#and. there's that motherfucker right there.

[periprose]

May i request a Logan x angel!reader fic where the reader had to get medical treatment after a mission because her angel wings (that are apart of her mutation) were burned and partially damaged after battle, and Logan comes in to check up on her?

anon I loved this ask ahhhh thank you. I'm like half considering making this a series if people want it (so send more angel requests if you're into it!) <3 I may have made it more angsty but there is fluff at the end :) also reader goes by Angel in this fic.

When Flight Comes to Fire (or, Logan gains an Angel)

Word count: 4.5k

Genre: Best friends to lovers, mutual pining, X-Men stuff, idiots in love, angst, hurt no comfort, fluff, kissing

The first time your mutation made it’s appearance– sharp shoulder blades growing into thick appendages, soft, buttery white feathers extending from them in that unhuman way, your wingspan making it clear you would never be normal– your mother retched and said she would have done anything to chop them off of you. Would’ve done anything to have a normal kid.

In fact, she tried, multiple times, to do so. You were only twelve when she came at you for the first time, in your sleep, feeling falsely secure in your father’s platitudes about how she would never really do anything. You woke up to her reaching inside your blanket, grasping one of your wings as she brandished a knife in her other hand. Luckily, your wings were strong enough to shove her off, but you remember how you screamed at her.

Why, mom? It’s me! It’s me–

She didn’t listen, coming at you again, promising in delirious anger that everything would be okay soon if you would just let her fix it, and she had to be held back by your father, as he called the police. 

Because you were her kid, she got let off with a warning, and you were stuck. So you would often fly to the tallest treetops and take your rest there, trying your best to ignore your mother’s other attempts on your life. She didn’t seem to ever get it. You would never be normal.

The final attempt was probably the worst, and the one that caused you to fly away in the end to Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.

You were twenty years old, just old enough to legally leave home– you only stayed because your father insisted. 

She set your favourite tree on fire. You had no idea your mom had been in enough anguish to essentially murder you for daring to be different.

You awoke to the deep smell of smoke, of tree bark charring, and then you heard the cracking and sparks. The tree quickly caught fire, and you shrieked in pure terror as the heat of the flames approached you. The immense light emitting from the fire blinded you, and suddenly there was a sharp pain from your wings and back– you were getting scorched.

So you flew upwards, high enough that the fire dissipated off your back instantly in the cool night sky’s air, and you were fine. Nothing to show other than a little scar, and the sounds of mutiny coming from your mother below. 

You chose to forget her– no point in repairing a relationship with a woman who didn’t want you as you were.

But you’ve never forgotten the pain of being burned alive.

/

“Angel. You ready?” Logan is to your right in the foyer of the mansion. “Everyone else is waiting in the helicarrier.”

He’s your best friend, has been ever since you came to the X-Mansion as a runaway. It’s not an uncommon story among mutants, but Logan always felt you were like him. Rough, not the easiest to speak to, having a tendency to keep to yourself.

The major difference to him is that you’re a lot easier on the eyes. 

Seriously, it was almost like the universe was playing a joke on him. Here was a beautiful girl with literal angel wings, just missing a halo as she arrived at the door for the School for the first time, and he just happened to be the first ugly motherfucker to open the door.

Logan’s never quite sure why you keep up with him, why you stay friends with him, if he was just lucky enough to be the first person you saw and liked. It drives him nuts, the way in which you rely on him, trust him more than he thinks he deserves, you come to him at every moment just to talk over everyone else, when surely you could have anyone else’s attention.

Especially any stupid guy, like him. He’s not sure how you haven’t noticed– even now on the staircase, he can’t tear his gaze away from you. Logan feels bad to be so in love with you, too– he wonders if he’s reading into things too much, if he’s pushing for something that isn’t really there.

And he’ll never know, because you’re so damn flighty. Logan can barely keep up with your whims, and he only knows as much as you’ll tell him about yourself (he hardly knows where you came from that fateful first day), so he just lets you come and go as you please. He’ll keep his feelings deep inside, where you can’t possibly find out about it.

“Yup, I’m fine.” You have a brief smile for him, which gives him that familiar twist of the stomach. “Oh. You’re not wearing your uniform?”

“It’s better to be incognito for this one, according to Scott.” Logan says, adjusting his flannel, mildly enjoying how you check him out. 

You’re wearing the typical X-Men uniform– bright yellow, blue stripes down your sides, room for wings with a removable panel in the back. You let them loose, now, telling Logan you’ll be right back.

When you return, with quite a flourish, flapping wings in a true superhero-landing– Logan sees that you’re wearing a tank-top, and some jeans that really, really highlight your ass– but he tries not to focus on that.

“Hey. Tank’s inside out, Angel.” Logan says, waiting for you to fly off again, but you simply take off the tank top, and pull it back on the right way, exposing your bra-covered chest and lithe waist for the briefest of moments, while Logan loses whatever he was about to say. “I…”

“Don’t be a perv, Logan.” You jokingly side-eye him, never suspecting that that could actually be true as you tease him. “You’ve seen me change tons of times.”

“Yeah, but out in the open?” Logan stares at you. “You’re gonna have a shit-ton of admirers if you keep that up.”

“It’s just me, please.” You start up this whole I’m-not-pretty schtick that Logan is pretty sick of hearing, and he shakes his head. “Let’s go. They’re waiting.”

Yeah, Logan thinks, they are waiting, but he’s not sure you needed to be all quick and nonchalant about changing, just to get there faster.

That’s what he means by you being flighty– who knows what’s really in your heart, when you act so quickly?

/

“Listen up, X-Men. We’re gonna do our best to avoid damages today, right?” Scott speaks with the air of a leader who’s very fed up with his team members. 

There’s a resounding yes from everyone, including you, Logan, Jean, Storm, Bobby, Rogue, Jubilee, and Kitty.

“What’s our mission?” Scott says, and you answer first.

“Find the new mutant.” You state, and Scott nods, while Logan hides a smile at how adept you’ve gotten at these missions.

“Make sure he doesn’t defect to the Brotherhood.” Jean adds, looking at you and Logan, seeing how close you two sit to each other. She’s kept it to herself– but Jean thinks if you and Logan really do have something going on, that would be nice. For the both of you.

“No damages.” Logan chimes in, and Scott visibly loses a little composure.

“I already said that.” Scott points out, and Logan shrugs. 

“Well, it’s part of the plan, isn’t it?” Logan leans back in his seat on the helicarrier, nestling his head next to your shoulder, not noticing the way your eyebrows raise at the sudden contact. “Better than me not listening at all.”

“Sure, Logan. Fine.” Scott lets it go, knowing better than to ask more from the most “chill” (read: laziest) member of the team.

You laugh a little as Logan smiles a cocky grin.

/

The new mutant is kind of old– you’re looking for a 19 year old with severe singing around his clothes, pale skin, and black hair. You suppose he’d be extremely frightened.

Most mutants don’t deal well with becoming different all so suddenly, let alone at the very late age of 19, when you could assume that you’re pretty much normal. So you and Jean are hoping to find him first– you figure you’re the two that could calm him down.

Unfortunately, you find Jubilee talking to him first. She’s okay, but she has a tendency to be a little too bombastic, as Jean says quite often.

“And there she goes.” Jean grimaces as Jubilee taps the new mutant’s shoulder, and you pick up her saying that “she’s just like him,” which you’re not sure is a delicate way to deal with the topic.

There are crowds of people walking through the streets, too, and a lot of them are glancing at this yellow-jacketed girl talking to a boy with burnt clothes.

If you had found him, you would have brought him to the side, away from people, and–

“His face turned white. He’s freaking out.” You tell Jean, and her eyes narrow.

Bobby, Rogue, and Kitty are nowhere in sight, so this is just one weird young adult speaking to another one, and you really, really wish the rest were here. You, Jean, Logan and Scott are a bit older– perhaps comforting in your age– but you feel like the boy would’ve done well with more peers.

Jubilee raises her hand as you and Jean approach her. “Guys, I got it under control. See, Kyle, these are more people like us. More mutants.”

“...” Kyle looks on in disbelief.

“Kyle?” You try, and he looks at you– there’s something in his eyes that tells you he wants to trust you, but he’s scared– it reminds you of yourself. “We’re here for you if you want us to be. Take your time. Don’t worry.”

You smile, Jean smiles, Jubilee grins, and Kyle seems okay.

It lasts for about two seconds.

Someone drops what sounds like a glass bottle in the distance, and the shattering sound is enough for Jubilee to gasp, a little spark of fireworks launching from her fingertips, towards Kyle, who watches on in trepidation, and his body starts shaking, moving of it’s own accord, clearly reacting to being so close to another form of heat– and you and Jean move, as you yell out “Wait!–”

Kyle shrieks in fear as his body becomes overtaken with flames, combusting with such intensity that the flames roar at least 100 feet over, and Jean– Phoenix that she is– is able to withstand the heat, but you find yourself being pushed back by hot gusts of wind.

It hurts, it feels as if your skin is melting with every passing second. You grit your teeth, trying to breathe as Kyle loses control of his body, and you open your wings, deciding that flying off into the cool air would be a better alternative.

That was a mistake on your part.

The moment you open your wings, Kyle’s fire pushes you backwards, and up, into the hot air, and your wings catch fire as you come too close–

You scream, but it’s unheard through the roar of the flames, and you barely have time to catch yourself as you fall towards the ground, smoking, fiery tendrils engulfing you.

The last thing you remember is your mother’s face.

/

Logan sees it happen from a distance.

Scott wanted him to be as close as possible, something about keeping watch on him– and Logan gets it, he’s not always the most responsible, but later on, in hindsight, he wishes he was, because then he wouldn’t have missed what happened to you– and they both turn as a fire overtakes a block of the city.

“Shit, that must be him!” Scott starts running, Logan not far behind.

It’s only when he sees a pair of white wings, a woman flying up, up, up, the fire approaching dangerously close to her– to you– he starts speeding up, overtaking Scott, pushing people out of the way.

Logan wonders what he could do, anyways. He’s invincible, practically, incapable of taking on much damage as his regenerative abilities heal him– perhaps he could run to the kid and knock him out, sustaining burns in the process, but better him than you.

Never you.

Any second now– Logan sees the boy, and he’s got an open fist ready to lightly tap the back of his neck.

He’s not fast enough. Scott yells out, and Logan looks up to see you engulfed in flames, as you scream, and it’s awful to hear– usually you seemed so speedy, so ready to fly at a moment’s notice, that Logan forgot you could be hurt.

He calls out your name. It’s unheard by you as you crash on the ground, still burning– Bobby, Kitty, and Rogue have caught up to you from the other side of the street, and Bobby quickly makes an icy mist that subdues the flames on you, and Kyle’s roaring fire back into him.  

You’re unconscious as the X-Men approach you. 

Logan touches your face as he kneels next to you, the only one willing to come close right now. “Hey, Angel…”

There’s that unspoken fondness between you two, yet again. Everyone knows, even when Logan has tried to act cool about it. Even now, when Logan attempts to act like he isn’t totally hanging on to your potential words, searching for a breath, a little movement of your head. 

Jean, Scott, Jubilee, and the rest look on in trepidation.

You don’t respond, and he feels his heart plummet. You’re covered in burns, mostly across your stomach and back, and he inhales sharply as he turns you over– there’s fresh, scalded skin, crispy-red to the touch.

Your back, your wings– they’re damaged so badly, with feathers singed straight off, the muscular appendages more visible and wounded, and Logan doesn’t know if you’re alive. He almost removes his hands from you, the very thought seeming to scald him from the inside, and he glares at the kid– the one who looks terribly guilty, now, as he runs away.

“Get back here!” Kitty shouts at him, anger in her eyes, and Scott pulls her aside, explaining that it was clearly an accident of sorts– something that Jean confirms for him with a nod of her head.

Right, Jean. Logan knows that if anyone could confirm if you’re alive, it would be her.  

As Scott, Kitty, Bobby, and Jubilee go hunting for the kid– Rogue stays behind because she’s always felt close to you and Logan– Logan looks up at Jean in a solemn, teary-eyed look that has her understanding immediately.

“C’mon, Angel… stay with us.” She mutters, as she presses her fingers to your head, and she smiles comfortingly at Logan.

“She’s still here. Just barely, but still here.” Jean says, and Logan sighs, an angry, long sigh that tells Jean and Rogue that he’s going to be insufferably feeling at-fault here, even though no one is.

“Let’s go.” He picks you up, feeling the burnt skin through that damn tank-top, now barely being held together as tatters– for modesty’s sake, he takes off his flannel and wraps it around you.

Rogue lets Logan and you walk forward a bit, not wanting him to hear what she’s about to say, and then looks towards Jean. “He really loves her, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Jean exhales. “Let’s hope for his sake that she’ll be okay.”

/

Stupid bitch! You’ve been nothing but a curse on this family– fuck you, I hope your future daughter is just as fucked up as you are–

You awake suddenly, with a loud gasp and yell, your mother’s last words to you flashing on your mind– you attempt to pull yourself forward restrained back by tubing in your arm. You’re stuck in a bed. In a hospital bed of sorts.

Not just any hospital bed, one in the hospital wing of the X-Mansion.

You’re calm, at first, until there’s a sudden ache echoing from your back, through your body, through your wings.

“Ah–!” You groan in pain. Trying to move suddenly has hurt you.

There’s a knock at your door. It’s Beast– or, Dr. Hank McCoy, as he’s better known around the hospital wing.

“You’re awake.” Hank says in relief. “It’s been a few days since your accident.”

“It has?” You widen your eyes in shock. “How, w-what… am I okay?”

The last thing you remember is Kyle exploding in flames, causing you to catch fire– then you blacked out, and– you’re having terrible memories of your mother.

“Hank?” You mutter, and he’s quick to come to your side, blue paw-hand holding your own.

“My mother didn’t…”

“No, she’s not here. She’s never come close to you. You’re safe.” Hank states, as Charles has told him to, remembering the few times you’ve had to come to the hospital wing for comfort before. 

So many mutants have troubled backstories, and he doesn’t quite understand why you don’t try to connect with others about it. Hank feels it could really help, but you’ve always changed the subject away from you.

You’re hurt, mentally, in a way that no one can really fix, and Hank is a big believer in letting people progress when they need to– but he’s so glad that you’ve bonded with Logan. 

“Am I going to be okay?” You tap the side of the bed, fears present in your eyes. “Last thing I remember is Kyle going crazy, and I– I got all burnt–”

“Yes, you’re going to be okay. We’ve administered lots of injections, topical ointments, everything that boosts your healing. You might have some scarring after this is all over, but no injuries. You’re very lucky, Angel.” Hank comforts you, and encourages you to lie back.  

“Lucky. Is that what you’d call a girl with a fucked up state of mind?” You murmur, and Hank shakes his head.

“We’re all fucked up.” Hank gets back up, leaving you in your room. “It’s a prerogative to being in the X-Men.”

You smile softly at that. He’s not wrong, but you wish, you really wish you could’ve just been that normal girl that your parents would’ve loved.

You look down at yourself. You’re wearing hospital scrubs, but there’s an unfamiliar fabric underneath the blanket.

Logan’s flannel is splayed across your stomach, a comforting, soft feeling that has you missing him almost instantly. Had he visited you, when you were unconscious, and decided to leave you this as a token, to help you feel at home? 

You lift it up, taking a deep smell of Logan’s signature scent– pinewood, smoke, and something kind of sweet, like… marshmallows? 

It makes you blush, but almost immediately after, you place the flannel back under the blanket. Logan doesn’t need your silly crush, your overt attachment, and you’re smart enough to keep that to yourself.

/

Logan hears from Hank that you’re awake, and although he wonders why Hank told him first, rather than Charles, or Jean, he’s glad to be the first one to see you.

“Hey.” He knocks on your door. To Logan’s surprise, he lets go of a breath he was holding– you don’t look horrific, you have some colour in your face, and there’s a soft smile on your lips when you see him.

You look just like Angel. His best friend. And he comes in real close, ruffling your hair as he often does, maybe more gentle because he doesn’t want to add any more pain.

“Hey, Logan.” You grab his hand, squeezing it with warmth, grateful to see him, before letting go suddenly and looking away bashfully, and he pauses, reminding himself not to think too highly of it.

“Angel. You’re feeling better?” He asks, and you motion for him to sit down on the edge of your bed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel okay.” You stare at him. It’s only been a few days, but Logan looks kind of awful– he’s got some serious dark under-eye bags going on, and stubble that is slowly turning into a beard, and there’s an apparent worry on his face that makes you just want to comfort him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Logan tries to ward off your answer with a stern, one word reply, but you’re not having it.

“Really? You don’t look so great.” You say, not without tact. “I hope you weren’t all cooped up in your room, worrying about me.”

Logan makes a sound that’s half way between a sigh, and a laugh at how close you always seem to get to the truth.

“Alright, yeah. Yeah, I was worried to hell about you. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He jokes, but your face falls.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m good now, I don’t…” There’s an air of seriousness coming from you, that Logan doesn’t typically see, something you usually don’t let yourself do. 

“Are you good? Let me see your back, Angel–” Before Logan can even move you to the side, you turn in defiance, letting him see that you are healing. There are still parts of your flesh, red and angry, but for the most part it seems okay, already far better than it was a couple days ago.

