Scott watching you bully teenagers. “Shut it, Summers,” you warn. You point an accusing finger at him and he raises his hands in surrender. Faux innocence played across his insufferable smirk. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t get to judge me.”

His brows turn down in confusion, “Wait, but aren’t you and Logan-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a loud crash down the hall. You both turn around just as one of the classroom doors slams open. A bright pink explosion hurtles from the doors and a throng of coughing students follows. 

Jubilee walks out a minute later, a guilty expression on her face. “Sorry, I was just trying to make it more Vanetine-y.” 

You glance over at Scott, grinning widely at him while you pat his shoulder and walk past him, leaving him to clean up the mess. “Enjoy the young love, Summers.”

You actively avoid Logan all day. You’re already facing constant reminders of how lonely you are. You see kids walking around with baskets of bears and chocolates. Or you catch them passing notes in class with scribbled hearts all over the front. 

There’s only so much a girl can take before she loses it. The last thing you need is to be faced with the man you have the worst unrequited crush on in history. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint. He’s everywhere you go, popping up around corners and trying to catch your attention. 

You keep brushing him off and pretending like you have something urgent you’re going to be late for. Eventually, though, he was going to catch up with you. 

It happens in the kitchen. Most of the kids are in their rooms or the library. The noise has died down and you’re alone. You grumble to yourself, ripping down a pink streamer that keeps drifting across the top of your head and pissing you off. You grab a frozen meal from the fridge and are about to microwave it when he speaks. 

“Huh, thought you’d want something a little more romantic than a frozen burrito.” 

You gasp, clutching your chest and whirling around on him while your heart races. “Logan, Jesus, you scared me.” He’s frowning at you, eyes glaring at the frozen package in your hand. “Um,” you toss it back in the freezer but the look on his face isn’t going away. “Yeah, I might just go with cereal instead.”

He looks at you and then glances behind him. You peer around his shoulder but you don’t see anything. Without much warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the stairs. “Logan?” There’s no point in trying to resist him, he could just toss you up the stairs if he wanted to. Still, the silence is kind of creeping you out. 

You call his name a few more times but give up when he makes it clear he’s not going to be answering you anytime. There’s a rotten feeling in your stomach. You have this awful idea like you’re in trouble for something. Like a little girl who's gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar too many times. 

He stops you in front of his door and nods towards it. “You want me to go inside?” He crosses his arms and glares down at you. You huff and mutter, “Jesus, fine.” What the hell is wrong with him?

You grab the doorknob to his room, glaring at him while you do. You throw the door open dramatically, taking a step inside and surveying the area. “Wow,” you suck your teeth and shake your head. “You have not decorated at all.”

“Shut up, smartass,” he mutters in your ear. Chills prick at your skin from his proximity. A shudder goes down your spine as the low tone of his voice reverberates through you. “Look a little harder.”

You roll your eyes but acquiesce. Another run over the room finally shows you what you missed. You gasp and rush towards his bed, “Holy shit, Bart!” He chuckles behind you as you pick the stuffed pigeon up. 

“Went back for him after we left,” Logan tells you. 

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many tries did this take you?” He mouths a smug one and you roll your eyes in irritation. You look back down at the pigeon and smile.

He smells like the inside of a claw machine. His head is sewed on crookedly and you’re pretty sure he’s missing an eye. But he’s absolutely perfect to you. You’re about to thank Logan when you spot something metal wrapped around the stuffie’s neck. “What’s this,” you mumble to yourself. 

You slide your fingers under the chain and tug it off Bart’s neck. Logan’s dog tags dangle off your fingers and you stare at him in shock. A sudden cold dread washes over you and you find yourself immobile. “Logan,” you trail off, an unspoken question following his name. 

He smirks, walking towards you and slipping the tags out of your hand. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, his voice low like this moment is too precious to break, “so you know you’re not alone. You’re always so afraid of what’s going to happen if you lose control out in the field. But you forget, you’re not alone. You have me, you’re always going to have me.” He places the tags over your neck, untucking your hair from the chain. 

You don’t even have words for him. It’s such a deeply personal gift. But this also feels incredibly intimate. There’s no possible way for you to reason this away. This isn’t something “just friends” do. 

He seems to prefer your silence, anyway. One of his hands drifts from your neck and cups your jaw. With the utmost tenderness, he lifts your face to his. “Wanted to do this for a while,” he whispers. You almost ask what he’s talking about, but his lips are already covering yours. 

It’s incredibly soft, this kiss, softer than you’re used to. He’s barely putting any pressure on you and it makes you realize that you’re still not moving. You’re just standing there in shock, eyes wide open while the man you’ve wanted since you’ve known him kisses you. 

You drop Bart to the floor and your arms come up to twine around his neck. You finally close your eyes, let your body melt into his knowing he’ll catch you. The second you reciprocate he really kisses you. Neither of you hold back, each of you pouring all the pent-up desire you’ve felt for each other. 

You’ve spent so long dancing around this, around each other. It’s like a missing puzzle piece is returned to you as Logan holds you. You feel full, complete, warmer than you ever have before. 

You part from him - needing air - painfully slow. You don’t want to spend a second away from him now that you have him. You wish you didn’t have to breathe. Wished you could have kept kissing him and never stopped. 

Logan chuckles, pressing a kiss against your forehead like he can read your thoughts. You can feel the dorky smile that’s about to split your cheeks. You bite your lip, hoping it might suppress it, but you know it’s pointless. 

You look up at him with a cheeky twinkle in your eye. “Are you asking me to be your Valentine, Lo?”

He scoffs and pulls away from you slightly. “Do you have to ask your girlfriend to be your Valentine?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes rapidly. “I- Well- I mean,” you take a full step back from him and shake your head. “What?” You finally settle on. “I mean, I’m not objecting, at all, but what?”

Logan tilts his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “What do you think we’ve been doing the past three weeks?”

You shake your head, stuttering and struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought you were being a good friend!”

He smiles, there’s no irritation on his face at your cluelessness. If anything he seems to be more endeared to you. “You think I take all my friends on romantic picnics in the woods?”

You sigh, letting out a long disappointed breath. You can’t believe you’ve been so blind. When you think about it, his behavior lately makes a lot more sense. You’re not sure how you were able to trick yourself for so long. 

“Well,” you start, walking back towards him as he pulls you into a hug, “certainly not Scott.” He huffs and shakes his head. You give him a sheepish smile, brows knitted together. “I can’t believe we’ve been dating this whole time.”

He just presses another kiss to your temple and shrugs. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can make it up to me by being my Valentine again next year.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice. A promise that he’s planning to be around for a lot longer than a year. You smile at him, silently promising the same. “Only if you’re mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a/n: i’m gonna gag actually. Made myself cringe there at the end. I want a valentine next year so bad, it’s sad. But what’s the point of a valentine if it’s not going to be Logan?

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto