#is salvation of a sort
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toastedcinnamonflakes · 4 months ago
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The secret history is if Rodion Raskolnikov wasn't alone but had a group of people who were all similarly unhinged, and them talking to each other would make them spiral negatively, because they would keep affirming to each other that they have, in fact, the right to murder people.
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enbyman · 5 months ago
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Thinking about Ryan/Ray (especially in that zombie apocalypse AU) and how Ray couldn't help but compare Ryan to Timmy Kirk. Both being irish and the embodiment of evil and all......how delicious
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peniswizard69 · 1 year ago
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A sequence of events
Jacksfilms tries to guess movies by their Letterboxd reviews Youtube video
References Zootopia shrew Godfather scene
Remember that Judy met the shrew in a neighborhood marked "little rodentia" despite shrews not being rodents
Search what order shrews are actually in
It's Eulipotyphla. What else is in it? Moles, hedgehogs, solenodons (already knew solenodons). Moonrats?
One genus of moonrats is Hylomys, that's from Greek for tree top mouse, which is neat. What are some of the specific names?
Macarong from Vietnamase for vampire. Now I need to know about Vietnamese vampires.
The English Wikipedia page for vampire has Ma cà rồng listed as its Vietnamese counterpart
Etymology of Ma cà rồng deeply unclear; ma is demon, but cà rồng is confidently listed as different things in different Wiki sources: Vietnamese Wikipedia connects it to Indonesian for mountain, English Wiktionary connects it to a Tai Dam word not translated directly but showing its cognates all mean cage or prison, and Vietnamese Wiktionary connects it to Khasi for rib. None of those things connect and I've learned of two ethnicities.
Afflict Google Translate upon the Vietnamese page on vampires, dreading any possible inaccuracies
A quote from some book says: vampires act like humans during the day, being a servant and doing normal things, but at night they stick their two big toes into their nostrils and fly off to be a demon and drink women's blood as they give birth. Then they come home, put their feet in a bucket of water, take their feet out of their nose, and turn human again. The human doesn't remember what they were doing that night
What was that about the toes?
That's the phrase Google Translate spat out, "two big toes into their nostrils", which is to me both insane and visceral. This cannot be right
By a repetitive process of deleting parts of the sentence and seeing how it affects the meaning, identify the role of each word and run through Wiktionary to verify translation; it checks the fuck out.
Xo hai ngón chân cái vào lô mui would be "insert two finger leg big in hole nose" if xo had a little sideways semi circle on the o, lô had a tilde on the ô, and mui has a tilde on the u. My phone's keyboard has limitations
Fuck it keep reading. Boring stuff about European vampires that I already knew, oh goody more Vietnamese specifics! This guy says vampires have red foreheads and a lot of white in their eyes!
Wrestle Google Translate and Wiktionary in order to attempt to decipger what "a lot of white in their eyes" means. The literal translation appears to be eye much core white. The word for core can also be heart? What is it doing there? Dead end
Says it goes to its grandmother's house? More wrestling. Mistranslation of "midwife", back to women giving birth
South East Asian folklore is deeply concerned with pregnancy. I've learned this. I've learned this in my research
Says their nostrils are extra big to fit the toes. Also says they grab their ears in their hands when they fly off?
Wrestling ole Goog Transl and Wicker Shenary again. Tay xách tai - hand pull ear. Xách tai is actually an example sentence for xách, in the meaning of pull up (derogatory)! So yeah
It is roughly 1:30 AM.
Start writing this post
It is 1:52 AM.
None of this has anything to do with mountains prisons or ribs btw. Or shrews or Jacksfilms for that matter
I woke up at 8 today
I'm so hungry
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set-wingedwarrior · 1 year ago
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I know it happens often to see writers during a long fic to complain at some point about the first chapters because they got better in the meantime and they look bad to them now.
But this is the first time where I saw this happened when the writing actually got worse
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yuseirra · 1 year ago
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I've been three minutes in P5X, but do you think this game has to do with P2? The characters oddly resemble the characters from there with the protagonist sharing some resemblance to tatsuya, the homeroom teacher looks a bit like maya but it could be just me. I never played P2 but my brother did, and according to what I've heard, there are (spoilers but) two different worlds. Maybe this game has to do with that "alternate world" and everything that happens in P5X is an alternate reality.. but perhaps those two worlds that got cut off from each other could be merging and that's why there are problems that are arising or something? That was just a thought that crossed my mind and I'm sure there would already be theories from who know this series better
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backlitmademoiselle · 4 months ago
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Working on the next chapter of Moonlight Flowers bit by bit, & might have to....update....the "mild religious thoughts & imagery" tag.
Christine Daaé 🤝 BacklitMademoiselle
Complicated Relations with The Lutheranism of Their Youth
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pastorhogg · 2 months ago
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The Final Catch
When Jesus Pulls in the NetA Day in the Life of Jesus When Jesus told stories, they weren’t just clever illustrations—they were windows into eternity. In Matthew 13:47–52, He paints a vivid picture that echoes through the ages: a fisherman casting a net into the sea, catching fish of every kind. Some are good. Some are not. But all are gathered in. And then comes the moment of sorting. This…
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sexysilverstrider · 7 months ago
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ok while this ending is still bittersweet its a bit more hopeful than sciens and mathis'
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creepyclothdoll · 8 months ago
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The Devil's Wheel
The Devil’s Wheel
“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”
“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 
“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”
The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.
He’s been perfectly polite. 
You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”
“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”
He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:
THE DEVIL’S WHEEL
“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”
You examine the wheel. 
The gambling addict
The doting boyfriend
The escaped convict
The dog dad
The secretive sadist
“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 
“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”
“Serial wife murderer?”
“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”
The hard worker
The compulsive liar
The animal torturer
The widower
The desperate businessman
The failed musician
The beloved son
“My husband is on here too,” you say. 
“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”
“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”
“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”
You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.
Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity
Round and round it goes. 
The college graduate
The hockey fan
The Eagle Scout
The cold older brother
The charming younger brother
The two-faced middle child
The perfectionist
The slob 
Your husband Dave
Clackity-clackity-clackity.
Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.
The photographer
“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”
“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 
“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”
“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.
You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 
Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 
The cancer survivor
The bereaved
The applicant
Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…
The newlywed
The ex-gifted kid
The uncle
The Badgers fan
“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.
“How lovely,” the Devil says. 
Then it hits you.
Of course.
The weightlifter.
The careful driver.
The manager.
The claustrophobe.
Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.
“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.
“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 
The Devil cackles. 
“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”
“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”
“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”
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fayerie · 12 days ago
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gojo satoru survived — first thing he does? finds you, fucks you like you're the only thing keeping him alive, as if dying didn’t take, but coming back might.
<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , mlist ,
cw: angst and smut, trauma recovery via sex, intense + emotional , breeding kink implied , post-shibuya , reader is grounding him , not proofread .
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gojo satoru stumbles into your space like a collapsing moon, sweat soaked and trembling.
half here, half somewhere else. he doesn't knock. just appears. the air thickened around for a second before it settled with a dull thud, the universe shuddering to spit him back out.
he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink much either;
his eyes aren’t the same. they look too bright — off somehow, shaky, burnt-out from seeing something probably no man should, scorched from trying to hold the strongest image.
he’s breathing as if he clawed his way through hell barefoot, chest heaving under torn tight black fabric, collarbone glistening, a ssmear of blood clinging to the side of his neck, and not all of it is his. some sort of — divine wrath clinging to his skin.
you say his name. once. twice. he doesn’t answer.
he stares, checking if you’re real or just another hallucination from the edge of death. then he touches you — trembling fingers, clumsy, desperate, afraid you’ll vanish.
no words. just breathing. just need. but not the needy toru you're used to.
he kisses you wrong. too hard. too much teeth. it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel unfamiliar — not passion, but a tether to reality.
he’s trying to stay here, with you. grounding himself through you.
you try to pull back, to say something, anything, but he follows, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild with something you still can’t name.
“...’s over,” he mumbles eventually.
you’re not sure if he means the fight, the world, or himself, but he keeps touching you like you're the only thing left that’s real.
he doesn’t give you a chance to ask what he means. doesn’t give himself the chance to fall apart.
his hands slip under your shirt, rough and shaking — tugging, clawing, desperate. his breath stutters over your cheek as he mouths at your skin, messy and raw, teeth grazing your pulse like he needs to feel it jump to prove he made it out alive.
he moans at the beat beneath your skin. it’s proof. your back hits the nearest surface — wall, table, floor — it doesn’t matter.
he groans when your legs open for him, a low, guttural sound torn from somewhere deep and wounded. starving, frantic.
his hands push your clothes away with no rhythm, no patience — almost furious at the fabric separating you.
“fuck,” he chokes out, voice cracked and breaking at the edges.
his fingers find your cunt, and there's no tenderness — just a desperate press between your thighs, his middle finger dragging over your clit too hard, too fast, panic woven into every movement.
your hips jolt, a startled moan slipping free from your mouth, and he groans again — raw, unfiltered — at the sound.
“fuck—warm,” he breathes, thumb sliding through your slick like salvation. “still warm, you're real.”
he repeats it, barely a whisper. real. real. afraid it might stop being true.
then he’s fumbling his pants down — cock heavy, flushed, the head already wet and twitching. painfully hard. he lines up in one breathless motion. you barely inhale—
and then he’s inside. not slow. not careful. just in.
one brutal thrust, thick cock stretching you wide, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your back arches. your pussy clenches around him, fluttering from the sudden fullness, and he shudders, eyes half shut.
“shit,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “satoru—”
he pulls back only halfway before slamming in again, deep and messy, hips grinding against yours like he’s chasing something he’s already losing. every drag of his cock scrapes your walls just right, each thrust making your legs tremble around him.
his pelvis grinds your clit with every stroke, heat blooming into something sharp. your head knocks the wall, rhythm caught in the wet slap of flesh.
“can’t—fuck, can’t stop,” he pants, forehead pressed hard to yours. “you feel so—so good—holy shit—” his voice sounds close to breaking.
his cock drives into you with a desperate rhythm, thick and relentless, your slick making it too easy to fuck you deeper, harder. your cunt squeezes around him, soaking, tight, pulling him back in every time he bottoms out.
the air is thick with wet sounds — your pussy squelching, your bodies colliding — as he uses you like you’re the only thing keeping him here.
you feel every inch of him. the way he fills you, stretches you, the blunt head of his cock battering your cervix with each thrust that lands too deep, makes your voice crack.
“fuck—oh my god—satoru—slower—please—”
but you don’t mean it. not when his hand grabs your thigh and hikes it higher, not when his other hand climbs from your stomach to your chest, rough and greedy, thumbs brushing your nipples until they harden under his touch.
“you’re gonna take it,” he growls, voice low and slurred. “gonna take all of it—let me fuck it in deeper—fuck it in good—”
he sounds half possessed, half begging.
your walls clench down, moans spilling louder, wetter, each one driving him to thrust harder. deeper. more. his pace brutalizes the space between you, tries to leave you shaped around him.
you don’t know what the hell happened out there, but this — this feels right. this feels alive.
his cock throbs inside you. you feel it — hips snapping faster, the wet drag of him inside you echoing off the walls.
he buries himself deep, chasing something final.
“you’re mine, you're real,” he groans into your mouth, voice cracking. “mine—fuck—don’t go—don’t go—”
as if he’s already watched you disappear once.
your body’s clenching around him, pussy tightening with each desperate thrust, milking him closer to the edge. your own orgasm builds in heavy waves, still out of reach — but it’s coming.
you can’t breathe. can’t think. just feel. his cock driving into your soaked cunt, clit dragging against his pelvis with every slam, heat building under your skin—
“gonna cum—” he gasps, frantic, hand gripping your ass as he slams in one last time, deep and wrecking —“fuck, i’m cummin'—”
and he spills inside you. hot. thick. endless.
his hips stutter as he fills you up, cock twitching deep, and you feel it flood your insides, dripping between your thighs before he even pulls out. your cunt clenches, still twitching, your own orgasm shuddering behind it.
“fuck—look at me,” you breathe, grabbing his face, and his dazed eyes lock with yours as your pussy spasms around him, squeezing his still hard cock.
“you’re not done,” you whisper, breathless. still trembling. aching. “don’t you dare pull out.”
and he listens. he can’t do anything else. not when your cunt refuses to let him go. not when he’s still buried to the hilt, still leaking into you, still throbbing. not when this is the only place he remembers how to be human.
he doesn’t say a word.
just rocks his hips again, slower now, cock sliding through the mess he left behind — your body soaked, dripping, greedy for more.
and he clings to you, the way only a man who’s died and come back can. desperate, shaken, driven by something deeper than lust — he missed you.
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divider by @/cafekitsune // art by HON100_ on twt
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houseofaegon · 2 months ago
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Ruined ✩ Bob Reynolds
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Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader
Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.
Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disaster—Valentina's controlling, the team’s a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like he’s one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesn’t stay quiet. And he definitely doesn’t stay good.
Word count: ~4k
Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore. if you want to be added to my tag list just comment! <3
masterlist.
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"Quiet, Bob."
The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows where—somewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.
It had been a long, brutal week.
Valentina had decided that the Thunderbolts—the shiny New Avengers—needed a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?
You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.
Like a fucking boy band.
You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.
"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."
Bucky didn’t even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.
Valentina didn’t stop there.
“You,” she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. “Need to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what I’m paying to make you likable? Not that you aren’t—you’re a doll, really—but come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.”
It was all bullshit. She’d even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.
Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.
Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.
Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearance—literally phased through the floor and didn’t return for hours.
Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."
Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.
And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.
You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.
"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"
You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.
Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.
So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.
And now—
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. “The way you looked in that suit—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”
You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. “You could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve snapped.” He laughed, breathless, voice fraying. “I nearly did.”
He didn't even make it to the bench.
By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in seconds—knees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.
You thanked God for wearing a dress.
He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.
He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.
Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.
Bob swore, loud and wrecked—“Fuckfuckfuck—” his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.
“God, you feel so fucking good—tight—perfect—I can’t—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth.
“Quiet, Bob.”
He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your ass, your thighs—like he didn’t know what to hold onto first.
You started to move—fast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.
Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldn’t help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.
Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.
“You’re so—fuck,—you’re so perfect—need this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like this—God, yesssss"
You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.
“You like being under me like this?”
He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.
“Mhm—yes—fuck, please—you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. “Been thinking about this—every night—every time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my knees—wanted to ruin you or be ruined, didn’t even fucking care—just needed you.”
You grinned, filthy and pleased. “And now you’re ruined under me.”
He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.
“You feel that?” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. “That’s how deep you are. You’re so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. God—you feel so fucking good."
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. “Such a good girl. God, you take me so fucking well—look at you—riding me like I belong to you—”
“You do,” you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. “You’re mine right now. You hear me?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck—yours—always—please god don’t fucking stop—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.
“Quiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."
He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept moving—fast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.
And just when he was seconds away from breaking—
Hiss. The door slid open.
“Oh my fucking god.”
Yelena’s voice hit like a bullet.
You froze. Bob’s eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.
Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “The armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, not—whatever the hell this is.”
Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.
Yelena pointed without looking. “Oh my god, this can't be happening. You’re—on top of him. And he’s—Jesus Christ, Bob!”
“Yelena!” you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.
“Alright, alright!” She held up both hands, backing away. “I’ll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.” She snorted. “Real in-depth work going on here.”
“Yelena! GET OUT!”
“Leaving! Leaving!” she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. “Just make sure no one ends up disarmed.”
Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelena—and her mouth—on the other side. You didn’t move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.
“You okay?” you asked, teasing, one brow raised. “She didn’t scar you for life, did she?”
Bob’s chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.
“No,” he said—low, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.
“Bob—?”
His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.
“You tease me like that,” he growled, voice rough and frayed, “and expect me to behave?”
Your breath hitched.
“You told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.”
His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.
“You think I’m gonna ask again?”
You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.
“Bob—”
“No,” he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. “You don’t get to be in charge now.”
He fucked into you like a man possessed—deep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.
“You wanted this,” he hissed against your ear. “Wanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.”
You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to you—over and over again.
“You feel that?” he growled, pounding into you. “That’s not deep. This—this is deep.”
You couldn’t even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.
And he loved it.
He didn’t stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.
He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.
“Now tell me who’s fucking ruined.”
taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos
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raayllum · 8 months ago
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Callum knows what he's risking in giving Finnegrin the spell, and he knows what he's risking — playing into Aaravos' hands in ways he can't quite understand, but is deeply afraid of — in doing dark magic to get out of his chains. It's been theorized for years now by many people that Callum's desire to protect and help his loved ones is going to be what leads him into doing Aaravos' bidding / possessed again.
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We also have good reason to believe that, ultimately, Finnegrin is going to be wrong. There's solid evidence that Rayla is going to be what helps Callum break free of Aaravos' control, and this line is a pretty pointed indicator. Callum's love for her is stronger than his current, literal entrapment.
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If Rayla being there can keep Callum chained down, and removing her can free (unlock him), then Finnegrin is stating that Rayla is the Key to Callum. She's his Key, capable of both locking and unlocking.
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L for Key of Aaravos has a quasar diamond inside it and is therefore related to the prison, W for Aaravos indeed needing a quasar diamond specifically to get out of his prison, W for the Key of Aaravos being a literal Key that Aaravos needs, we keep on plodding along on "Rayla will be what leads to him playing into Aaravos' hands, she will also help him reclaim his identity and break free because she's his light (and darkness), he'll break free and reclaim himself and the cube for his own" prediction train
So I was thinking about the infamous
Seems to me that love's got a tighter grip on you than those chains around your wrists, so I'll do you a favour and set you free.
cut lines from "Finnegrin's Wake." And I've said before that I totally get and agree with why these lines got cut, because they just verbalize a dichotomy that is (hopefully) obvious to the audience anyway, i.e. giving Callum the choice to
'Be freed' by losing Rayla OR remained 'chained' by refusing to lose her
Obviously this isn't literal because 'being freed' means staying in his chains, and 'staying chained' means removing his chains. However, it is somewhat true from an emotional and a thematic standpoint. Callum knows what he's risking in giving Finnegrin the spell, and he knows what he's risking — playing into Aaravos' hands in ways he can't quite understand, but is deeply afraid of — in doing dark magic to get out of his chains. It's been theorized for years now by many people that Callum's desire to protect and help his loved ones is going to be what leads him into doing Aaravos' bidding / possessed again.
We also have good reason to believe that, ultimately, Finnegrin is going to be wrong. There's solid evidence that Rayla is going to be what helps Callum break free of Aaravos' control, and this line is a pretty pointed indicator. Callum's love for her is stronger than his current, literal entrapment. That can very easily take a positive turn and I expect that it will in coming scenes.
But I want to point out something that's like... specific and obvious and yet overlooked (myself included) about this line.
If Rayla being there can keep Callum chained down, and removing her can free (unlock him), then Finnegrin is stating that Rayla is the Key to Callum. She's his Key, capable of both locking and unlocking. And this makes perfect sense, given all the duality she represents for him ("Now you're back, and that's kind of good, and it's kind of bad" / "So they might kill you or they might save you?" / light vs dark with light not always being good).
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We see this more literally in 5x08 itself with Callum's love for her being his motivation to do dark magic (locking himself) and being part of his motivation / ability to understand the Ocean arcanum (unlocking himself from Finnegrin's hold, literally). You can read more about that here if you'd like.
It also bodes well for the theory that the Key of Aaravos is his chest piece and has something to do with getting him out of his prison, because it was involved in locking him away (and therefore, can be involved in unlocking whatever led to him being put in there):
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and that its presence in Callum's life is at its most pronounced when Rayla comes back, because — just as the Key of Aaravos is the key to Aaravos, she is the key to Callum.
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joelsgoldrush · 9 months ago
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“crawl home to her” | 7.5k
old man!logan x f!reader
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SUMMARY: Will he be able to control himself once he's near you? In this moment, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you. OR Like a sinner seeking absolution, he finds his way back to you after every absence, as if you're the only salvation he's ever known.
WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. some fluff. comfort. feelings. self-deprecation. miscommunication. sort of established relationship. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). petnames. religious imagery. logan's POV. chauffeur!logan. dom!logan. reader wears logan's dog tags and clothes. pussy pronouns. phone sex. oral sex (f and m receiving). 69. fingering. masturbation (he jerks off in the limo). one (1) single spank. sort of rough sex. unprotected p in v. creampie.
A/N: i wrote this as a part 2 of this story, but still, it can be read as a standalone (i'd recommend that you also read the first part as well 👀 you'll understand their relationship better). hope you like this one! <3
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Logan is tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired.
He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl inside his chest, teasing his lungs. Doesn’t even bother to crack the window open—why would he?—before exhaling, the haze lingering inside the limo like a fog.
One quick glance at his phone screen just to make sure his vision isn’t screwing him over—no older notifications. A pang of disillusionment settles in his being.
Not only is he fighting to keep his eyes open, exhausted from driving the same family around for the past few days while they enjoy their quality time, but he’s also bored out of his mind. 
Where the hell are you?
He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher up on the bridge of his nose, preventing them from sliding down to his lap. When his phone buzzes, he jolts, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the limo due to his excitement.
His poor heart gallops as he fumbles with the screen, unlocking it with the same urgency as a man starved for contact.
But it’s not you. It’s one of his passengers.
We’re getting out in half an hour, the message reads. By we, she means herself, her husband, and their two kids.
Logan can’t bring himself to type an actual reply, so he leaves her on read. She knows he’s not going anywhere, parked outside the arcade as if he’s rooted in place with no way out.
Family after family enters that hell on earth, kids of all ages bouncing on their heels, voices shrill with enthusiasm. He watches, half-heartedly, as parents get dragged by their little ones, who negotiate how much money they are allowed to spend tonight.
He almost feels bad for those parents. Almost. He hopes that at least they know how to say ‘No’.
All in all, he’s got another thirty minutes of solitude ahead. The radio has long since ceased to entertain him. He’s been parked here for two hours, and his mind is starting to drift. He could stretch his legs, walk around, or maybe grab a drink—but damn it.
He wants to talk to you.
You’d said he could call you after dropping the family off. That was three hours ago. The last message he received from you was still stuck in his head, replaying over and over like a lifeline. Logan knows you must be busy, probably taking care of Charles and—
Okay, he’ll get back to that later. 
You: Just got out of the shower. Call me in five?
Right now, he could die a happy man. Were he a dog, his tail would be wagging furiously, anticipation already building for the simple joy of hearing you.
Logan: Got it.
The next five minutes feel like an eternity. He finishes his cigar, flicking the stub beneath the seat without giving it a second thought. For now, he doesn’t care about being a messy fucker. He’ll deal with the mess some other time.
Priorities.
A quick spritz of some cheap air freshener he picked up from a gas station fills the car, masking the distinctive scent of smoke. God forbid the kids start whining about how ‘weird’ it smells in the limo.
With a grimace, he sprays a little more—floral, of all scents? It feels insulting.
How kind of him to still be this considerate.
His thumb hovers over your contact, and he presses the call button with an agility he hasn’t had in years (thanks to you).
One, two, three rings, and then—
“Logan,” you say softly, your voice a little breathless, like you’ve been hurrying all over the place.
He stops grinding his jaw, the tension in his shoulders easing. He unclenches his fists, fingers uncurling one by one, as if letting go of some invisible burden.
Outside the vehicle, people stop dying, babies stop being born, and the world itself pauses just for him to listen to you.
You can’t see him, but he smiles either way. “Hey, baby.”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time talking to Charles. We had dinner, and then I just—I felt so gross, you know? From cooking and all that. Took a shower, and it got pretty late.”
You end with a sigh, and he imagines you rubbing a hand over your face. “Please tell me you weren’t sleeping when I texted you.”
“Not even close. Still waiting for them.”
“They’re really taking their time, huh?”
“You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmurs, his fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the steering wheel. “How was your day?”
“Great! I’m already in bed.”
“My bed.”
You laugh, that sweet sound making his heart stutter. “Well, yeah. Where else do you want me to sleep if I’m at your place? On the floor?”
If someone had told Logan a year ago that he’d let someone live in his space, let alone take care of Charles, he’d have scoffed. "Pathetic," he’d have said, rolling his eyes with that familiar growl in his throat. Pretty sure he’d also puffed his chest while saying so.
Because Logan Howlett wasn’t one for accepting help. He’s been on his own since the earth was still cooling down.
But for you? He made exceptions. Plenty of them. And if it weren’t for your altruism, he wouldn’t have accepted this job—a job that pays well enough to cover Charles’ meds and put food on the table. He needs this rich family’s money.
“You’ve got a girlfriend now?” Charles had asked, when Logan explained he’d be staying with you while he went away for a few days.
“Big word you’re using there,” Logan had replied, placing two pills into Charles’ palm. The old man gave him a death stare. “Don’t play dumb. It’s not like you don’t know the drill.”
Mumbling something incoherent before swallowing the pills, Charles had taken slow sips of water between each one, sinking back into the mattress with a weary sigh. “If she’s not your girlfriend, then what is she?”
“A friend.”
“That’s nice. Is that what they’re calling it now?”
He shakes that memory away, forcing his mind back to the call. “Try not to be so kind to him. What if he falls in love with you?” he inquires, a mocking tone weaving through his words. 
And that’s when you drop the bombshell. “You mean like you did?” 
You laugh, but Logan… doesn’t. He can’t do it. He makes sure he’s breathing on command: in and out, in and out, in and out. 
The mention of love unsettles him. He doesn’t feel safe anymore, doesn’t know what game you’re playing. Where’s the rulebook?
Is he—could he be—falling in love with you? Is that what you’re implying? And if so, do you feel the same?
In the long run, you mumble: “It was a joke.” Only then do his lungs fill with fresh air, untainted by the weight of his unease. But he can’t let it pass, the fact you sound disappointed. Defeated.
He promised himself he’d never hurt you. Though he doesn’t intend to, it feels as if he’s just stabbed you in the back, twisting the knife further into your frame—unwillingly.
“Remember the—” he pauses a moment, throwing his head back in frustration, silently cursing himself. “The pills. You’ve been giving them to him, right?”
“Yes, Logan.”
“Please, remember it’s only—”
“Logan,” you try again, cutting through the wave of his spiraling thoughts. He can picture you behind closed lids, looking at him through your lashes, your hand resting gently on his chest. “I have it under control, okay? He’s doing alright. I swear I’m taking good care of him.”
“I don’t doubt that, honey.” Casting a glance at the rearview mirror, he feels an unexpected sense of longing for your presence there, like a ghost haunting his every move, confined to the limits of his brain. “Can’t help but worry. That’s all.”
A soft hum reverberates through the line. He hears the rustle of sheets, the sound of you tossing around in his bed, and his pulse quickens at the thought.
“You said you’re sleepin’ on my bed.”
“Good memory you have.”
“You wearin’ my clothes as well?”
 Thick silence, the kind he relishes.
“Yeah,” you finally reply, shifting the phone from side to side. You take a deep breath, and add: “I forgot to bring mine.”
He hates how you easily find a way to get him riled up despite being miles away. It must be the power of words.
“I don’t believe you.” He knows he shouldn’t, hates himself for doing it, but one of his hands palms the half-hard bulge in his black slacks, suppressing a low groan. “Think you did it on purpose.”
A rush of heat, sharp and urgent, washes over him. Is he really about to do this? Get himself off in the very car he uses for work? Twisted, incredibly sick of him, he thinks.
Still, he craves more. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
You laugh at his demanding tone, fanning the flames of his desperation. “When did you turn into a horny teenager?”
“Always been, baby,” Logan purrs, undoing the button of his pants, followed by the fly. His eyes flick upwards for just a moment—no cars, no one in sight. He’s presumably alone. It’s all the confirmation he needs to say: “C’mon. Tell your old man what clothes you stole from him.”
He’s never done this before—phone sex. He’s heard about it, sure, but never imagined he’d fall so hard for the idea. The thrill of it sinks into him, electrifying.
What are you doing? Is your lip caught between your teeth? Do your eyes wander down your own body? Maybe your fingers are already skimming over your skin.
“It’s just a random shirt,” you murmur. “Plain, white.”
“What else?”
“There’s nothing else.”
Logan’s breath hitches as his hand moves to his cock, spotting the damp patch on his briefs where the tip has already started to leak. The moment he slides the elastic down past his balls, he fists his shaft in a slow stroke, going from the base to the head. “No panties? And you expect me t’believe this wasn’t planned?”
Your muffled whimper is like molten lava spilling into his ear, bringing him to full hardness. More shuffling follows on your end, driving him wild with the anticipation. “Why do you do this to me if you’re not here?”
“‘Cause I want you touchin’ yourself just like I’m doin’.” He thumbs the head, hips jerking involuntarily at the sensation. He aches to feel your mouth there instead. “Bet that pussy’s been cryin’ out for me, huh? Must’ve got used to me fillin’ her every other night.”
Your breathing grows more uneven, small gasps filtering through the speaker. “I need you here with me. This is—ugh—not enough.”
“What’s not enough, sweetheart?”
There’s a pause as the sound of your phone shifts again, and then he hears it clearly—the wet, needy sound of your fingers working between your legs, filling the silence with the loud squelching of your cunt. “My fingers,” you blurt out, more distant than before, like you’re merging with the bed, dissolving with every touch.
Logan spits roughly into his palm, the slickness of his saliva easing the drag of his calloused hand along his length, good enough to make the movement more satisfying.
He moans aloud, eyes shut tight, your name slipping from his lips, a whispered prayer, as if saying it could somehow summon you to his side. “I spoil you too much,” he rasps, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder, using every resource available to him, anything to feel something real. “Seems like you’ve forgotten how to make yourself come.”
Your moans follow his, the breathy sounds a clear sign of how close you are, hanging on the edge, your release just a heartbeat away. But it’s not enough, and you need him. He wonders if you can feel his thoughts from miles away, because— “Want your cock so bad, Lo. I m-miss you.”
He has to stop jerking himself to hold off his orgasm, stomping his foot against the pedals. “Fuck, darlin’. You keep sayin’ those things and I swear I’ll be back with you by morning.”
His sole focus now is you—getting you to come. Driven by his growing frenzy, it’s the only coherent thought that claws through the haze in his mind. “Keep talking, please,” you plead, fingers still lost in the heat of your body. “Tell me what you’ll do to me when you see me.”
Logan picks up the rhythm again, his movements faltering as his chest heaves, ragged breaths spilling out while his hand works faster. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep, just how you like it. Face to face, so you can kiss me as much as you want, ‘cause I know my girl loves that, am I right?”
My girl. He’ll regret that one the second the high fades and clarity sets in.
Word after word falls from his lips without thought, uncontrollable, as though he’s surrendered to the storm of desire raging in his being—a storm in which your name is the eye of it all.
You are everywhere, and you take up all the empty spaces he thought were impossible to fill, sinking into the depths of his unconsciousness.
Not a single part of him is left untouched by you, by the power of your presence in his life, consuming him in ways he never imagined.
Your airy mewls ripple through the line, feeding his ravenousness, adding to the tightening knot of pleasure coiling low in his abdomen. His muscles strain, thighs tensing. Each stroke of his hand prolongs this sweet torture. 
“Come for me, princess. You’d make me so h-happy if you came right now.”
And you do, because it’s not just his touch anymore—it’s his voice, and the way he commands you without force. How you’ve become accustomed to him, nodding along to each instruction he mutters.
Beneath your fingers, your swollen clit pulses, and though he can’t see it, he imagines it perfectly, having spent enough time worshiping it.
He knows, even from a distance, what your body must be doing. Your back arching off the bed, thighs quivering and clenching tight around your own hand. Those perfect legs of yours trembling as you reach your so-desired climax.
Loud and unrestrained, you moan, and for a moment, he wants to be with you so badly that he ponders if the theory of traveling across time and space sounds that far-fetched after all.
Logan doesn't need much after that for the thread to snap at long last, his groans dying on his lips as he stares in awe at the spurts of his seed landing wherever his eyes fall: a bit on the top of his pants, on his hand, his briefs. His cock twitches in his grip as he continues stroking himself through the aftershocks, gulping when it becomes too much to handle.
So phone sex is off the list now. Great.
“Miss you, too,” he mumbles once he’s caught his breath, tossing his glasses onto the passenger seat. His forehead feels damp to the touch, and he contemplates when was the last time he came this hard.
The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet. He knows you expect him to say more, something deeper and rawer, but that’s all he can force himself to spit out.
Sometimes, he forgets that you can’t read him all the time. Although you know him better than anyone else, there are certain thoughts and memories locked tightly inside him, things you'd never discover on your own. Secrets he admits he should share with you, but he’s at a loss for how. Words aren’t doable when he needs them the most.
Maybe it's a matter of age—you’re a natural at voicing your feelings.
At some point, you ask: “When did you say you were returning?”
One thing’s clear: he can’t afford to lose you. He’d be an idiot if he let that happen.
“In five days, I think.” Were he with you, he'd hold you in his arms, kissing your lips. God, how he misses kissing you. All of you. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“It’s okay,” you respond, and in his mind, a blank canvas fills with the familiar image of you lying on your side, curling into a ball the way you always do. “I should go to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sure.” Thank you for everything. “Get some rest.” Are you still in love with me? “Bye.” I’m coming back. You know how I feel about you, do you?
So much left unsaid, words he lacks the strength to speak. That, along with his come-stained clothes. And, of course, the limousine now perfumed like a flower shop.
Exhaustion clings to him again.
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His luck has never been this good.
The next afternoon, one of the couple’s kids falls ill. Must be something he ate, the woman tells Logan, her voice light, though he can hear the shuffle of urgency behind her words.
Her husband packs their bags in the background, the muted thuds of luggage hitting the floor. You know how children are. Their hands are always filthy!
What she doesn’t realize is that Logan, in fact, doesn’t know how children are, because how could he?
He’s holed up in the hotel across the street, his only responsibility being to wait on their call, ready to drive whenever they needed him. Needless to say, his accommodations are nothing like theirs. Not that he minds it—he’s not one for luxury, has never needed it.
Truth be told, he’s no stranger to beds that groan if you shift slightly, clogged toilets that spit back water like they’re alive.
Joy rushes through him when he hears the news. He’s coming back earlier than expected, a thrill building in his chest. Twelve days he’s been away, his greed growing with each second in that desolate hotel room.
Now, the beating of his heart quickens, a faint thrumming as he stares out the window. He debates whether to let you know about his early return or keep it as a surprise. Would it be better if he just showed up?
How would you feel, knowing that, by the time the lights are out, he’ll be yours again?
He knows he should feel sorry for the poor kid, but all he can muster is a look of concern that barely reaches his eyes. Each time they pull into a gas station, he listens to the hurried slap of footsteps as the boy rushes for the bathroom to empty his insides.
He watches in the rearview as the kid’s father shakes his head, clicking his tongue with disapproval. “Do you have kids?” he asks, his voice forced into a casual tone, like he’s trying to break the silence that’s settled between them. 
Logan’s only response is to turn up the radio, some pop song he’s never heard spilling from the speakers. The lyrics are a blur of nonsense to him, but it’s enough to drown out the man’s words and the boy’s misery.
Some things never change.
As the sun dips below the horizon, he’s finally free, no longer at anyone’s beck and call. He contemplates the possibility of getting a speeding ticket, weighing his options. It hardly matters. The pull to see you, to feel you, is stronger than anything else.
Even though he tries to think of another time in his life when he felt such a raw need, no memory comes close.
When he does pull up to his place, he does it quietly. Parking the limo, he doesn’t honk, doesn’t announce himself. Fumbling with the keys ever so lightly so as not to wake you up, fitting them into the lock.
His wrist twists, and the door gives way with a soft creak.
Anxiety ripples through him as he steps inside. The smell of freshly cooked food hits him, but it only tightens the knot in his stomach, reminding him of how long it’s been since he last ate.
Later, he tells himself. After. Once he’s sated his true hunger—the kind of hunger that can only be satisfied by sinking his fingers into something real, fleshy, malleable. 
Hunger—yes, it’s animalistic, feral even. Will he be able to control himself once he’s near you? In moments like this, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you.
His feet take him to his bedroom, knowing the path to it very well. Fingers hovering over the knob, he takes a deep breath.
It’s already late, past midnight, yet energy courses through his veins as though he’s just woken from a long, ethereal dream.
He finds you asleep, your body wrapped snugly in the sheets, clutching a pillow close to your chest. Your cheek is pressed into it, breathing soft and steady, lulling him in. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he kicks off his shoes, then slips in beside you, mirroring your position. 
A lamp sits on his nightstand, one that isn’t his, and he figures you must have brought it from your apartment. There has to be a symbolism for that.
It’s incredible how his entire world can fit into such a narrow bed.
The smart thing would be to let you sleep, to simply watch you for a moment longer. But he can’t help himself.
His thumb lingers near your face before gently cupping your cheek, and the very first contact with your skin sends a shudder through him, the warmth of your skin grounding him. He trails his fingers down to your chin, holding it with just enough pressure to remind himself that he’s here.
Leaning in, he presses his lips softly against your forehead, your typical perfume wrapping around him like a welcome.
Welcome home, Logan.
For the first time, he feels that someone’s been counting down the minutes until his return. He’d always believed a person like him didn’t deserve this. That he just wasn’t built for it.
Countless years had he spent convincing himself he’d never be the kind of man who could inspire love. His life had already been written long ago—predetermined by some cruel hand in the sky.
Destiny, fate, call it what you want—once the cards are laid out, there’s no escaping them. Or so he used to think.
You had taken that pen into your own hands, rewriting his future. You, of all people, had changed his life. No matter what the future held for the two of you, he’d always be grateful. Grateful that you’d seen the dim spark in him that others had chosen to ignore.
Thoughtlessly, his fingers continue their gentle strokes along your cheek, your hair. You stir beside him, shifting in your sleep. Your eyes flutter open, close again, and then open once more, blinking in confusion.
“Logan?” you croak, voice still groggy and thick with sleep, coming to your senses. Before he can respond, you throw yourself on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. “Why—how—”
“Sweetheart,” he says, attempting to hide his grin, but failing when your kisses shift to his neck, your nose nuzzling against his skin. A laugh slips out, warmth flooding his chest.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming home early!”
Home. Had he heard right? Had you used that word knowingly?
Peering into your eyes, he catches his reflection in your pupils, tiredness etched into his features. “Wanted it to be a surprise.”
“You could’ve told me,” you reply, fingers threading through his greying locks, massaging his scalp. You place a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. “I would’ve waited up for you at least.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he whispers back, gaze drifting to your lips, and you close the space between you, his sigh mingling with yours as one hand cradles the small of your back, fisting the fabric of his shirt. His other hand tilts your head, inviting your tongues to greet each other in an unhurried dance.
You move languidly on top of him, and he notices, breaking the kiss and pulling back. “You’re gonna fall asleep on me, are you?”
The way your lashes flutter in response should be illegal. “I could use a human-size pillow.”
“I should shower first.”
“No.”
“Baby, I smell like gas.”
“So?”
A smirk tugs at his lips at your insistence, and he gently lays you back against the mattress. Drawn to your charm once again, he licks into your mouth, mentally scolding himself when he gets carried away, letting the kiss linger longer than intended.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises, pulling the sheets over your body. Resigned, you simply nod, settling on your side.
Ten minutes later, you’re dozing off, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when he slips into bed, wrapping himself around you from behind. One arm drapes over your waist, the other cushions your head, and there’s not a patch of skin between you left untouched.
Fatigue begins to delve deeper into his bones the longer he stays curled around you, but before the weight of sleep takes him, and the silence steals his chance, he huffs: “I missed you.” His beard grazes your skin in a soft, unintentional caress.
You pull his wrist to your lips, pressing a short-lived kiss to the inside of it. “Missed you, too.”
How the roles have reversed.
In the quietness of this starless night, you leave him no other choice but to believe you.
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3:34 a.m. Still hostage to the lack of light outside. The world remains submerged in the gentle tides of sleep, undulating between dreams, except for him.
Logan wakes up at 3:34 a.m. because he’s rock hard, and being flushed against your back wasn’t helping him with his situation at all. If anything, it only heightened it.
He sits at the edge of the bed, his mind running in circles, debating whether he should jump to his feet and head to the bathroom for another shower—this time, a cold one. Returning to sleep, at least in this moment, is not a viable option.
His gaze drifts to the moonlight spilling through the window, casting its pale glow across the room. Is this your doing? The question lingers, unshakable, in his thoughts. It remains as just that: a question.
When you quietly rest your chin on his shoulder, he stifles a sigh, biting the inside of his cheek. Your voice breaks through the quiet.
“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” Wrapping your arms around him from behind, you circle his frame, in an effort to persuade him to sink back into the mattress.
“It’s nothing,” he says, pulse accelerating. Please, don’t look down. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“But what is—”
He doesn’t get to hear the rest of your sentence. You do look down, finding the outline of his hardened cock straining against his briefs, stealing your full attention.
“Wow.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“And leave you like this?” One hand creeps toward his waistband, your breath warm against his ear. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.”
Your nails trace a path through the coarse hair at his navel, and Logan tenses. His legs feel like jelly as you cup his balls, fondling them gently between your fingers.
Behind him, your low chuckle stirs something primal in him, making his blood thrum hot beneath his skin. He should be the one doing this to you, not the other way around.
“Darlin’, I don’t—” He’s cut off by his own guttural groan when you fist his length, pumping him in rhythm with his uneven breaths. “I don’t need this.”
“Seems like you do,” you whisper, momentarily halting your ministrations to place your palm in front of his face, hoping he takes the hint. You kiss his stubble, pausing just short of his mouth. “I want to take care of you. Always do.”
Your palm hovers before him, inviting. Grabbing your wrist, he licks it, coating it in his spit and guiding you back down to him. Together, your hands glide along his length, and his gaze locks onto yours, the intensity of it making his neck tense.
You beam with delight under his stare. That red organ caged within his ribs—a blood-pumping machine of passion—surges back to life as he sees you.
He had won the battle. He had triumphed over his past; had lived enough lives, endured enough years, to arrive at this moment.
This had to be the purpose of his existence: to share this part of his stay on earth with you.
“You’re so hard,” you say, twisting your wrist at the tip of his cock, reveling in every buck of his hips, each movement a reflection of his exaltation. “Guess you did miss me.”
With a quiet growl, he reaches behind, nudging your thighs apart until they find your mound, cupping you through your underwear. “I’m not the only one who’s been missin’ someone.” He pulls the fabric aside, sliding his fingers through your wet folds. His nostrils flare as he feels how ready you are. “Why am I not surprised?”
Your breath hitches, and you press yourself closer against him, your tits against his back, mouth teasing at his neck. “That’s what happens when you’re gone.” Another kiss on his nape. “You could take me with you next time.”
“Can’t do that,” he answers, teasing your entrance. “No work would get done.”
His movements cease to a stop. Yours do too. Turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, he scrutinizes your expression, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in your affected state.
“You’re not goin’ back to sleep, are you?”
There’s the shake of your head. A single word escapes your lips, imbued with pure fervor: “Please.”
He captures your mouth in an ardent kiss, tugging at your shirt (which is, in fact, his) to undress you, his wandering hands roaming beneath it.
As his mouth meets your neck, something cold brushes against his lips, drawing his gaze down to what’s hanging from your neck.
His dog tags. The ones he had given you before leaving for that job, as his way of telling you I’m coming back without having to say it aloud. And you, as always, understood; had even promised to keep them safe, though he hadn’t expected you to actually wear them.
Now, with your shirt discarded, they lay against your bare skin, his name resting in the valley between your breasts.
“You like ‘em?” His fingers grip the chain and give it a gentle tug, drawing you closer so he can breathe over your lips, his breath mingling with yours. “Like knowing you’re mine? You get off on it?”
You nod in agreement. Of course, you do. Though emotionally constipated and not the most expressive, Logan is a lover who knows how to awaken desire—a good lover, indeed. A decent one.
Which is why he agrees to any idea that crosses your mind, like the one you just whispered in his ear.
He may be older than you, but he’s always been more on the traditional side. You, on the other hand, are continually searching for new ways to innovate.
The round globes of your ass jiggle over his face as he spreads you apart, entrenched by how your skin moves above him, your glistening hole clenching around nothing, as if your body itself is calling to him.
With his head propped against the headboard, he watches you take him deeper, your saliva dripping down the wiry hairs of his cock. The slick heat of your tongue traces over his slit, back and forth, driving him to the edge.
When he hears you gag, it stirs something inside him—a deep need to return the favor, to match your devotion.
At the end of the day, he’s a man on a mission, and right now, that mission is you.
Right there, with his nose and mouth buried in you, he wonders why he hadn't thought of this sooner. If he could choose a natural end like any other man, he'd wish for it to be by suffocation—your body his last breath.
Logan inhales deeply, like a man starved, working two of his fingers inside your throbbing center, his tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit, punching moan after moan out of you. Each thrust of his fingers, each stroke of his tongue, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you.
His beard, streaked with gray, leaves a trail of fire wherever your hips meet his face, pushing back against him. Every so often, you pull off his cock just to ramble, panting, about how good he's making you feel.
From where he lies, you’re a sight to behold, nothing short of divine. “Just what I needed, doll. You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he blurts out, your frantic cries pouring into his ears as he sucks the swollen bud between his lips. “Can’t believe you let me do this to you. You love makin’ your old man happy, don’t you?”
He used to think he'd burn in hell for indulging in the desire to know you like this—raw, ungraceful.
His judgment must be fucked up, because now, all he sees in you is heaven incarnate. You must be the closest thing to it he’ll ever find.
“Shit, I…” you trail off, gasping as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, drinking from your arousal and tasting every bit of you. “I thought about you every day.”
“Bet you did, just like that night I called you. You know how I felt when you told me you were wearing my clothes?” His hand comes down with a firm slap on your right asscheek, drawing a whine from you as your movements falter. “Can smell you all over these sheets. Makes me wonder how many times you made yourself come while I was away.”
You slip the tip of his cock back in your mouth, your hands and lips working in sync. His nose brushes against the plush skin of your thighs before his teeth graze your flesh, biting down just enough to leave a sting. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot again and again, and you moan around him, your throat vibrating against his length.
He makes you come like this, knuckles deep inside you while his thumb circles your clit. Overwhelmed by pleasure, you let go of his dick, and it hits Logan’s stomach with a wet pop. His strong arms tug you closer to his face, eyes falling closed as you ride the wave of your orgasm against his mouth, palms pressed flat on his chest.
For a brief moment, he can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but you, your scent, your taste filling his senses.
Later, he rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you, uncertain of how much time he has spent lapping at your wetness. His hard length glides along your folds, and he lines himself up without pushing in, looking right into your eyes. 
“Remember what I told you that night over the phone?” he asks, his breath coming in quick bursts, and you nod, head lolling back as he pinches your lower lip between his fingers. “Repeat it.”
“Logan—”
“You say it, and I’ll make it happen.”
Perplexity clouds your features. “You said you’d fuck me slow and deep, just h-how I like it. Face to face, because—”. The words escape you, a sob tearing through your throat as he eases the first few inches of himself inside you, your walls instinctively making space to wrap around him.
He’s home.
“Go on. What else did I say?” he teases, relishing in it. He’s guilty as sin. “Or were you too lost in thought touchin’ yourself?”
“F-face to face,” you slur, nails digging into his scarred back, and he keeps plunging his length into your interior to the hilt. Your lips part slightly, craving the kiss that only he can give you. “You said you’d do it face to face so I could kiss you whenever I wanted.”
He hums, low in his throat, as he gives the first thrust of the night, taking great pleasure in your expression: open-mouthed, eyes scrunched, and a slight crease forming between your brows.
Smoothing his thumb over your forehead, he tsks, pausing his movements. “None of that, princess. Look at me, c’mon.”
You obey, forcing your eyes open, and in that instant, he swears he can feel every tremor coursing through you. “Logan,” you coo, your voice aching as you stretch your neck toward his mouth.
The way you say his name—seductively, charged with a fascination that riles him up—manages to ignite a fire only you can kindle. It’s all the invitation he needs.
“I know. Too much, huh?” His tone drips with condescension, teasing in a way that feels almost cruel. He can’t help it, though: it’s in very his nature. “Need to hear you say it. Need you to tell me how much you want this.”
Like everything else in your world, your patience begins to wither, hips instinctively bucking beneath him, seeking even the slightest bit of friction. But he still withholds the kiss you long for, dangling it just out of reach.
“Please,” you beg, voice breaking as you plead. “Fuck me, baby. Missed you so much while you were away. Please, please, please—”
Logan enjoys hearing you beg. He won’t pretend otherwise. There's a satisfaction in knowing he holds this power over you, that he's the only one who can unravel you this way, your body splayed open beneath him.
The thought of others who may have once been in his place, making you fall apart just like this, sets his blood on edge.
Jealousy, sharp and corrosive, crawls up his spine, and it spurs him on, guiding the tempo of his thrusts.
He wonders if he’s ever fucked you this fiercely before, with a passion that pulses from every part of him. You’re given no space for thought, no moment to catch your breath—just his unforgiving pace and the sounds spilling from your lips.
He has a way of breaking you down, turning you into a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him, and you surrender willingly, craving each second of it.
So fuckin’ tight. Can y’hear her? How badly she needs me?
Sex had never felt like this before. He’d grown accustomed to quick, meaningless fucks in poorly lit bars, fleeting encounters that left him questioning if this was all there was. If this wasn’t the best he’d ever know. 
For a while, he’d tried to solve that emptiness, searching in nameless lovers and hollow hearts for the very thing he feared most: love.
And yet, he wanted it, yearned it, guarding his desire like a secret he barely admitted to himself. Until one day, you stumbled into his life, and all the strength he thought he had wasn’t enough to push you away.
He presses deep into the back of your thighs, bringing your chests so close they're nearly brushing. Claiming your mouth in a maddening kiss, all teeth and tongue, leaving no space for softness. As he nibbles at your bottom lip, he feels you tighten around him, your cunt pulling him under, clouding his thoughts.
“Close?” he murmurs, hips snapping against you with an utterly obscene rhythm that drowns out the world, better than any song ever made. “Such a good girl. Gonna come, sweetheart? Let me see how gorgeous you look when you fall apart, making a mess just for me.”
The constant, steady drag of his cock doesn’t seem to get old for you. He’s leaving his mark within you, inside you, carving a space for himself. His tip keeps hitting all the right spots, prompting you to tilt your pelvis to meet him halfway, telling him there, yes, there. More, please.
His hand slides down, rubbing your clit with his fingers. Doesn’t need any extra help when doing so, your arousal providing all the slickness he needs. He feels like a runner on the final stretch, the finish line within reach, so close he can almost touch it, savoring the euphoria and bliss of crossing it.
The way you sing his name never loses its allure, despite all the times he’s heard it spill from your lips. Especially at this moment, with him buried deep inside you, every thrust a promise to make you feel good.
You shamelessly come while he keeps driving into you, vigorous and untamed—like a caged animal unleashed, tasting freedom for the very first time.
Ankles digging into his lower back, a trail of persistent kisses along his beard. You want him inside, that much he can tell.  It’s not like he ever finishes anywhere else, but the reminder doesn’t bother him. It only serves as a reassurance: that you still want this, want him. You haven’t changed your mind.
He sinks his teeth into your neck the instant he feels his orgasm tearing through him, hips stilling and sagging as a string of grunts abandons his being, dampening your skin even more.  He loves to fill you up, it consumes him entirely.
Such an intimate, visceral act, and then he gets to see his seed trickling down your thighs. He realizes that he doesn’t need much to be happy.
You keep kissing him, his neck, his face. It may seem absurd to say that every kiss feels like the first, yet it’s true.
Even after he’s traced all the contours of your mouth and committed every detail of your body to memory, he can’t help but feel that same thrill of excitement he experienced months ago when he dared to push beyond the boundaries he had set for himself.
Staring at each other, naked, all the love in the world seems to fill these four walls. The compassion and tenderness in your gaze remain unchanged. You’re a dream come true.
It can’t end like this. He can’t allow you to drift back into sleep without saying what needs to be said. Something has to happen, something only he can conjure.
“I think…” He hesitates. Starting with I think carries an air of uncertainty. “I don’t—”
“Logan,” you interrupt, your hand finding his. “I know.”