Logan breathes a sigh of relief, touching your wings with a tenderness that has you leaning into his touch, and he gently skims over a scar of yours, glad to see that you’re genuinely not as hurt as he thought– but you pull away quite quickly.

“See? You don’t need to care so much, I’m fine.” You sound accidentally very accusatory, but Logan is just as much of a stubborn asshole as you are sometimes, and he narrows his eyes.

“What the fuck does that mean?” He stares at you. “We’re friends, aren��t we? Friends care about each other. Jesus, you’re the one who always– you’re always checking up on me, sneaking into my room, touching my face and arms and– how else am I supposed to take that?”

It sounds romantic, Logan realizes, after he’s spit all that out– and it does sound like he’s putting the blame of your dynamic on you. And, even worse, it’s all just out there in the open.

“Really. I’m not the only one who cares, Logan, you…” You shake your head, and instead pull his flannel out from under the blanket. “You left this for me. Why do you make it sound like it’s all just me?”

“Okay, fine, it isn’t. Leave it alone, Angel.” Logan pleads a little, his face turning red.

“You’re always acting like I’m gorgeous, you constantly hug me and lean into me, there was that time you let me sleep on top of you–” You continue, feeling more and more confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you sound like an asshole.”

Logan blinks, feeling the argument dissipate, as it often does, whenever you get close to confronting each other about feelings– you always manage to fly away.

He won’t let you, not this time.

“You didn’t. I am an asshole– I’ve never bothered to tell you how I feel.” Logan mutters, and the way your face blanches in fear, shyness, tells him to keep going, to push the boundaries. “I let my own stupid ego get in the way of actually caring about you, and I’m not going to make that mistake again. I’ve always– I really love you, Angel. And I’m sorry I never made you feel like that was true, I’m sorry that it’s taken until you got hurt for it to be real.”

You have an incredulous look on your face, one Logan wishes he could take a picture of and frame somewhere, because it’s genuinely funny, but then your lip quivers, and he feels like an asshole again.

You feel like an idiot. You think, all this time, what’s bothered you is that you’ve been avoiding the fire– the real ones, sure, but more the things your mother fostered in you. Your trust issues, the way how you hold people dearly in your heart but you can’t let them get close because you worry you’ll never be enough, it’s all been burning for years inside you, and you’ve never had to confront it until Logan decided to stoke the flames.

“It’s always been real for me, too.” You whisper, trying not to cry. “I just… I don’t always believe if people care about me, I never feel good enough to be something for anyone. It’s not you, Logan, it’s my mom, my upbringing, really.”

You give him a short, brief explanation of what your mom did– something you’ll surely expand on later, when it’s not so fresh, when you haven’t been literally burned recently, and the memories pain you more than ever– and Logan’s face turns sharp, his brows furrow, he’s clearly deeply angry by whatever you’ve just told him. 

“I’m stupid. I just assumed– it was me putting too much pressure on you. You shouldn’t have been on this mission, that’s fucking awful.” He finally says, and then scowls. “I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but fuck that lady.”

You snort at that. “Yeah. Yeah, it was never you– I’ve always loved you too, Logan, more than you know. I’m sorry I’m always running from you.”

“Oh, so you’re consciously doing that?” He teases, trying not to react too much to your proclamation of love for him, although his brain feels as if it’s short-circuited. He squeezes your hand, and you laugh.

“Yup. I’m almost glad I got hurt, if it makes us more serious.” You comment, but Logan turns glum at that.

“Don’t say that, Angel. I still feel bad about it.” Logan holds your face, caressing your cheeks, staring into your eyes, glad now that you’re not going to shove him away. “Next time, I’ll try to take the hits. I’ll live.”

“You don’t have to–” Before you can start rejecting Logan’s offer, he leans in really close, almost kissing you but not quite, his breath hot on your own mouth.

“I want you to live.” He murmurs, and you feel yourself turn warm at that. 

When he presses his lips to yours, it’s almost chaste, because Logan still isn’t sure how many of your walls he can break down in one day– but for once you’re quick to act in the opposite direction now, lifting tubes out of your arm (irresponsible as hell, Logan would say later on) so you can better reach his face, and you run your fingers through his hair as you kiss him, again, and again. 

It’s soft, pliant, and warm, and Logan doesn’t quite know what to say when you come back up for air, breathing deeply, body sweaty from both recovery and how intense this is– he feels around you, around your waist as he leans in again, and you giggle, pulling away for just a moment before kissing him again.

His hands are gentle, skimming over your body without trying to hurt the burns on your back– but Logan feels you clamber onto him, onto his lap, and then he feels the soft feathers of your wings as they pull themselves outward, into the open.

He opens his eyes, and grins in a wolfish manner. Maybe you’ve been changed by what happened, maybe you aren’t the same, but you’re his Angel now, and he prefers that.

He kisses you again.

[lady-nuggetz]

What X Men Autism does to a motherfucker.

This started as just a joke and then I had to find shitty doodles to draw everyone as.

Also I know no one knows the character in the right hand corner, say hi to my oc Haunter/Serenity everyone :3!!! OC X CANON STRIKES AGAIN.

[damyoujackson]

Notes Challenge Post

Saw some people do it, wanted to try it out. Rules are simple, how many ever notes = different challenges to complete/ habits to inculcate. I'll try my best to do it (keyword here - TRY)

Right...

10 notes - Start doing Pilates workouts

30 notes - Follow a proper study schedule

50 notes - Be more consistent with my art

80 notes - ACTUALLY start studying for my Piano Theory tests

100 notes - Be consistent in my eating habits

150 notes - Try not to self-deprecate (teehee)

200 notes - Try to raise my self-esteem (haha as if motherfucker)

250 notes - Face reveal????? (Maybe, not sure)

Spam is allowed, just don't go overboard lol. And try to pace yourselves, can't do all of this at once lol

[luciferslatte]

radioapple except lucifer has a nose today

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

Sirius: You know what I definitely should have done as a kid? I should have just scared everyone in the church I was baptised in by hissing and yelling in Latin as soon as I touched the water. That would have been sick as fuck. Sirius: Unfortunately, two-month old Sirius Black had no way of learning Latin… Peter: You could have just downloaded Duolingo, you know. Sirius: As a two-month old? I don’t think so. And I don’t think Duolingo teaches Latin, anyways. Peter: Oh, I know that. What I meant is you could have just not done your lessons, and then you could just have waited for Duo to arrive at the church and creep the fuck out of everyone. Sirius: Sirius: Why, you sick and twisted motherfucker. Regulus: *lips twitching* “Ahh, help, the Devil himself has arrived! Everyone stand back!” James: *wheezing* “Be gone, you sick, green Devil! Be gone, I say!” Sirius: *wheezing* Remus: I am surrounded by maniacs. Lily: Indeed. You are all mental, you know that, right?

[thewertsearch]

Let's pull back from this ever narrowing dark pocket. All this uncertainty is wearing thinner than the only pair of pants in an immortal's wardrobe. I've never much enjoyed navigating the vortices of alternative possibility.

Son of a bitch. Scratch was fucking trolling us, wasn't he?

We must have split off from the Alpha Timeline a while ago - probably before Vriska had even left the Veil. The moment she reached Jack, the entire timeline was unsalvageable. I should have known it was doomed.

The path which alone has my absolute mastery is the alpha timeline, a continuum I define as that which boasts exclusive rights both to my birth and to my death, two circumstantially simultaneous events.

Wait, Scratch can only die in the Alpha Timeline? So he can never die in any other timeline, no matter what?

That's a little strange. Is the Green Sun indestructible in doomed timelines, then? Surely there should be at least some offshoots where someone offs him by dumb luck. He claims there are multiple ways to kill him, but that's completely irreconcilable with the statement that there's only one scenario where he dies. They can't both be true.

You hear that, you orb-headed motherfucker? You lied!

I fucking got you!

Also, I think I know how Scratch's birth and death are circumstantially linked. Snowman orchestrated his birth - and, mirroring this, his last act as a living man will be to orchestrate her death.

Any divergence from this path to my knowing will taper into blackness like rotting roots. But if I was a Seer, such offshoots would be fully within my domain. And if I was a Seer of Mind in particular, synaptic causality would be my specialty.

Right, so all Seers can perceive doomed timelines to some extent, but Mind-aligned Seers are apparently designed to do so.

Terezi - the Alpha Terezi - has seen this offshoot. She knows exactly what will happen if Vriska gets away, and she can't pretend this situation is salvageable anymore.

A Seer would support her allies in battle not with her weapons, but her vision. She would sift through dross of her comrades' poor tactical inclinations and examine the grim consequences. A Seer would not charge into the fray headlong but direct it as a conductor with a baton. She would have the sight to eschew the obvious gambits, and find the path to victory disguised cleverly as setback, or even imminent defeat.