Yes, you do. You always seem to know everything, but that can’t be enough. He can’t lean on your unspoken understanding of his feelings.
“You still deserve to hear it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It is.”
More silence. The moon is the solitary spectator of his upcoming declaration. 
“You were right,” he begins, drawing your intertwined hands closer to his face, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours. His voice drops to a murmur. It’s not just his body that feels completely exposed anymore; something deeper within him stands bare. “I’m in love with you.”
You scrutinize him as if he’s revealing the secret to eternal life. Again, you kiss his cheek, cupping it gently with your palm.
“It won’t get any better than this. There are no more layers to peel away, okay?” He offers explanations you never even asked for in the first place. “This is what I am.” Much to his dismay, you overlook his choice of words: what instead of who.
He glances away, his gaze landing on the dog tags resting against your skin. The same old guilt threatens to engulf him, as it does each time without fail, and that seems to be your cue to lower yourself to his eye level, eyebrows raised.
“I’m not with you because I’m waiting for you to change. I like you just as you are, Logan. And I want all of you, both the good and bad stuff.” A gentle smile breaks across your face as you stretch your arm to retrieve his glasses from the nightstand. Placing them on your nose, your eyes twinkle with contentment. “Do they look good on me?”
“You don’t need them yet.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t pull them off.”
“Come here,” he mutters, sighing when you nuzzle his chest, cradling your head between his hands. He ponders what to say, what to do next, but no clear idea sounds promising.
And so it gives you the chance to speak up: “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
I hope I don’t, he thinks to himself as he brushes your hair away from your face, fingers caressing your temples. I hope I never do.
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dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3
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damselneedssaving · 28 days ago
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BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.2
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★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too
★ A/N: tim didn't get to speak much last chapter so i'm hoping this one makes up for it!! also also, you guys have acc overwhelmed me with all the support, thank you all so much 😭💞💞💞
★ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 ★ | ★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★
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MARK DID, IN FACT, SAY 'DIFFERENT DIMENSION'—
—and now, he's sat on your bullet-hole-covered couch, head moving from side-to-side as he watches you pace the room behind your broken table, one hand holding your elbow, the other situated beneath your chin.
You're half paying attention to him, half stuck in your own thoughts, his earlier words repeating in your mind like a mantra, a broken record player you can't seem to fix no matter how much you move its lever.
"Okay," you whisper, maybe to him, maybe to yourself, "let's... let's run this back. You said you're my... boyfriend, right?"
Mark nods in time with a few growls in the background.
"But... from a different dimension?"
He nods again.
"Right, okay." You echo his action, nodding to yourself like any of this makes sense, like you don't have a million thoughts running through your mind right now.
"This is ridiculous," Damian voices one of them with a scoff. "How do we know this isn't another one of Darkseid's schemes? Something to lower your guard with so that he can capture you as leverage against us?"
You breathe in through your nose, pinching it again. "C'mon, Dami, would you really let him follow you to me?"
He purses his lips, not another word falling from his mouth.
That settles that.
"Sorry about that, Mark. Can you elaborate?"
You turn back to the otherworldly meta human, only to find his eyes already on you (still on you), wide, and with his face a little stuck out, like he's actively trying to get closer to you, like he can't bring himself to be too far away.
The thought turns your insides to mush.
You clear your throat, ignoring the tingle in your stomach. "Um, Mark?"
He blinks. "Huh?"
"I, uh, asked if you could, y'know, explain a bit more?"
He blinks again, slower this time. Then, with a shake of his head, he lifts a hand behind his neck, rubbing it in a habit so boyishly awkward, you have to fight back the smile threatening to climb onto your face. "Right." He clears his throat. "I was sent here by this guy in my dimension—Angstrom Levy?"
He peers up at you, as though expecting some sort of reaction to that name, but when you frown back at him with a quirk of your brow, he continues his explanation slowly.
"He can, uh, open these portals at will."
"Right..." you trail off, turning your head down as your eyes glaze over, "and in your world, I'm your girlfriend?"
"Were," he corrects, and it's so quiet, you almost don't catch it.
In fact, you're sure you heard him wrong.
"Sorry?"
"You were my girlfriend," he speaks again, firmer, but in a tone no less far, no less clouded. 
"We broke up?" You furrow your brows—no, that doesn't make sense. If you did break up, why would he come to your door claiming to be your boyfriend and not your ex?
The answer to your question lies in the man seated on your couch, but unlike before, he suddenly can't seem to bring himself to look at you, gaze instead trained to your wooden floorboards like they're the most interesting things to grace the planet. What? Does he not have wood in his dimension?
A beat passes without Mark saying a word.
The silence sits heavy, like the humid air of a rainforest swallowing you whole and threatening your very ability to breathe.
You find yourself awaiting escape from it, his words, however long they may take to come, like a promise of salvation from your woes.
But it isn't him that saves you.
"You died," a voice cuts through the silence, sharp and through gritted teeth. "He let you die in his world."
Instantly, Mark's head shoots up, and he narrows his eyes into sharp, lethal daggers at Damian.
"I didn't let her." He snarls, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. "I just..."
And then, just like that, he loses all the fight, fingers loosening their tight grip around nothing as his form all but falls, folding over like a wet noodle with no will to keep going.
"Fuck me..." you breathe out, hand already up and pinching your nose again.
To think, another version of you, a different version of you—with a different life and a boyfriend and maybe even no wood in her world—died.
Fucking hell.
"I need a drink," you find yourself muttering, shaking your head lightly before peering up at Mark. "Do you, uh, also need something?"
He's back to looking at you, gaze wide and brows knitted and lips parted by just the slightest hair as he whispers with all the sincerity of a samaritan, "Just you." Then, a little louder, "All I need... is just you."
You think the world stops when you catch air in your throat, that it drowns out until it's just the two of you when those words leave his tongue.
All of a sudden, you seem to be floating on a cloud, drowning in his gaze of pure intensity as your own heartbeat thunders in your ears and you forget how to even breathe or blink or see anyone that's not him for a brief second.
But then that second passes, and you find yourself on land once again.
You quickly excuse yourself, ignoring the holes that bore through you as you leave the room to enter your kitchen instead, the cold of it like a breath of fresh air against your warm skin.
God, fuck, that moment was so intense, you don't know if you can even think about what was revealed before it, his gaze lingering on your skin like rain after a hurricane.
So vivid. So loving. So utterly devoted that you could see nothing but yourself reflected back in those eyes.
The cup in your hands almost slips from the cabinet above your head at the memory.
In fact, it does slip. But it's quickly caught. Though not by you.
A warmth radiates against your back, and you turn, just to have it radiate against your front instead.
"Tim..."
His head is tilted to yours, eyes glazed over as one hand places the cup down on the counter to your left, and the other situates itself firm on the counter to your right.
For a beat, he just stands there, trapping you to the corner of your kitchen with a gaze as clouded as the Gotham night sky.
Then, just as you part your lips to ask why he's here, he speaks.
"Tell me I was seeing things."
His voice comes quiet, whispered and pleading as his brows knead up with a shaky sort of pull.
"What?" you can only ask, his breath hot against your face, close and feeling like it won't be moving anytime soon.
"Tell me..." he starts again, repeating without hesitation, "that I was just seeing things."
When you furrow your brows back at him, he continues, almost desperately.
"That you weren't... that you weren't looking at him for a second like..."—his face scrunches up, expression pained, like you've just gone and hit him with an axe—"like you believed him."
"Tim, I—"
You don't know what to say, not when he looks at you like that, like you've just shattered his whole entire world right in front of him.
"Like..." Tim continues, and the next words he has to really push out, wincing like it hurts just to say, "like he's actually your boyfriend."
Your stomach drops, insides churning as Tim's fingers curl against your counter with an audible scratch.
"You know he's not, right..?" he whispers, like not even he's sure. "That he's just a stranger?"
You furrow your brows, gulping down saliva and steeling yourself. "Of course I know."
But it's like Tim doesn't even hear you.
"He doesn't love you. He doesn't even know you."
You narrow your eyes, going to respond when he beats you to it again.
"Not like I do," he continues, and your words die on your tongue, eyes going a tad wider as he leans in just a bit closer. "Not like I've done for years."
Whether he's talking about knowing you or loving you, you're not sure.
And you continue to be unsure as he softly reaches for your dominant hand, gripping the back of it like he's afraid that if he lets go, you'll slip from him entirely.
The next thing you know, your hand is cradling his cheek, and he's holding it there, allowing your warmth to bleed into his skin as he looks at you with those wide, shaking eyes you seem to be on the receiving end of quite often these days.
"Tell me," he begs—lips wobbling, brows knitting, expression pleading.
And you don't think you can even if you wanted to, mouth too dry and head too empty to even voice a clear thought as he moves to slip his free hand around your waist and pull you closer.
"Please."
You think you're only able to snap out of it when you're just a breath away from his lips, just a hair from touching them with your own as he drills into you with those wide, shaking, desperate blue eyes of his.
And once you do snap out of it, once everything becomes just a little too much, you place a hand firm against his chest, whispering his name with a small, light push.
His grip around you tightens for a second, eyes glazing over, but before they can stay that way, before he can do something without a lick of sense or reason, they clear up again, and he slips his hands from your waist, letting you part from him as his arms fall to hang limply by his sides.
And when you move to further part from him and the room, you pretend not to hear the loud bang against your kitchen counter.
So much for a drink.
TAGLIST: @silas-222, @bloofairyfox, @wiseavenuelove, @inkycapps, @velovicy, @mmentallyelsewhere, @verysynical, @1abi, @bluepartywobblernickel, @krys0210, @patatasolitaria, @mazixxss, @nova916, @federalprison78-4, @crissy09yesso, @minhyrin, @nutella-hitler, @kvzutora, @starslightzz, @alishii, @crybabyghostie, @jsprien213, @cupid73, @doggyteam2028, @invinciblewaffles, @love-theangel, @butterbiscuit444, @thecrazyone2007, @reaperxdeath, @mexxs-xs, @gaychaosgremlin, @pookiei-bookie
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opbackgrounds · 12 days ago
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An interesting idea that sort of floats around in the back of One Piece's themes is that people make their own miracles. Willpower is a literal superhuman ability in the One Piece world, and later on Iva will say that their hormone treatment with Luffy is useless if he doesn't have the will to stay alive.
Constantly throughout the series people are expected to try before they can be saved. Luffy fights Alvida after Coby insults her. The Straw Hats help save Usopp's village from Kuro after he displays his own willingness to put his life on the line. The people of Skypiea pray for salvation after rejecting Enel's rule and attempting to flee, and the Revolutionaries only fight for civilians who are first willing to fight for themselves.
This isn't to say that people are expected to do things alone. Luffy would have absolutely been murderkilled if not for the actions of Bon-chan and Ivankov. But he absolutely has to fight with everything he has to stay alive, and in doing so makes the miracle of his own survival come to pass.
It's an interesting balance the series has maintained, dancing between the collective need for people to depend on each other to achieve their dreams and the individualistic push to start dreaming in the first place, and one that I think works quite well.
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solxamber · 2 months ago
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Mage x Menace || Jade Leech
You, a struggling mage-in-training, tried to summon a majestic beast to escape your cursed fate in the botany stream.
Instead, you got Jade Leech—chaos incarnate, collector of mysterious jars, and disturbingly enthusiastic about plants.
He now lives in your dorm, calls you "Master" with a straight face and might be seducing you via herbal tea.
this is a present for @hyperfixating-rn <3 I'm very late but happy belated birthday!!
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You were going to be a great mage. A legendary one. The kind they wrote poems about—long, rhyming ones with unnecessarily dramatic metaphors. You had dreams. Ambitions. A Pinterest board titled "Epic Wizard Core." You practiced basic spells in your room, blew up your mirror once, and were 96% sure your magical aura was purple (which is obviously the most powerful one, everyone knows that).
So imagine your surprise when your entrance exam results came back and you were… sorted into the Botany stream.
Botany.
As in, plants.
As in, dirt and roots and sunlight and “communing with nature.”
You had never communed with nature. You had once tried to grow a cactus—the most resilient plant known to humankind—and it had withered in protest within a week. You had named that cactus Spiky. Its death was a tragedy. A murder, some said. By you.
So naturally, you stood there on orientation day, holding your shiny new textbook titled “Green is the Heart’s Color: Love and Magic in Leaves”, with the same vibe as someone who had been given a live grenade and told to hug it.
Your fellow classmates looked excited. Eager. Too green, in more ways than one. You watched one of them gently cradle a sproutling like it was a newborn. Another was crying over the “beautiful potential” of transpiration. Meanwhile, you were googling "can you accidentally poison poison ivy."
And then, of course, came your professor. You don’t remember much from the orientation speech because you were too busy having a silent breakdown about the phrase "the gentle whisper of chlorophyll." But you do remember one very important thing:
You’re in so much trouble.
You raised your hand at one point to ask if you were allowed to… switch majors. The professor smiled.
A warm, benevolent, lethal smile.
“Oh, dear. The plants have chosen you.”
What does that even mean???
You don’t know. But the tiny seedling on your desk keeps wiggling like it’s happy to see you. You don’t trust it. You name it Vermin and pray it doesn’t unionize with the moss on your windowsill.