The Seer is a tactician's class, specializing in strategy and problem-solving. It's a class for those who are adept at analyzing and consolidating information, as well as understanding the consequences of a given approach.

Presumably, each Seer's style of problem-solving is influenced by their Aspect. I'm not sure how to characterize Rose's approach, but Terezi's is obvious - she specializes in the consequences of decisions.

And she would know victory doesn't matter in a reality where all else is doomed to fail.

...including her own.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

More Logan and writer reader pls? I need to see a grown ass man grovel

Wade haphazardly tossed a bag of mints on your kitchen table and you looked up from your laptop, "For the nausea, you know. Since you won't tell me who your baby daddy is so I can make him-"

"That implies that I know," you tell him, making Logan pause where he'd been putting away groceries and dog food- trying to keep you from lifting anything heavier than a book.

Wade folded his arms and coked out his hip, "Bullshit you don't know."

"You don't have the market cornered on bad life choices Wade," you sigh.

He leaned on the table and stared you down. "I will find out," he threatened. "And when I do-"

"No one forced me to fuck-"

"Never said they did," he said, "But they're gonna pay fucking child support."

"Yeah. Sure." You restrain an eyeroll and swallow hard, having to get up so you could puke, Trigger following after you like a shadow.

Logan listened to the heaving and fought the urge to go hold your hair back- his ability to be close to you right now was... tenuous at best. You were tired. You were depressed. And Logan was the only person you didn't have to front quite as hard for. You could be upset about things. And worried. And scared.

It was something. Even if it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't know what he wanted- he didn't even know if he wanted to BE a dad. But he knew you couldn't do this alone. Even if you were still heartbroken and pissed off at him.

"She fuckin' knows," Wade said, picking up your phone. "She fuckin' knows and I'm gonna beat him until-"

"You're so fucking stupid it's not funny anymore," Logan growled flexing his hands to keep his claws sheathed.

"She told you, didn't she?"

"Yeah." One lie is as good as another. And it'll keep Wae from going through your shit. You have all your appointments in your calendar and he's willing to bet you don't want spectators- he's not even invited and it's his kid.

"You motherfucker," Wade gasped. "And you didn't tell me?"

Logan shrugged, "She asked me not to. He's not a nice guy."

"Fuck!"

"Stop yelling this isn't the crack house you live in," you yell from the bathroom.

"It's not a crack house, it's a crack home!" Wade rounded back on Logan when you started dry heaving again and slammed his fist on the table, "Who is it?" he demanded.

"No one you need to worry about," Logan hedged.

Wade scowled, "Logan I swear-"

"Look, do you want us to get along or not?" It was the last card he had to play. Wade wanted his family to get along. And he was COMPLETELY oblivious to the fact that you were avoiding his roommate. He'd been bitching about the lack of movie nights and dinners.

"Fine," he bit out, "But it's your adamantium ass if anything happens."

[audzss]

Thin Line ~3~

Summary: Rafe spending his night at Y/n's house starts to become a regular occurrence, which excites yet scares Y/n at the same time. She can't help but think there's something going on underneath this rough front that they put up towards each other.

Thin Line Masterlist

Word Count: 1,473

Warnings: non-explicit nsfw.

Thin Line

Y/n's peaceful sleep was rudely interrupted by knocking on her door, loud knocking. She groans and trys to turn over onto her side, before realizing something is blocking her path. Someone.

Her eyes rip open as she sits up abruptly, looking over to her side to see Rafe Motherfucking Cameron pressed up against her, his arm sliding down from her stomach to her legs as she sits up.

She turns to look at her door as the knocking continues, along with some muffled yells of her name. "Shit.." She mumbles, ripping the blanket off of her and sliding out of Rafes sleeping grip. She makes her way over to the door quietly, carefully unlocking it and opening it just enough to peek through, praying that her Dad didn't just rip the door open right then and there.

She peeks around to look at him, careful to only show her face. "Y/n, you know we do not lock doors in this house." He says, clearly agitated as if he had been pounding her door for a while.

"Sorry.. I just, wanted to sleep with no clothes on, it was kinda hot in my room." Her words clearly threw him off balance, as he scrunched up his face in disgust.

"Whatever just.. Don't do it again, I almost couldn't wake you up in time for school! Now go put some clothes on." She nodded her head and shut the door as he walked away. She rubbed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief.

She heard a muffled giggle and turned towards Rafe, who was laughing into the pillow. "What the hell are you laughing at!? This is your fault!" She whisper yelled as she made her way over to her bed, ripping the blanket off of him.

"Looks like you have clothes on to me, but I mean.. If you wanted too you could take em' off-" Y/n took a pillow and slammed it down onto Rafe's face.

"Rafe Cameron, I swear if you don't get the hell out of my house."

-

Thankfully, Topper wasn't at school today, meaning Y/n finally had a lunch period free of Rafes annoying, stupid insults. She sat outside of the school in the courtyard with Chelsea, as she explained last nights events in detail while her friend worked on some art assignment.

"Y'know, If you ask me, I think he's in love with you." Y/n grimaces at that, faking a gag. "No way, we hate each other, there is no possible universe where he could love me." Chelsea smiles, looking up from her drawing to look at Y/n.

"There's a thin line between love and hate, Y/n."

She rolls her eyes at that, mumbling a whatever as she watches the other students walk past them.

-

Maybe Chelsea was right. It was a week after Rafe had spent the night in her bed, and every night after that he had done the same. Y/n even started to look forward to him coming to her window at night, putting on her most expensive perfume and making sure her teeth were brushed before he arrived.

They spent most nights just watching Vampire Diaries while Rafe made fun of Y/n for loving 'a cheesy ass show' so much, but every time she looked at him, he seemed to be drawn to the show.

Every night they would go to sleep on opposite sides of the bed, but Y/n would always wake up to Rafe wrapped around her one way or another. She made sure to make fun of him every morning.

Rafe of course couldn't make it easy for her though, as their dynamic of hating each other continued any other time, like he had never even spent the night at her house, cuddled up to her watching her favorite show.

Y/n was confused, and a little hurt. Is she just a warm body for him to be close too while he was alone at night? And as the days went on, her feelings only grew stronger, until they were too strong to ignore.

-

Y/n took her perfume and spritzed it on her neck and wrists, patting it into her skin. Tonight was the night, she had to say something. Because if he didn't feel the same, this had to end.

If this were any other situation, she would have never told him she felt this was towards him, but she knew he wouldn't make fun of her towards anyone else because that would be him admitting that he was going to her house every night, cuddling up next to the person he supposedly despises.

She looked at herself in the mirror, lost deep in thought about how awful this could go. She almost jumped at the knock on her window, she was on high alert and didn't even know why. She walked over to the window, unlocking it and quietly sliding the glass up.

She didn't even have to say anything, he just climbed right in, he never asked to come in after that one time, he knew he was welcome. She closed the window carefully, locking it before turning to see Rafe already looking at her. "Hi." He mumbles with a smile, almost making her laugh.

"Hi.." She says back, a little on edge as she knows that what's she about to say could just ruin everything. He takes his shoes off and leaves them by the windowsill, before flopping down onto her bed, already getting comfy under the covers.

She slowly walks over to the other side of the bed, choosing to sit down with her back against the headboard instead of getting comfortable. "Vampire Diaries?" He says, looking at her expectantly, and she can already feel her heart breaking.

"Actually.. I wanted to talk about something first." She says, choosing to look down at her hands instead of him. He hums, giving her the go ahead to continue.

"You can't.. keep coming here." He sits up abruptly, already opening his mouth to protest, but Y/n interrupts him before he could even get a syllable out. "Because I like you, Rafe.. I can't keep seeing you, because every night you come over I think about the fact that we're not even friends, that you hate me and I'm just someone to comfort you and keep you warm at night-"

She stops at feeling of his hand settling on her leg, finally turning to look at him. She was expecting to see the look of digsust, or maybe even hatred, but all she saw was a warm smile. "I have.. Feelings, for you too. It's not just you, kay'?"

Y/n can't help but just stare at him in shock, her mouth agape. Her first thought was that he's lying, just playing her, trying to get something out of her, but all she can see on his face is honestly and vulnerability.

She leans in and kisses him abruptly, pulling away before he even has time to process what was going on. She watches him, waits to see what his next move is. She watches his eyes trail down her face to her lips, then back to her eyes, before he leans in and gives her a much softer kiss.

She moans into the kiss and turns her body around, putting one leg over his waist, straddling him. Her cold hands come up to hold his neck, and he flinches for a second, smiling into the kiss.

Y/n deepens the kiss, biting at his bottom lip, he complies and opens his mouth up, letting her tongue make its way into his mouth. He trails his hand down from her back onto her ass, squeezing lightly. She giggles and breaks the kiss as the hand on her ass pulls her down, encouraging her to stop hovering above him.