You are a mage in training. A powerful wizard in the making.
And now you are at war… with horticulture.
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After a week of trying to bond with leaves like they were long-lost family and nearly getting strangled by a particularly enthusiastic vine, you decided you’d had enough.
You needed a way out.
Not in the dramatic “storm out of class, set fire to the greenhouse, and flee into the mountains” way. (Though it was on the table.)
You needed a loophole. An escape clause. A forbidden back door in the curriculum forged in ancient times by other students who had also accidentally murdered cacti.
So you did what any desperate, dignity-depleted mage-in-training would do.
You found a senior.
Now, seniors in mage school are like cryptids. Powerful. Elusive. Sleep-deprived. And terrifying in the way only people who’ve once accidentally turned themselves into a plant can be. Your chosen senior was sitting under a tree, drinking coffee from a mug that said “I survived Magical Ecology II and all I got was this mug and lifelong trauma.”
You approached, clinging to your textbook like it was a lifeline. “Hi. I’m—uh. I’m not vibing with the flora.”
They looked up, eyes dark with knowledge and probably caffeine. “Botany stream?”
“Against my will.”
A pause. A long, sympathetic sip. Then: “You have two options.”
Your heart fluttered. Hope! Salvation! Maybe—
“One: Fail everything, get held back a year, reapply next cycle. Pray the plants forget your face.”
“I can’t afford that. Option two?”
“Summon a familiar so powerful, the faculty has to bump you into a combat-heavy stream for your own safety. And theirs.”
You blinked. “Like. A dragon?”
The senior shrugged. “Sure. Or a demon. Or a vengeful raccoon. Anything above ‘mildly homicidal housecat’ works.”
“And then they’ll just… change my stream?”
“If your familiar is terrifying enough, yes. Preferably something with fire. Fire fixes everything. Except greenhouses.”
You nodded slowly, feeling the stirrings of a Plan™. A terrible, beautiful, questionable plan.
"How hard is it to summon a familiar?" you asked.
They smiled, and it was not comforting.
“Not hard. Doing it without summoning something that wants to eat you is the tricky part.”
You thanked them and walked off into the distance, muttering under your breath and already flipping through your grimoires.
You were going to get out of this stream or die trying.
Hopefully neither.
But if a hellbeast had to be involved, well…
You were prepared to negotiate.
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You had one job.
Just one.
Summon a powerful familiar. Save your future career path. Escape the dreaded Botany Stream before you're eaten alive by carnivorous radishes with anger issues and questionable ethics.
You’d studied forbidden texts. You’d drawn your summoning circle to perfect mathematical proportions using a protractor, three compasses, and something called “Manifestation Oil” you bought off a sketchy alchemy influencer.
You even lit candles by hand like a peasant. That’s how serious this was.
You had one last step: focus your intent. Picture what you wanted. Channel all your magic and will into the ritual. A dragon, perhaps. A fearsome spirit. A beast of legend. Maybe even a war general.
Instead, the unagi you were saving for dinner—your actual, literal eel—slid off the table mid-chant and splat landed right in the center of the summoning circle.
The summoning circle hissed.
You had precisely one second to scream “NO, YOU STUPID SLIPPERY FISH—” before the circle detonated.
There was light. Screaming wind. Something smelled vaguely of seaweed and crime.
When your retinas finally stopped sizzling and your ears recovered from their astral slapping, you looked up.
And there he was.
A tall, elegant man standing in the still-smoking circle, dusting off his sleeves like he hadn’t just been yanked across the realms by an overcooked eel. His teal hair shimmered like deep water. Heterochromatic eyes. He looked like a minor sea god and a professional tax evader all rolled into one.
He tilted his head. Smiled. “That was… dramatic.”
You stared. Still holding the empty microwave-safe eel tray like a sacrificial relic.
“I was trying to summon a dragon,” you croaked.
“Ah,” he said, eyeing the smear of soy sauce in the center of the runes. “Then why the seafood?”
You didn’t have an answer. Mostly because you were too busy silently screaming.
“I suppose I’m what happens when your spell gets rerouted mid-delivery,” he continued, delight practically oozing off him. “Fascinating. I'm Jade. Jade Leech.”
You, a mage of great ambition and even greater regret, took a deep breath and said the only thing that made sense.
“…Are you allergic to plants?”
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Jade Leech, freshly yanked from the dark, swirling depths of somewhere much cooler than here, watched with the amused detachment of a man who had just witnessed his summoner go through all five stages of grief in under forty seconds.
You cursed the gods.
You cursed the stars.
You cursed your entrance exam, your cactus, your birth, and at one point—yourself in third person.
He said nothing. Simply folded his hands behind his back and watched with the kind of serene interest normally reserved for people observing an exotic animal fling itself against glass.
Eventually, once your vocal cords began to shred from impassioned screaming (and possibly mild sobbing), you whirled toward him, red-eyed and wild-haired, and gestured at him in disbelief.
“Are you—” you wheezed, dragging a sleeve across your face, “perchance a dragon?”
He blinked slowly. His smile widened.
“Perchance?”
“I don’t know!” you shouted. “You’re tall! You appeared in a bunch of smoke! Your hair defies gravity! That could be dragon behavior!”
“Hm.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And if I say yes?”
You squinted. “...Do you breathe fire?”
“I’m more of a ‘poison your tea and watch what happens’ sort of creature,” he replied, pleasantly.
You screamed again—this time in cosmic betrayal—and stomped your foot so hard the candles trembled.
He made a note of this. You had good stomping technique.
“Well then what are you?!” you demanded.
He shrugged, like this wasn’t a magical emergency and more of a casual day.
“A Moray Eel, technically.”
You stared at him. Then at the summoning circle. Then at the empty microwave eel tray still on the floor. Then back at him.
“Oh my gods,” you whispered in horror. “The unagi redirected the target circle. I was summoning a power dragon and the ritual downgraded to ‘long sea worm.’”
He chuckled. “How dare you.”
“I wanted to cheat the system,” you whispered, falling to your knees like a tragic protagonist. “And the gods sent me seafood.”
“I’m standing right here, you know.”
You threw yourself to the ground and started sobbing into the floor.
Jade’s smile grew wider. He might stay. This was already more entertaining than anything back home.
And honestly, watching you spiral was kind of charming.
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Jade made tea.
You weren’t entirely sure how or when. One moment, you were crumpled on the floor, dramatically mourning your dreams of becoming a cool elemental mage with a dragon familiar. The next, he was handing you a dainty teacup on a saucer you definitely didn’t own.
There was a slice of lemon in it. The mug was warm. You were terrified.
“…Did you summon this tea set too?” you asked, eyeing the porcelain like it was going to explode.
“No,” he said pleasantly. “It was in your cupboard.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
He smiled wider. “Was it not?”
You stared at him. He stared back, sipping his tea with the calm of someone who knew exactly where every spoon in your home was and wouldn’t hesitate to replace them with slightly longer spoons just to gaslight you.
You took a sip of the tea to assert dominance. It was delicious. You hated that it was delicious.
He watched you, unblinking. “So. Why the desperate summoning?”
You groaned, slouching like the tea had robbed you of whatever spine you had left. “I got sorted into the botany stream.”
There was a silence. You sipped your tea again to drown in the shame.
Then his eyes sparkled.
You felt it. Like a shift in the atmosphere. Like the moment before a lightning strike. Like the second someone said, “Trust me,” and you woke up four hours later in a tree, covered in glitter and mild regret.
“Oh,” he said, delighted. “Botany.”
“No,” you said immediately. “Don’t do that. Don’t say it like that.”
“Fascinating field, truly.”
“Nope. You’re not going to help me switch out, are you?”
He leaned forward, chin in his hand, elbow balanced too gracefully for someone who had appeared out of eel magic and poor life choices. “Why would I do that? I think you’ll thrive.”
“You don’t understand,” you said, pleading now. “I killed a cactus.”
“Oh, I completely understand,” he said. “And I'm going to help you fulfill your potential.”
You froze. “…You mean, like, help me survive until I transfer?”
“No,” he said.
You dropped your cup. He caught it without looking. You wanted to scream.
The only thing worse than being a botany student… was being a botany student with a chaos eel who found fungi romantically intriguing as your familiar.
You were so doomed.
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Unfortunately for everyone involved—and by everyone, specifically you—magic law was a clingy little thing. Once the summoning circle did its sparkly flashbang thing and delivered you one (1) butler-themed eel man, the universe basically clapped its hands, said “it is what it is,” and slapped a contract in your face.
Minimum term of servitude: one year.
“But I didn’t mean to summon him,” you argued to literally no one who cared. “There was fish involved! It was a mishap, not a magical invocation!”
Jade, very unhelpfully sipping tea that you definitely hadn’t bought, slid the scroll across the table toward you like a cheerful IRS agent. “Intent is only one part of the ritual,” he said with the infinite patience of someone who enjoyed watching trainwrecks in slow motion. “The contract is already half-formed. You really should sign it before your house explodes.”
You stared at the scroll.
Then at him.
Then at the scroll again.
“Do I at least get a trial period?” you tried.
“No,” he said, smiling.
“A free return policy?”
“No.”
“Is there, like, an eel clause I can exploit?”
He chuckled. You were going to die in this major.
With the kind of reluctant grace that only someone who’d just accidentally legally bound themselves to a smug sea-creature man could muster, you signed.
The moment the pen left the paper, the air shifted with a cozy little pop, as if magic itself was tucking you both in and whispering “congratulations on your joint custody of chaos.” A faint glow danced around Jade’s shoulders. Your window exploded.
(You’d ask questions about that later.)
“There we are,” Jade said, clasping his hands. “Familiar and mage, officially contracted. Shall I begin compiling a weekly schedule for our fieldwork?”
“Field—oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he beamed. “We’ll be revisiting the entire kingdom flora catalogue, starting with mosses.”
You suddenly understood the reason why some mages went mad.
And unfortunately, you’d just handed yours the clipboard.
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The next morning, you dragged yourself to class like a condemned soul to the gallows, weighed down by a sense of impending doom and also by the deeply unsettling realization that your familiar had organized your bookshelf by spore reproduction categories sometime during the night.
Everyone else looked so normal. There was someone with a fire spirit coiled lazily around their shoulders, someone else with a giant spectral wolf that radiated unbothered energy, and even one smug jerk with a miniature dragon who was definitely using it to cheat on practical tests.
And then there was you.
With him.
Jade stood a respectful half-step behind you, dressed like a mildly menacing butler who might also commit tax fraud if given the opportunity. He carried your books. He bowed to your professor. He smiled at your classmates.
You didn’t trust that smile. That was the smile of a man who had definitely poisoned a royal court and got away with it by turning the queen into a toadstool.
Someone asked what type of spirit you’d summoned.
You opened your mouth to lie.
Jade answered for you. “They were aiming for a dragon,” he said, serene as ever. “But an eel will have to do.”
The entire class stared at you. You stared into the void.
“It was the unagi,” you muttered, already defeated.
No one knew what that meant, but it sounded stupid, so they all laughed.
Jade patted your back like a supportive guardian. You were ninety percent sure it was to check your spine for eventual harvesting.
Gods help you. It was only the first period.
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The Academy was in shambles.
Centuries of magical history. Thousands of successfully summoned fire spirits, storm wolves, mildly angry raccoons. And you—a botany major with a dead cactus on your record—had gone and summoned a person.
Not a ghost.
Not an illusion.
Not even a creepy guy pretending to be summonable.
No. A fully functional person.
“Technically,” the Dean said, staring at the magical contract hovering over your heads, “you… own him now.”
You almost threw up on the ornate rug.
Jade Leech, the man in question, just smiled—sharp, calm, entirely too pleased.
“This is so cursed,” you whispered.
“Oh no,” he replied sweetly. “This is fate.”
And that was only the beginning of your descent into contractual hell.
Because Jade? Oh, he thrived under magical servitude. Took to it like a duck to water. Like an eel to crime.
He started calling you Master.
In public. Loudly. With emphasis.
“Good morning, Master,” he purred on the way to breakfast, gliding past stunned first-years who immediately assumed you were either very powerful or very into some stuff they weren’t ready to Google.
“Jade. Stop.”
“As you command, Master.”
You tried reasoning with him. You begged. You threatened to cry in front of the Headmistress.
Didn’t matter.
In fact, the more embarrassed you got, the worse it became.
“Master, shall I carry your books?”
“No.”
“Your lunch?”
“No.”
“Your emotional baggage?”
“Jade—”
“Ah, but you summoned me, Master. Now we’re bonded.”
You looked around, desperate for help, but every professor just kind of shrugged. Magical contracts were sacred. Breakable only through death, divine intervention, or, apparently, a system of interpretive dances before the moon goddess during a blood eclipse. None of which were happening before finals.
So now this was your life.
You were the “owner” of a smug eel man in a waistcoat who made you do your homework, made better tea than your own grandmother, and insisted on calling you Master while looking like a very polite threat.
You used to be a normal student with no future in botany.
You should've just failed your exams like a normal student.
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Jade settled into your dorm room like he’d been planning it for years. Which was frankly insane, considering you’d only accidentally summoned him a day ago.