She carefully drops her hips onto his, watching his mouth open into a soft gasp, his eyes squinting shut. His sweatpants didn't leave much to the imagination, she could feel everything.

She tested the waters, moving her hips up and down, watching Rafes face scrunch up as he let out the smallest noises. She loved watching him like this, not to mention the feeling of having all the power over him for once in her life.

She tucked her head down into the crook of his next, leaving a gentle kiss on the sensitive skin that made him shudder. "Feel good?" She whispered, sitting back up to look at his pretty face.

"Just shut up and kiss me.." He mumbled.

End note: There is still more chapters to come, this is not the end even though it seems like it is, lots more drama oopsies ;) also im not good at writing explicit sex so you can just imagine what happened lol

[nastyenemyeater]

Rockstar Choso 🫣👹🎸🥁- FANFIC

I saw some tiktoks about Choso being a drummer and it gave me some ideas.

Here are the links :

SHOUT OUT TO NARUTOSS.RAMEN

either way here's the plot : basically Y/n got cheated on by her bf at a club and she got revenge by kissing the drummer of 'The curses' rockstar band .

“Look Y/n isn’t that Nathan?” asked your best friend, pointing at a guy during a hardcore kissing session with a random girl.

The blasting music, the heat in the club and the moving people passing by and occasionally shoving you to pave their way, were not helping you in any way digest the scene you just witnessed.

Your knees felt weak, your heartbeat increased considerably, memories flashed by, tears started overflowing and millions of questions exploded inside your head “why? Am I dreaming? Why did he cheat so easily? Did he even love me?”

“Go confront him Y/n! What are you waiting for? The fuck??” shouted your best friend, shaking you fervently and bringing you back to the hell.

You couldn’t. Or you thought it didn’t matter anymore.

“That motherfucker” you seethed in anger.

Alcohol was all you could think about. Yes, you needed to drink a shit ton of it. After all, you came to the club to enjoy your Saturday night. You didn’t plan on having your heart broken but … life never goes how you want it right?

You made your way to the bar, jaw clenched, eyes burning with anger and determined to drown the night’s misery in alcohol. The bartender handed you the strongest shot of vodka, and you backed at least five of them. Each one went down smoother than the last, but the pain refused to fade.

"Maybe I should just make out with the first guy that comes along," you thought bitterly, resting your head on your arms as you looked to your left.

Unexpectedly, a pair of dark, hazy eyes were already locked on you. He sat back against the bar, elbows resting casually behind him. His dark, messy hair clung to his sweaty forehead, framing his sharp features – a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and tired, yet piercing eyes that studied you intently. Tattoos snaked up his neck and down his muscular arms, accentuated by the sleeveless black shirt that clung to his broad frame. His legs were spread wide, exuding a quiet confidence and control.

Without thinking, you locked eyes with him, staring intently with no thoughts, just an empty, heated gaze. A faint smirk played on his lips as he stared back, silent but sharp, as if he was waiting for you to make the next move.

“Whatch’you lookin’ at?” he asked with an amused tone, breaking the silence between you two.

You didn’t have the strength to engage in any conversation yet, and all you could do was stare at him. Being in that inebriating state made easy for you to prolongate the eye contact.

He let out a low chuckle, stood from his seat and made his way toward you.

But before he could take another step, 2 other guys suddenly pulled him away, dragging him toward the other side of the bar. A chaotic stream of girls followed, screaming some names as they swarmed after them.

You watched as he winked at you before disappearing into the crowd. Despite the commotion, you remained rooted to your spot, an amused smile playing on your lips as you took in the scene.

“Wow, they must be somebody for them to get followed liked this” you wondered. You groaned loudly as you realized your mistake “Fuckkk ! I just blew my chance … fuck fuck fuck … Uh give me another one please” you said, asking for another shot to forget about this massive fail.

By now, the alcohol coursing through your veins made you feel more at ease, braver, and a little reckless. Confidence surged with every beat of the rock music that pounded through the club, filling your body with raw energy. The tension that had been building up inside you needed an outlet, and before you knew it, you found yourself weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor.

You moved with purpose, shaking off the accumulated stress with each step. The crowd was electric, and soon you managed to slip right to the front of the stage, where you spotted the two guys who had dragged your "new friend" away earlier. They were performing, and you finally recognized them as The Curses, a rockstar band.

You also spotted your "new friend" as their drummer. His name was Choso apparently.

The music reverberated through your body, each beat syncing with the rising tension inside, a strange mix of hurt, anger, and alcohol pushing you to the edge. By the time they finished their set, the adrenaline was pumping so hard it was like a shot of fire to your system.

Without thinking, you somehow climbed up on the stage. The crowd’s roar faded into the background as you grabbed the microphone, your voice raw with emotion as you shouted, “FUCK YOU NATHAN!”

The audience gasped, some laughing, some unsure what was happening, but you didn’t care. Your mind raced as you continued, “GO FUCK YOURSELF NATHAN! YOU DON’T DESERVE SHIT IN YOUR LIFE”

The two guys from the band rushed over, trying to calm you down, but most importantly trying to yank the mic out of your hands. One of them put a hand on your shoulder, but you jerked your arm away and continued, “YOU HEAR ME, NATHAN? YOU MANWHORE”

Someone grabbed your arm, pulling you slightly back as a voice whispered, "C’mon, miss, don’t embarrass yourself. Get down from the—"

But you cut them off, shouting, “DON’T TOUCH ME! I HAVE THE RIGHT TO SPEAK!” Your voice rang out, fierce and defiant. Then, you turned and realized it wasn’t a stranger—it was Choso. His intense, steady gaze met yours, silently pleading for you to calm down. For a moment, everything else faded, and it was just the two of you, his eyes trying to pull you back from the edge.

The noise and chaos seemed to fade into the background. Staring into his captivating eyes, you thought, It’s now or never. Your gaze flicked from his eyes to his plump lips, and without hesitation, you acted.

You dragged him down toward you, while rising up onto your tiptoes, and then you kissed him fervently, all the pent-up emotion pouring into that moment.

His pink-haired friend cackled into the mic, “You hear that, Nathan? You fucked up! Your girl’s gone now!”

“yeah you son a bitch! look at me eating up this guy’s mouth!” you thought, deepening the kiss.

You would be a total liar if you said that making out with Choso was just any other chore to get back at your ex.

No, no, no, no… that man was a beast. The second your lips touched his, he yanked your body against his, your breasts colliding with his large, hard chest.

Every inch of him was solid, muscle-packed beneath his shirt like he was carved from stone. His body radiated heat, and the faint sheen of sweat from his earlier performance mixed with the scent of his cologne—a powerful, intoxicating blend that made you want him even more. The mix was engulfing, dizzying, wrapping around you like a drug, making it impossible to pull away.

What started as a kiss turned into something deeper, more intense. His mouth was commanding, his lips moving over yours with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. His tongue was battling against yours, and all you could do was respond.

He was devouring the fuck out of you.

His hands slid down to your waist, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t bear to let you go. The feel of his body against yours – strong, immovable – made you crave more. Your fingers roamed up his shoulders, desperate to feel more of him, to get closer.

This wasn’t just some kiss to get back at Nathan. Choso’s kiss was raw, overwhelming, and consuming – everything you didn’t know you needed.

“Ok ok lovebirds! time’s up! you both can finish this later” suggested his sexy black-haired friend.

The crowd's reaction to your passionate kiss was a mix of emotions. Some voices rose in anger, hurling insults, while others cheered loudly, celebrating your bold move. The air buzzed with a clash of discontent and admiration. Some of them even started chanting “fuck you Nathan” in chorus.

But eventually, all good things must come to an end … and you had to shed yourself from Choso’s addictive body. You were both panting and staring at each other’s soul trying to figure out what just happened and what was going to happen afterwards.

“So ... do you make a habit of kissing random guys on stage?” he asked with a smirk, his eyes lingering on your face, taking in every detail.

“I … I have to go …” you stuttered, pushing him slowly away.

“Oh nah you can’t go now. There is no way I’ll let you leave after what you just did to me” he said, pulling you closer.

“I acted impulsively … I’m sorry … I need to go” you said, still trying to get out of his grip.

“Oh, so you’re just going to run back to Nathan?” he spat bitterly, holding you even harder.

You immediately frowned upon hearing his name again.

“Fuck you” you gritted, putting all your almighty force to push yourself away from him.

“That’s perfect, I have a 20-minute break anyway” he said, grinning. Before you could respond, his strong arms encircled your waist. In one swift, fluid motion, you were lifted off the ground. Panic surged as you were hoisted over his shoulder. It wasn’t a gentle lift; it was firm and unyielding.

“Guys, if you don’t mind, I have something to take care of” he informed his friends.

“Man, do whatch’ya gotta do, we lost you the minute she got on stage” said the black-haired guy.

You kicked and hit desperately, your fists pounding against his back. “Put me down!” you screamed, struggling against the grip holding you. “Let me go!”

“I don’t know about you, but I like to kiss a little before fucking. That being said, if you like it rough I can do that for you baby” he said, spanking you.

“The fuck??? did you just spank me?? how dare you??” you screamed at him, outraged.

“oh so we were literally dry-humping each other on stage 5 minutes ago but I can’t spank you now? That’s bullshit! You’re mine now!” he said, pushing an exit door.

When he finally set you down, the cold night air jolted you back to reality.

“Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t think this through, ok? I just saw my boyfriend kissing a chick and I saw you as an opportunity to get revenge … I’m sorry please, just let me go” you pleaded.

He leaned in, slammed both of his hands on the wall, caging you with his body “So you’re telling me you didn’t enjoy our kissing session?” he asked faking a pout, but clearly amused.

“I didn’t say that” you shyly admitted, looking away.

“Then why are you running away?” he whispered in your ear, his lips now dangerously close to your neck.

“Please understand my situation here, I still have to deal with my feelings” you said, trying to get your neurons to work.

“I know for sure I can get him out of your head and give you new feelings to think about” he whispered against your neck.

“Look, I’m not trying to fuck … I told you I acted impulsively, I’m sorry” you asserted. Your mouth said no but your body craved this man with every alive and dead cell.

“Hey, as much as I love sex, I’m not going to fuck with you if you’re not willing. What I’d really like to do, though, is to get to know you better. So, what’s your name” he asked, his tilted curious face looking at you.

“I … uh … Y/n” you sighed. You knew there was no point in faking a name. You would have forgotten about it anyway.

“Y/n ... I can see myself moaning your name”

“Shut up. Choso.” you said, trying to hide your fluster.

“I definitely can see you moaning my name” he added, with a smirk.

You could see yourself doing that too. Just thinking about it, sent tingling signals to your pussy.

“Can I get another kiss before going back to stage?” he asked with a demanding look on his face. He looked so adorable, with his pleading eyes and his slightly parted lips. He held your chin up with his hand, forcing you to look up to him.

That bastard … He wasn’t playing fairly …

“if you keep looking at me like that I might have to bring you home, and keep you all for myself” he whispered again in your neck.

You couldn’t speak. You were unable to focus on not acting impulsively again and trying to formulate long sentences. Your brain was in a total meltdown.

“Just so you know, I still plan to get my revenge and kiss you first, and when I do, you’re not getting out alive” he added, gently kissing your neck.

Silence.

“Please ... say something, you’re driving me crazy” he whispered, desperation lingering on his voice.

His hands slid on your back, pulling you closer to him.

“Fuck … baby … please … don’t give me the silence treatment …” he whined, holding you harder.

“Ok …just one peck” you sighed, finally making a decision. You had surrendered to this man’s desires.  

You got on your tippy toes and gave him a 4-second peck on his soft lips. But no light brush of lips or polite peck was enough for Choso. As soon as your lips touched again, he kissed you back with everything he had, hungry for so much more.

“Hey! C’mon man, we need you back on stage. Sex time’s over” interrupted pink-haired guy busting the exit door open.

“Fuck off man” Choso growled between kisses, as you both slowly came to a stop.

“I want to see you again baby. Gimme somethin’ more than your name” he asked, visibly frustrated.

“How about you look for me here next Saturday at your concert?” you suggested, smirking unknowingly, your hands roaming on his broad chest.

“And when I catch you,” he said with a grin, “you'll see the things I’m going to do to you.” he finished, with a hard squeeze of your ass.

i hope you liked this story ❤️ don't hesitate to comment and reblog !

[stoptakingthegoodname5]

/ Y’all know what month this is right? Happy Hispanic heritage month motherfuckers WOOOOO 🎉🥳🥳

Especially to these mfs here /Pos

/ Sergio “Checo” Pérez - 🇲🇽

/ Patricio “Pato” O'Ward - 🇲🇽

/ Franco Colapinto - 🇦🇷

/ To all the Latinos/Hispanics we celebrate this month together with pride and joy, for where we come from and who we are. 🇲🇽🇦🇷🇪🇨🇨🇴🇻🇪🇭🇳🇸🇻🇧🇷🇵🇾🇵🇦🇩🇴🇵🇷🇨🇺🇺🇾🇵🇪🇬🇹🇳🇮🇨🇱🇨🇷🇭🇹

(Fellow Hispanic moot mention @midnight-grandprix Viva Mexico güey 🇲🇽)

(Fellow Checo lover mention @scrollonso)

[zomtart]

Chapter 1: Morphine and Lavender (Frank Castle x Fem Reader/OC)

okay this is terrifying but hi I am going to share some of my writing! this is just a snippet I wrote cause Frank is always on the brain. thank you tuna team for the encouragement <3

content warnings: hospital, canon-typical violence/gore, mentions of needles, language

word count: 1.1k

Frank was beginning to think they had left him in there to die when he heard a knock. A young woman opened the door with a huff, brushing her hair out of her face before giving Frank a curt nod.

“Alright, hi, sorry, I know I’m not your assigned nurse but everyone in my unit decided to take lunch at the same time, so you are stuck with me at the moment.” she mumbled, barely looking up at Frank as she wheeled her computer stand to his side. She stayed outside of the duct-taped line, but it didn’t seem to bother her much. In fact, she didn’t seem bothered at all. Frank’s eyebrows furrowed together as she pulled up his medical sheet, searching for his name.

“Okay, you are Mr…Castle?” she asked, the sound of her mouse clicking echoing in the small hospital room.

He blinked, dumbfounded. “...yes ma’am.”

She nodded, her relaxed (but rather exhausted) expression staying constant even as she said the name that was headlining every newspaper in New York. 

“Mr. Castle, could you give me a pain rating on a scale of 1-10?”

He blinked again. He felt like he had fallen into some sort of alternate universe. His assigned nurse hadn’t talked to him in the few days he’d been here, much less give him treatment he’d give another patient. An innocent patient. 

“Mr. Castle?” she repeated. 

“Right--uh…five.” he said quietly.

At that, she raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down slowly. She eyed the numerous bruises, cuts, and scars he was no doubt covered in, and asked, “That your final answer?” 

Something like a smile itched at his lips, but he forced it down. “...yes.” 

She shrugged, typing something into her computer. “Alright, well at least the painkillers are doing something. I’ll make sure to get a refill for that--” she paused as she looked at the full IV bag of morphine, following the IV down to…the floor.

She grabbed at the IV, looking at the wire and then back to Frank. “Did you yank this out?”

“No, ma’am.”

“The fuck?” she murmured, before understanding seemed to dawn on her. The cuffs, the bright red line of tape, the bruises on his face. Frank waited for disgust, for her to become terrified, for her to spit in his face. Instead, she stubbornly set her jaw and walked back to her computer. 

“Who the hell is your nurse?” she sounded furious, but it didn’t seem aimed at him.

Frank, through his confusion, could only shrug.

She rapidly typed at the keyboard, eyes running up and down the screen. Then she stopped scrolling, eyes narrowing. “Did he have blonde hair? Eagle tattoo on his forearm?”

Frank vaguely remembered the eyes of an eagle staring back at him as he faded in and out consciousness from the pain, a man with blonde hair sneering down at him. He nodded. 

“...motherfucker.” she all but growled, and the sound turned into a jagged laugh. She threw her hands up. “Aaron. Of course it--god fucking…damnit--”

Frank felt he was obligated to ask, or maybe his curiosity got the best of him. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

She laughed humorlessly again, words tumbling out of her mouth. “Oh yeah. I’m just peachy. I haven’t slept in two days, haven’t been in my own bed in almost a week, and all because I need to take extra shifts. Why do I need to take extra shifts? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I decided to move to New York fucking City where an apartment room costs more than an arm and a leg! And just when I think--oh just when I think I’m gonna get that promotion? No. No, I lose it to Aaron, who won’t even do his goddamn job correctly!” she finished with a burst of gusto, before collapsing down into a chair.

She just sat there for a minute, face buried in her hands, and Frank wasn’t quite sure what to do besides give her the grace of silence. 

The absence of noise was quickly interrupted by her pager going off, and she reluctantly held it up to her vision before sighing and putting it back at her hip. It seemed to snap her back into reality, and she stood up and smoothed down her hair.

“I’m…very sorry about that Mr…” she glanced up at the computer again. “...Castle. I’m--that was unprofessional, it has just been a…very long week.”

Frank’s eyebrows furrowed. “...you really don’t know who I am?” 

She grabbed some gloves from the table and snapped them on. “Someone very humble, I see.”

That got him to laugh, a low rumble that made its way out of his throat. He…couldn’t remember the last time had laughed. It felt nice. Familiar, even after all this time. 