You woke up the morning after signing the magically binding familiar contract to find your room… different. Not horrifyingly so, just enough to make your eye twitch. Your desk had moved three inches to the left. Your bookshelf now had labels. Your cactus—previously deceased—was somehow thriving in a suspiciously fancy ceramic pot.
And then there were the jars. Oh gods, the jars. They lined the shelves now in neat, alphabetized rows. Some were normal—“Chamomile,” “Sea Salt,” “Lavender Sprigs.” Others were less so. “Tooth Collection (Domestic)” sat right next to “Rainwater (For Legal Use Only).” You wanted to ask, but Jade had a look in his eye that said whatever answer you get, you won’t like it.
He also brewed tea every morning. Not the relaxing kind. The existential crisis in a cup kind. You drank one (1) polite sip and suddenly understood what “the color eleven” looked like. Your body remained seated but your soul went on a brief vacation.
You had no idea how, but you were scoring higher in Botany. You still couldn’t identify a single plant, but Jade kept slipping you notes mid-lab with things like “This one bites. Do not sniff.” or “Lick at your own risk.”
So yes, your GPA was rising. Unfortunately, so was your blood pressure. And your heart rate. And your sense that you were, somehow, very much in danger.
Jade simply smiled every time you panicked. “You’re thriving, Master,” he’d say, and sip his tea like he wasn’t actively reorganizing your entire life.
You were not thriving. You were surviving. Barely.
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The assignment was simple on paper: identify twenty local plants, label their genus, and list their magical and medicinal properties.
Which was all fine and dandy if you weren’t a person who had accidentally killed a cactus by underwatering it because you “didn’t want to overwhelm it.” 
You’d gotten through most of your academic career via a potent combination of vibes, frantic late-night study sessions, and an almost supernatural level of spite. But this—this was science. With labels. And botanical terminology. And leaves that all looked the same.
So, you did what any sane, desperate mage-in-training with poor decision-making skills and a total lack of botanical knowledge would do.
You brewed a bathtub-sized cauldron of universal poison antidote and decided you’d taste-test each plant to figure out which one was lethal and, by process of elimination, identify the rest.
Jade found you leaning over the cauldron, mumbling something about statistical mortality rates and chewing on a leaf like a feral squirrel trying to beat natural selection.
“I thought you were joking,” he said, in that same unsettlingly pleasant tone he always used when you were actively concerning him.
“I wasn’t!” you declared. “This is science, Jade. And survival. I’ve made enough antidote to survive an assassination attempt—”
“You made it in your bathtub.”
“—and I’m going to lick nature into submission.”
Jade sat you down at the table, folded his hands neatly, and asked you—politely but with the weight of an ancient curse behind it—to repeat your plan.
You did.
He stared at you.
You shifted in your seat.
He continued to stare, like a disappointed headmaster.
“...Okay fine,” you finally muttered. “It is a bad plan.”
“Thank you,” he said calmly. “Would you like to identify your plants using logic, reference books, and assistance from your familiar, or would you prefer a slow and humiliating descent into gastrointestinal regret?”
“I mean, when you say it like that—”
“Wonderful. I’ll prepare the tea.”
You hated how soothing (mostly) his tea was. 
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You found out purely by accident.
Your friend sat down at lunch with a heavy sigh and a tear-streaked face, muttering something about how their fox familiar had gone limp and glassy-eyed after being ignored for two days straight in favor of midterms. Apparently, he needed “emotional engagement” and “frequent pets.”
You had not known this. You had not known any of this.
You returned to your dorm in a panic.
Jade, as always, was seated like an eerie portrait come to life, sipping tea and reading a book that looked suspiciously bound in scales. He raised one eyebrow as you burst through the door carrying three different types of fruits and a hand-sewn blanket you’d made in Home Ec two years ago.
“I heard that familiars need enrichment,” you blurted. “Do you—are you enriched? Are you feeling under-enriched? What’s your favorite snack enrichment type? Is it eels? Oh no wait, is that cannibalism? I don’t know your rules!”
Jade blinked slowly. “You believe I am in poor health?”
“I don’t know!” you wailed, thrusting the blanket at him. “I don’t know the maintenance routine for familiars! You could be dying from sadness and I wouldn’t know!”
He looked down at the blanket. It had uneven edges and a sewn-on mushroom that looked like it had witnessed terrible things. Slowly, he took it. Draped it over his lap. Sipped his tea again.
“You are a very considerate Master,” he said with a pleased little smile that absolutely shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d just earned an A+ in Familiar Wellness. “I feel much better already.”
You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or not. But then he let you tuck the blanket around his shoulders like a shawl, and even let you hand-feed him a strawberry.
You decided you didn’t care if he was messing with you. His ears were flushed. That was a win.
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You needed Nightshade. Not the safe kind either—the real, reactive stuff that tended to hiss if the humidity wasn’t just right and once exploded in someone's bag for being stared at wrong.
Unfortunately, your professors had firmly, repeatedly, and increasingly frantically refused to let you anywhere near it. Something about “prior incidents,” “a trail of fire ants through the dorm hallway,” and “we are begging you to stop licking mystery leaves.”
But you had an experiment to finish, and a lack of official approval had never stopped a single mage in history. Which was how you found yourself sneaking into the restricted greenhouse under cover of darkness, with your overly smug eel-familiar following like he was on a stroll and not a felonious B&E.
“This is clearly illegal,” Jade said cheerfully, as he helped you pick the lock.
“You’re a summoned being. Laws don’t apply to you,” you muttered, shoving the door open.
“That’s speciesist,” he said mildly, and you ignored him on purpose.
The two of you tiptoed through rows of glowing plants, whisper-bickering the whole way.
“Don’t touch that. It screams.”
“You scream.”
“Yes, and I have a great voice.”
He huffed a laugh. You tried not to grin. You failed.
Honestly, it would’ve been a perfectly stupid and smooth heist—until the Shrike Vine noticed you. Apparently it was pollination season and it was feeling bitey. You froze as a thick green tendril snapped toward you like a whip.
Except it never hit.
Jade moved faster than you thought was possible. One hand caught the vine mid-strike, the other calmly flicked a tiny blade across it like he was trimming hedges instead of saving your life.
And then, because he was a menace, he leaned in close—just enough for you to catch the sharp gleam in his mismatched eyes—and murmured:
“I’m very good at protecting what’s mine.”
You were not about to combust in a greenhouse. You were not. Absolutely not.
Still. Your face was hot. You blamed the bioluminescent plants.
“Wh—That’s not—you can’t just say things like that,” you hissed.
He tilted his head, looking unbothered and devastatingly pleased. “Why not?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Pointed at the vine. “Is that one safe to lick?”
“Absolutely not.”
“…Cool, cool, just checking.”
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The incident itself wasn’t even your fault this time, which was frankly insulting, considering you usually caused at least 70% of the department's arcane emergencies. 
No, this time it was Jeremy from Spell Calculus who accidentally overcharged a fire enhancement glyph and sent a wayward jet of magic careening through the lab like a feral gremlin. It ping-ponged off three protective wards, vaporized a desk plant, and promptly singed your familiar.
Specifically: Jade’s sleeve caught a little fire. For exactly three seconds.
The sleeve was barely charred. His skin wasn’t even red. He smirked.
You, however, reacted like you’d just watched him be stabbed in the heart by a divine lance.
“OH MY GOD YOU’RE BURNING—ARE YOU OKAY?! Is it fatal? It’s fatal, isn’t it?! What’s the protocol for familiar injury?! Do you need a resurrection spell?? Should I call the nurse or the exorcist—?!”
Jade, blinked once. Then calmly patted the faintest whiff of smoke from his robe and said, “I believe I’ll live.”
But the glint in his eyes said he smelled weakness. And he would absolutely exploit it.
The next morning, you showed up with a full care basket: enchanted cooling balm, a wonky scarf you’d panic-crocheted in the night, a potion for nerve regeneration (completely unnecessary), and a whole assortment of healing snacks from the infirmary vending machine.
You even hand-fed him a soothing honey drop.
That was your next mistake.
Because the very next day, Jade reclined across your bed like a drama major rehearsing for a role in “The Dying Swan: A Magical Tragedy.” He had a lukewarm towel across his forehead, your blanket wrapped dramatically around his shoulders like a cape, and a very deliberate look of fragile suffering.
“Alas,” he whispered, placing the back of his hand to his (completely fine) forehead, “I fear the lingering effects of the trauma are… worsening. There’s a tightness in my chest. I may never wield a kettle again. My tea senses are dulled.”
You squinted at him, deadpan. “You brewed two pots this morning.”
“For you, dearest Master,” he said, with an exaggerated wince. “But at what cost?”
You refused to indulge him. For about ten minutes.
Then he started coughing. Badly. Into a silk handkerchief. That you were pretty sure he’d dabbed with food coloring beforehand to resemble blood.
“Do you think you can bring… strawberry lollipops?” he asked, voice trembling. “Before I pass on to the next world.”
You shoved five into his mouth. “You’re not dying. But you are insufferable.”
He sucked dramatically on the sweets, sighing. “I find this treatment emotionally compromising.”
You fed him another one.
And started plotting your revenge with a very bitter herbal “recovery” tea. It smelled like wet moss and tasted like betrayal.
He drank it all. Smiled. Said it “added intrigue to the healing experience.”
You were no longer sure who was winning this war. But you were definitely losing your mind.
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It started subtly. Jade would casually set a teacup in front of you in the mornings, unprompted. You’d ignore it. He’d raise an eyebrow. You’d argue that caffeine was a food group and you didn’t need anything else, thank you very much. 
He’d say something cryptic like “I’d rather not have to explain malnutrition-related hallucinations to the administration,” and then slide you a plate of suspiciously elegant finger sandwiches.
Somehow, you’d end up eating them.
A week later, you found yourself sitting down for actual breakfast—tea, toast, even fruit—without remembering how it happened. He’d simply adjusted your routine. Quietly. Steadily. Like a moss infestation with an agenda.
He began packing you lunch. Bento-style. With little hand-drawn labels.
You didn’t even know when he started doing it. You just opened your bag one day, reached for your emergency gummy stash, and pulled out a thermos of miso soup and a side of rice balls shaped like sea creatures.
He started accompanying you to the dining hall under the excuse of "needing seaweed access." He monitored your meals. Commented on vitamin intake. Replaced your sugar gummies with dried fruit. Told you that if he caught you drinking energy drinks for dinner again, he’d report you to botanical safety for trying to poison a living plant (Vermin had still not recovered from the one time you tried to share a Monster with it).
Eventually, your friend—sweet, concerned, possibly one skipped breakfast away from passing out—cornered you between lectures.
"Hey," she said, tugging your sleeve with wide eyes. “I need to ask you something and I don’t want you to freak out.”
You, holding a bento box labeled ‘Don’t Forget to Finish Your Spinach, Master’ with a small smiling mushroom drawn on it, tilted your head. “Okay?”
She glanced around, lowered her voice, and whispered, “Who’s the familiar here?”
You stared at her.
She stared back.
In the distance, Jade waved at you politely while handing a professor a jar of suspicious glowing jam.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought about how he’d reorganized your pantry by nutritional pyramid. Thought about how your life had improved and yet somehow spiraled out of your control in the exact same breath.
“I… don’t know anymore,” you whispered back.
And that was the beginning of your existential crisis about power dynamics, dietary fiber, and eel-based emotional manipulation.
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The more you thought about it, the more the terrible, horrifying truth settled in: Jade had been slowly taming you.
Not in a leash-and-collar kind of way (though you weren’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t enjoy that visual), but in the slow, methodical way one might tame a particularly wild housecat. One that hissed at vegetables and believed microwaved instant noodles were the pinnacle of culinary achievement.
When you’d first summoned him—on accident, via unagi-induced chaos and a summoning circle that was technically illegal in five countries—you’d been expecting a fae general. A terrifying beast of war. A dragon, maybe. 
What you got was a polite, well-dressed man with a smile that could curdle milk and the calm demeanor of someone who’d enjoy watching your academic career spontaneously combust. 
You were sure he would spend his time reclining in your dorm like some cryptid, sipping tea while you panicked over assignments and singlehandedly ruined your chances at survival in botany.
That had been your first impression.
But it wasn’t what happened.
Instead, Jade made it his mission to ruin you in the most terrifying way imaginable: through care.
He made sure you ate. He brewed tea tailored to your stress levels. He reorganized your notebooks by topic and color-coded them while claiming he was “bored.” He calmly extracted you from five different poison ivy incidents. He taught you how to pronounce “photosynthesis” correctly after you spent an entire presentation calling it “plant vibes.”
And you hated to admit it—but it worked.
You stopped waking up in a panic. You stopped considering glitter glue a legitimate potion ingredient. You even passed a midterm without attempting to bribe a forest fairy.
It was subtle. Devious. Soft.
And worst of all, it was making you feel warm. Cared for. Grounded.
You used to dream of summoning a dragon—a grand, legendary familiar that would impress the entire academy and maybe light your homework on fire for dramatic effect. But now?
Now you watched Jade hum to himself in your kitchen, cooking something that smelled like lemon and dreams, and you didn’t care about dragons. Or status. Or changing streams.
You just wanted to figure out if there was a spell that could describe the exact way your heart skipped when he smiled at you and called you “Master” with that infuriating glint in his eye.
And if not… well. Maybe you’d make one.