She shook her head with a small smile, grabbing the IV and sterilizing it. “No, I do not. I’m not even sure what day it is, to be honest.”

He nodded, stretching out his arm for her and making a fist. “But you…I mean they told you…somethin’, right? A warning?”

“I vaguely recall being told to stay behind the red line besides when absolutely necessary, yes.” she said, readying the needle. “Small pinch.” 

He stared, barely registering the sensation of the IV. “...so you…then why would you…?” he tried to find the answer in her face, but all he could see was concentration on her task. 

“Why would I…?” she repeated, waiting for him to continue. With the IV in his arm she took her gloves off, typing something on her computer.

“...I don’t know, you’re just being awfully kind.”

She pursed her lips, a hand going to her hip. “I’m not being kind, I’m doing my job. I took an oath to help people, no matter who they were, and that’s what I’m doing. Simple as that.” 

He grunted absentmindedly, his eyes flitting to the window. Ten stories down, New York raged on, lights flashing like fireworks. “Doesn’t seem simple.”

She shrugged. “It is to me.” she started wheeling out her computer. “I’ll be back to check on you in a couple hours. Hopefully that IV will help. If that dipshit comes in here again, you tell him about nurse malpractice. You have constitutional rights, even if you are off robbing banks or whatnot.”

With that, she was gone, the faint scent of lavender left in her wake.

Frank blinked. “...robbing banks,” he mumbled before closing his eyes, letting the numb embrace of morphine lull him to sleep.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Better Man: Richie Jerimovich x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @lostinwonderland314 @fallout-girl219 @wabi-sabi1090 @morgthemagpie

Companion piece to:

One Night Stand (NSFW) - It was never meant to be more than a one night stand.

Old School - Richie and you prefer to do things old school.

Safe With You - Richie still has nightmares about how he found Michael.

Joy - The stabbing leads Richie to confront some of the doubts he has about himself.

All The Good Ones Are (NSFW) - Richie has never thought of himself as one of the good ones.

Happy Anniversary - Richie fucks up your first wedding anniversary.

Gift (NSFW) - Richie has always thought of you as a gift.

86 - Richie 86es a patron at The Bear.

It’s Saturday and Richie’s busy with the service when you pop in to pick up the takeout Carmy usually prepares for you. It’s a form of penance him and Richie worked out for fucking up your wedding anniversary. He has to make sure you’re fed every Saturday evening for the next three months to make up for monopolising your husband on what Richie deems the most important day of the year.

“Hey baby.” He greets you with a fierce kiss, one that you feel all the way down to your toes. “I can’t stop for too long.”

“I don’t mind.” You murmur with that sinful smile of yours as your fingertips straighten the lapels of his suit. “As long as you’re not too tired when you get home.”

“Never.” He whispers as his forehead comes to rest against yours. “I’m never too tired for that.”

It’s as you draw away that the expression on your face changes. Your shoulders tense and your eyes linger on something over his shoulder.

“Joy?” He questions, following your gaze as your grip on his sleeve tightens.

“Richie.” You whisper. “What is Peter doing here?”

Richie has never actually laid eyes on your ex-husband. You’d cut off all contact after you divorced the son of a bitch. He’d sent you a bottle of champagne shortly after the two of you got married with a card that said. “Don’t fuck it up this time.”

Richie had taken you out to the wasteland where his father had taught him how to shoot, before watching you blow away a thousand dollar bottle of champagne with his 9mil. It had been both cathartic and exhilarating.

Peter smiles at you from his seat, raising a hand up in greeting and something ignites inside of Richie, something furious and vengeful.

“Sugar.” He says with a dangerous lilt. “I thought we 86ed him?”

Sugar’s fingertips runs down the appointment book before it lands on the notation.

“I called him up myself.” She tells the both of you. “He must have rebooked under another name.”

“That deviant motherfucker.” Richie spits out, his eyes full of murder.

“Richie.” You say softly, tugging on his sleeve and he tilts his head towards you. “It’s ok.”

Your words should placate him but they don’t because he knows that Peter has done this intentionally, that it’s a way of fucking with your boundaries, encroaching on your territory. Your ex, he used to play mind games with you, gaslight you. Richie knows his presence here tonight is just another version of that, a way of showing you he still has control.

“I’ll see you at home.” You say, pressing your lips to his cheek.

It’s only as he watches your car exit the parking lot that he realises you’ve left behind the food that Carmy made for you. He tosses it in the trash before returning to work, waiting for his opportunity to confront that that fuckhead.

It’s when Peter stand up to use the bathroom that Richie accosts him. He grasps the other man by the scruff of his neck before he hurls him down the corridor and through the back exit.

“How fucking dare you.” Richie erupts when they break out into the alleyway. “How dare you come here and pull this shit. I should wipe that smug fucking smile right off your face.”

“And end up with a jail sentence?” Peter says, tilting his head to one side. “That would really fuck shit up for you and Joy wouldn’t it?”

“How the fuck do you know…”

“About your suspended licence or your aggravated assault charge?” Peter finishes as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “You think I wouldn’t check up on the man my ex-wife married?”

“That’s some fucked up shit right there.” Richie says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know she told me you had issues with control but this is next level.”

Peter shrugs his shoulders.

“I like to see who my competition is.” He remarks and Richie shakes his head with a sardonic smile because he knows what this is about.

Peter had never expected you to leave him, you’d played the good wife for such a long time and then one day you’d had divorce papers delivered to his office. The final straw had been when he’d had lingerie sent to you. It was two sizes too small and had been addressed ‘To Emily’.

“This-” Richie says gesturing between the two of them. “-is not a competition. You treated her like dirt, like she was absolutely nothing.”

Peter laughs then and the sound grates across Richie’s nerves as he pushes past Richie, barging against his shoulder.

“Women like Joy, that’s how they like to be treated.”

Richie’s hand catches his arm, his hand squeezing so hard that Peter winces at the sensation as the fabric of his designer suit creases underneath Richie’s fingers.

“Play all the games you want motherfucker, but that woman is never coming back to you.” Richie tells him with a ferocity in his eyes. “You and I both know the better man won.”

Love Richie? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[quack-quack-snacks]

Lost

My Navigation and Masterlist

My Geto Suguru Masterlist

My Geto "Cult Leader" Suguru Masterlist

Pairing(s): Slightly Yandere Cult Leader!Geto Suguru x Single Mother!Fem!Reader Summary: After losing your son in the street after bringing him to visit the annual light show that happened in your town, you find him crying in the arms of a handsome - yet strangely unsettling - stranger with two girls standing beside him. Warnings: No manga (or really any anime) spoilers, Suguru is just a tad obsessive and whatever, Suguru being prejudiced against humans as normal, Suguru is a sly and smooth motherfucker (almost literally 😏) (maybe it will be literally if i write a part 2 😏😏) Word Count: 2,355 Extra Notes: In this story, Suguru is 23, Nananko and Mimiko are 9, the reader is 23 as well, and her son is 3 years old

While Geto Suguru wasn’t one for Monkey festivities any time of the year, he couldn’t bear to deny his two adoptive daughters, Nanako and Mimiko. Not when they shot him puppy dog eyes soft enough to melt the heart of the infamous Sukuna Ryomen. 

Well… maybe not him, but you get the idea. 

The light show they begged him to take them to, although still run by and flooded with monkeys, was, admittedly, beautiful. The lights reflected off the glass windows of the homes they passed by; they wrapped around the trees and bushes lining the street and were worn as bracelets on the wrists of the smaller monkeys that ran through the crowds, uncaring of the legs they crashed into. 

Now, of course, Suguru would never allow anything to happen to his daughters, especially since they were still not even ten years old, so he designated a cursed spirit to reside on each of their shoulders, one for each girl. He allowed them to wander off if they desired - and told them as such - but he was glad they didn’t want to separate from him in such a crowded place. 

He cursed himself for jinxing it with that thought real soon, though, when they decided to venture off without him to watch the dragon dancers. 

With a sigh, he shook his head at the desire to go after them and decided to only keep an eye on them from his spot. 

He didn’t move as they ran to the side of the road, holding each other’s hands in excitement with gleaming grins on their faces. 

He didn’t move when they ran into a young boy, knocking him onto his hands and knees.

He didn’t move when they stopped in their tracks and glanced at each other before hesitantly apologizing, an act that made Suguru smile despite himself. He knew he was raising them right - despite the boy being a monkey. 

However, he did move when he realized that statement wasn’t true.

The boy wasn’t a monkey. 

If he was, why did he start screaming in horror at the cursed spirits propped on the shoulders of the girls as soon as he looked up at them for the first time?