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From Jade’s point of view, your summoning had all the signs of an impending disaster—and thus, a highly enjoyable evening.
The circle was sloppy, the candles were the wrong color, and the ambient magical pressure was off by several kilopascals. The unagi that had plummeted into the center as a last-minute offering had been particularly concerning. Jade had arrived in a flash of light and fish-scented smoke, bracing for either mortal peril or at least a good laugh.
And then he saw you.
Wide-eyed. Covered in ink. Mumbling about “hoping for a dragon or something.” The perfect storm of magical desperation and zero planning skills. He had thought you’d be amusing. A novelty. A fun little side project to pass the time while bound by contract for a year.
And at first, that was exactly what you were. You were so spectacularly bad at botany that Jade was convinced you were a social experiment.
You called mushrooms “leaf meat.” You once referred to an entire genus of plants as “the crunchy ones.” And your plan to identify herbs by tasting them like a medieval poison tester had nearly given him a stroke. (Emotionally. He’s far too composed for physical symptoms.)
But somewhere between force-feeding you actual meals and dragging you out of exploding greenhouses, Jade started feeling… something. Not just amusement. Not just secondhand horror.
Affection.
It was awful.
So naturally, he did what any emotionally stunted eel-man would do—he ramped up the teasing. Called you “Master” in public. Smiled just a little too sharply. Hovered with a quiet attentiveness he pretended wasn’t genuine.
But when he thought back to that summoning—your hopeful eyes, the half-charred fish, the complete magical disaster—Jade realized something horrifying.
He owed his current happiness to a piece of grilled eel.
The next time he saw unagi on a menu, he gave it a respectful nod. After all, not every familiar bond is forged through fate, fire, and ancient prophecy.
Some are forged through sheer dumb luck and seafood.
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You had always believed, deep in your feral little heart, that if you ever fell in love, it would be with the intensity of a meteor crashing into the earth. There would be pyrotechnics. An orchestra. Maybe a cursed bouquet of sentient mushrooms arranged in the shape of your initials. Something properly dramatic.
You were prepared for a sweeping romance. A declaration shouted from a balcony. A confession under a blood moon. At the very least, a sword fight followed by heavy breathing and an emotionally repressed kiss.
What you were not prepared for was... a random morning.
More specifically: today morning at 6:42 a.m., in your tragically unventilated dorm kitchen, where you shuffled in half-awake, wearing a blanket like a disgruntled ghost. Your hair looked like it had seen war. Your socks didn’t match. You were only conscious due to residual academic panic and caffeine withdrawal.
And there Jade was. Crisp and awake and annoyingly gorgeous, as usual, humming some eerie little tune while cooking god-knows-what on your stove. The sunlight framed him like he was in a toothpaste commercial. There were suspicious jars open on the counter labeled things like “Fenugreek??? (Maybe)” and “Do Not Inhale.”
He glanced at you over his shoulder, amused. “Good morning, Master.”
You grunted. It was too early for sarcasm or formal titles.
So, with the sleep-deprived logic of a creature who had survived exclusively on coffee and academic desperation, you trudged over to him, latched onto his waist like a needy koala, and rested your cheek against his back.
You did not plan this. Your body moved on its own, possessed by the Spirit of Affection.
To his credit, he didn’t question it. Jade simply chuckled, adjusted his stance, and offered you a spoonful of something suspiciously green and steaming.
You tasted it. Your neurons barely fired. It was delicious and probably illegal.
And then, without thought, without warning, still pressed against him and one brain cell away from sleep, you mumbled, “I love you.”
There was a beat of silence.
You blinked.
Wait.
Wait—
What the hell did you just say—
YOU SAID THAT OUT LOUD—
Jade paused with the spoon still in his hand, his entire body going still like a predator that just heard something interesting. Then—slowly, like he was savoring it—he turned.
He looked at you. He really looked at you. And then, in true chaos spirit fashion, he grinned.
Not his usual polite smile. No. This was different. This one had teeth.
“Oh?” he said, softly. “Oh?”
And that was the moment you realized: you had said those three words to a man who considered emotional vulnerability an invitation to hunt.
You tried to backtrack. Tried to say you meant “I love you—r soup.”
Or “I love you as a friend. A colleague. A sentient eel.”
But before you could decide on your lie of choice, he leaned down and kissed you.
It started sweet. Gentle. Thoughtful, like maybe he was giving you time to flee.
You didn’t. That was your mistake.
Because then his hand slid around your waist, and the kiss deepened, and suddenly your kitchen felt too small, and too warm, and definitely not rated for public indecency. Your legs threatened to give out. Your brain flatlined.
When he pulled away, you were breathless and dazed. You looked at him, heart hammering, pupils blown wide.
He tilted his head, still grinning, and said, “You taste like honesty. How rare.”
You briefly considered combusting on the spot.
And as he turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, humming again, you realized something terrifying:
You were in love.
And you were the prey.
And you were kind of okay with that.
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When familiar contract renewal season arrived—accompanied by the usual administrative chaos, enchanted paperwork that bit fingers, and panicked first-years realizing their mushroom toadlings had exploded again—you were… calm.
Weirdly, suspiciously calm.
You should have been stressed. You were, after all, still a mage in training with a botany grade being held together by duct tape, blind luck, and the sheer force of your familiar’s passive-aggressive hovering.
But no. You weren’t worried. Because somehow, over the past year of accidental poisonings, illegal greenhouse heists, and near-romantic tea-induced hallucinations, you and Jade had fallen into something far more dangerous than summoning magic: mutual affection. Possibly even love. Terrifying.
And yet, when the day came, you expected a conversation. A little back and forth. Maybe some dramatic flourish on his part—Jade had a flair for drama and mild emotional terrorism, after all. At the very least, you thought he’d present a contract with a smirk and some cryptic line about “servitude never being quite so delightful.”
But he didn’t.
You woke up one morning to find him already seated at your desk, as if he’d been waiting all night. The early sun filtered through your window, highlighting the soft teal of his hair and the amused glint in his eyes. You were still blinking the sleep out of yours, shuffling over in your raccoon-print pajamas with all the grace of a zombie when he slid the document toward you.
A thick, arcane-heavy contract. One that glowed softly at the edges. Titled:
“PERMANENT FAMILIAR CONTRACT — LIFELONG BOND”
Your eyes snagged on the signature line.
His name was already there.
Signed in an elegant, curling script with a wax seal that looked like an eel tail. No jokes. No teasing. No loopholes.
You stared at the paper. Then at him.
“…You want to be stuck with me forever?” you asked, because your brain short-circuited and apparently decided that was the most romantic response it could muster.
Jade raised a brow. “You make life—interesting,” he said, voice inflected with all the warmth and amusement of someone who once watched you attempt to eat a venomous berry “for science.”
You blinked again. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s a yes,” he said easily, his smile softening. “I’d like to be yours. If you’ll have me.”
You didn’t even hesitate.
You picked up the pen and signed your name beneath his. The moment the ink dried, the paper vanished in a swirl of moss-green smoke, the pact sealed with a pleasant little magical ding.
“So,” you said, heart thudding in your chest as you looked up at him, “we’re really doing this.”
“We are,” he said.
“Forever is a long time.”
“Not nearly long enough.”
And you had to kiss him after that, because what else do you do when your familiar—not-quite-boyfriend-but-very-possibly-soulmate says something like that?
He kissed you back like he’d been waiting years. And you let him, sinking into his arms like it was the only place you’d ever belonged.
You, a chaotic disaster of a botany student. Him, a merman familiar who brewed tea that could bend time.
A perfect, absurd, slightly terrifying match.
Later that evening, when you sat together on the windowsill, legs tangled and laughter echoing, you realized something else: you'd meant to find a way out of the botany stream. A bigger future. A stronger school of magic.
But with Jade by your side, maybe botany wasn’t a prison—it was just where you bloomed.
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It started, as most disasters in your life did, with you tripping over your own feet. Specifically, you’d tripped face-first into a rare carnivorous plant while trying to impress your professor with your “innovative approach to hands-on learning.” (Your professor had screamed. The plant had screamed louder. You still didn’t know plants could do that.)
And while you were nursing your slightly-bitten pride and applying salve to your dignity, some golden-haired, obnoxiously perfect fourth-year had wandered over, all pristine robes and condescending smiles.
“You know,” he said to Jade, completely ignoring you like you were a decorative shrub, “it’s a shame. A familiar with your magical potential? Tied to someone who’s clearly... not invested in their future.”
You scoffed. Loudly. “Excuse you. I am very invested in my future. I just think the universe should meet me halfway and stop putting venomous moss in my study patch.”
The student didn’t even blink. “You deserve a master who challenges you. Who brings out your best.”
Jade tilted his head, politely smiling the way a shark might if it had impeccable manners and was about to swallow a surfer whole.
“I see,” he said, sipping his tea. “And that would be… you?”
“Why not?” the student said, and you hated how confident he sounded. “They're wasting you.”
You froze.
You knew it wasn’t true. Jade had chosen you. Signed a lifelong contract. Literally brewed you soup after you set your eyebrows on fire.
But the words stung in a way you hadn’t expected.
You tried to play it cool. Shrugged. “If he wants to leave, he can. No one’s stopping him.”
Jade’s eyes flicked toward you, a tiny crease between his brows. “Is that what you think?”
You shrugged again. Forced a smile. “Why wouldn’t it be? Go ahead. Take your tea. Find a master who challenges you.”
And with that, you walked away, head high, hands clenched so tight your knuckles cracked.
You spent the rest of the night trying not to cry into your pillow.
The next morning, your pillow was suspiciously warm. And breathing.
You cracked open one eye to find Jade wrapped around you like a clingy snake with boundary issues and an attitude problem.
“What—Jade—get off—!”
“I’m sleeping,” he said.
“You are not! You’re emotionally ambushing me!”
He didn’t move. Just curled tighter.
You squirmed, shoved, flailed. Nothing worked. The man had the tensile strength of a vine and the stubbornness of ten toddlers.
Eventually, you gave up and pouted at him. “You were mean yesterday.”
“I wasn’t trying to be,” he admitted cheerfully, his tone dangerously close to smug. “But in my defense, I expected my master to realize I have taste.”
You sulked harder. “You owe me.”
“Oh?”
“And I’m cashing it in later.”
“Of course, Master.”
“…Stop calling me that in the dorm.”
“No.”
You didn’t bring it up again. But the next day, as you passed that fourth-year in the hallway, he looked pale, shaken, and was clutching a charm pouch so tightly it might’ve become a fossil.
You glanced at Jade. He looked serene. Suspiciously serene.
“…What did you do?” you whispered.
“Me?” he smiled. “Nothing serious.”
You stared at him. He sipped his tea.
You decided you definitely weren’t asking.
But later, when he draped himself across your bed again and offered you a cup of calming lavender-citrus tea with a wink, you realized one thing:
You may be a borderline disaster of a mage, but Jade Leech was yours. And gods help anyone who forgot it.
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You'd been holding back.
It wasn't that you were scared. Okay, no—you were absolutely terrified. Because the “what are we” question carried the weight of galaxies, of shifting dynamics and possible heartbreak, and you weren’t emotionally prepared to deal with that when you were already behind on your fungal studies and had just accidentally set your robe on fire trying to dry herbs.
Still, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that Jade Leech, your familiar, your chaos partner, your maybe-something-more, had kissed you good morning again that day. Just a soft brush of lips while you were half-asleep, before you could even form coherent thought. And you’d just blinked at him, dazed and blushing and maybe a little dead inside.
And then that horrible, arrogant, no-chin-having senior from the advanced familiar studies track said—loudly—that if someone like Jade were his familiar, he’d “treat him properly” and “not waste potential on a person who still mistakes fertilizer for potion ingredients.”
You saw red. Possibly green. Maybe fuchsia, depending on how much of Jade’s tea was still in your system. But whatever the color, something snapped in your soul.
Because no one was taking Jade from you.
Not when he brewed you anti-headache tea with honey because he knew you hated bitter things. Not when he cleaned your desk with the gentleness of a man legally married to your organization system. Not when he smiled at you like you were a curious algae bloom he couldn't stop poking at. Not when he kissed your forehead, your temple, your nose, your cheek—like loving you was as natural as breathing.
So.
You marched.
You stormed into your dorm room where he was casually rearranging his jar collection (you didn’t ask, you'd learned not to the hard way.) and pointed an aggressively trembling finger at him.
“Be mine!” you shouted.
Jade blinked once. Then tilted his head, that infuriatingly pretty smile already forming. “I thought I already was, Master.”
Your brain combusted. You flailed. “Huh?!”
“I assumed the constant kissing and emotional intimacy might have been a clue.” His eyes sparkled. “Should I have drawn a diagram? I could make a chart—”
You launched yourself at him in mortified fury. “No charts!”
He caught you with practiced ease, laughed that horrible, lovely laugh of his, and kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
You melted. Fully collapsed like overwatered moss in his arms.
When you finally came up for air, dizzy and giddy and mildly offended at how good he was at this, he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and murmured, “Now that we’ve established that… shall we discuss what we’re calling the wedding mushrooms?”
You screamed into his shoulder.
He laughed again.
And that night, you dreamed of rings made of sea glass and mushrooms that glowed softly in the dark.
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Masterlist
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