Nanako - although momentarily shocked - dropped to her knees to console the boy on instinct but was surprised further when he scrambled away from her, scraping up his already torn and bleeding hands and knees even more. Mimiko helped her twin sister back to her feet and looked at the boy with confused eyes before following his line of sight to the grotesque figure sitting on her shoulder. Her gaze flickered back and forth between the curse and the boy with growing confusion until it clicked in her head. 

He could se-

“Are you alright?”

The familiar voice of the man she grew to see as her father interrupted her silent revelation and she looked to see him kneeling in front of her, blocking the sight of the cursed spirit and the girls from the boy’s eyes and offering him a smile that was quite similar to the ones he gave Nanako and Mimiko. 

The young boy in front of him whimpered, trying to peer around Suguru’s head to see if the monster was still there only to scream and cry more when it hadn’t disappeared. 

In an action that was nearly entirely instinctive, Suguru picked the boy up and wrapped his arms around him, holding him against his chest as he cried. The long sleeves of his traditional kimono blocked the crisp wind and soothed the gentle shivering that had unknowingly overcome the younger boy’s body.

“Where are your parents, hm?” The cult leader asked, silently and selfishly hoping he didn’t have any so he could get him out of a place so overrun by the stench of monkeys and the bodies that always follow. 

As if reminded that he had any, the boy started to cry even harder. “M-mama!”

‘Damnit,’ Suguru cursed to himself, keeping the smile on his face unmoving while he gently caressed the boy’s back. From behind him, Nanako - who was still oblivious to the boy’s sorcerer abilities and confused as to why her dad was holding the, presumed, monkey - walked up to him and scowled at him. Just as his eyes widened at the new proximity of the monster and a scream built up in his throat, 3 things happened: Nanako’s eyes widened in final realization, Mimiko wrapped a hand around her sister’s upper arm to yank her back, and an unfamiliar voice started frantically shouting a name in the distance. 

Or, at least, the voice was unfamiliar to the family of three. It was more than familiar to the boy whose eyes widened in a mix of fear and relief - fear at the monster and relief at the voice - and he started struggling to get out of the 23-year-old cult leader’s gentle grasp. Reluctantly, Suguru let the boy go and watched as he started running towards the woman screaming his name.

When your eyes finally caught sight of your son after minutes of frantic searching and being unable to find him even when trying to use your cursed energy technique, you were overjoyed. The unshed tears that built in your eyes finally fell down your cheeks and you fell to your knees in front of him, wrapping your arms around him in a secure hold. 

“Ryōsuke! How many times have I told you not to run off!” You scolded him, cursing yourself when your voice cracked and rubbing his back as he sobbed into your shoulder. He gave no response and just weakly held onto your shirt, most likely ruining it with his tears and snot but you didn’t care. You’d had plenty of shirts ruined by his tears and snot before, and this most likely wouldn’t be the last one. 

Your eyes flickered over his shoulder to where he had run over from and you saw three people standing there watching you. One was a man who looked to be around the same age as you wearing a dark purple and green kimono along with two girls, one blond and wearing a light pink dress with hearts scattered across the fabric while the other was a brunette and was wearing a black t-shirt with a Minecraft sheep on it and blue shorts. The man, who hadn’t torn his eyes away from you and the boy for a second, had a kind yet slightly unnerving smile on his face. It made you want to walk up to him and express your gratitude for watching your son as much as turn in the opposite direction and ignore him entirely. 

With a sigh, you decided to do your duty as a good and polite person and thank him for his kindness. Besides, it wasn’t every day you met someone in this town who wasn’t immediately put off by you and your son’s presence. Of course, the average person wouldn’t be able to tell it was your cursed energy that made them feel uncertain about being around you but they could sense something off. You wondered if the somewhat unnerving feeling you got from this stranger was the one your neighbors got from you. 

Or maybe it was because of the two hideous creatures that sat on the two girls’ shoulders.

With a forced smile, you picked Ryōsuke up and placed him on your hip before standing up and walking over to the group with him, smiling kindly at the two girls and trying your hardest to keep your gaze off the invisible creatures on their shoulders. You were taken aback by their scornful expressions but pushed it aside as them being shy or something of the sort. 

When you looked back up at the man standing in front of you, you were awestruck by how much more handsome he was up close. Your forced smile became a little more genuine as you somewhat awkwardly shifted the boy on your hip around. “Hi.”

Although your smile turned more genuine, it seemed the longer you stood in front of him the less his was. It made you shift nervously on your feet. He didn’t say anything as he looked at you but you could practically taste the disdain that flooded off him in waves. 

“Um, I just wanted to thank you,” you started. When he still didn’t say anything, you filled the silence as a nervous habit. “F-for watching over my son. I put him down for a second to get him a funnel cake since he was begging for one and then when I turned around to pay, he had suddenly disappeared-”

‘It’s unfortunate such a pretty face belongs to such an arrogant monkey. Placing food as a higher priority than her gifted son. I should kill her right here and now,’ Suguru thought to himself, keeping the polite smile on his face to avoid any of your suspicion. 

“-so I just wanted to t-thank yo-”

Your son screaming in your ear shocked you out of your stuttered rambles and you frantically looked over at him, trying to figure out what was making him freak out.

“What? What is it? Are you okay?” You asked only to find him pointing at the two girls while sobbing. You looked over, already knowing you’d see the creatures that rested there, and tore your sight away just as fast. Despite having to hide your son’s abilities to see cursed spirits for his whole life thus far, it never got easier to pretend you couldn’t see the things you really could. 

You wrapped your hand over Ryōsuke’s eyes and tucked his head into your neck, whispering, “Don’t look at them, okay? I’ll protect you.”

While consoling your shaking son, you couldn’t see the pleasant surprise that settled on Suguru’s face. Meanwhile, his two daughters erupted in soft whispers, saying how a monkey like you didn’t deserve your son. He held out a hand to stop them and despite their confusion, they did so immediately. 

Once your son finally settled back down with his head firmly tucked away into your neck - you were even nearly positive he had fallen asleep - you turned back to the man and allowed yourself to be shocked at the once forced smile on his face no longer being forced. It allowed the tension to leave your body as the genuineness of his gaze washed over you and calmed your nerves. 

“I’m sorry about that,” you said with an apologetic smile. “He has schizophrenia and can’t tell the difference between what is real and what’s not just yet,” you explained, before adding, “It’s run in my family for a long time,” for good measure. You adjusted the boy in your arms to free up one of your hands to hold out in greeting to the man before introducing yourself with a smile. 

The girls beside him both scoffed, both at your excuse for your son - which they thought was you simply being foolish enough to believe that - and at the audacity you had for believing yourself worthy of touching your hand to their dad’s. They were left in utter bewilderment when Geto had no qualms about returning your handshake. 

“My name is Geto Suguru but you may call me Suguru, Darling,” he responded with a wink and easy smile. 

The girls’ jaws dropped. 

His hand was soft when he placed it in yours and you blushed not only at the heat emanating from his palm but also from the nickname. You nodded. “Suguru,” you tested the name out on your tongue, unknowing of the effect it had on him. The light blush that grew up his neck was so small in the darkness of the night you could only blame it on the lights flashing from the parade. “Well, Suguru, I will be taking my leave now. I think losing my son for one night was enough for me to last a lifetime,” you joked. You saw what you thought was a bit of panic flash through his eyes before it disappeared in an instant. 

“Well I can’t possibly let you travel home alone on a night like this,” he started to insist. “At least allow me to take your number so that you can let me know when you’ve returned safely. It would bring my girls and I some peace of mind.”

Damn. This man was smooth. 

With a quirk of your lips, you nodded in agreement and handed him your phone to put his number in. Once he did and you sent him a text he seemed satisfied. 

“I’ll be off now, but it was nice to meet you. Thank you again for looking after my son in my absence. It means more than I can tell.”

He nodded. “Of course, Darling. Have a safe trip home.”

When you turned around and hid the growing smile and blush on your face in the sleeping boy in your arms’ hair, you didn’t see the way Suguru summoned up a small low-level demon to follow you home. Just because you could see them didn’t mean he couldn’t make it so it wasn’t in your line of sight at all. It was all for your sake, in case you forgot to send him the text letting him know you were home safe and sound! It was just for your safety! Nothing else. 

He wasn’t storing the address of your home away for safekeeping at all. 

“Why did you give her your number? She's just a stupid monkey. Why would you give her the time of day?” Nanako asked with an annoyed look on her face. 

“Come now,” Suguru told her with a gently scolding tone, looking at her with a stern smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice, but that woman is anything but a monkey. In fact,” he looked back in your direction where he could still see your figure slowly getting smaller and smaller as you walked further and further away from the crowd with your son in hand. “She might just become your mother one day.”

He would make sure of it. 

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Sorry this took so long. I moved city and pretty much have a new life. Still obsessed with Rust, though, so some shit sticks

Warnings: 18+, talk of war, alcohol, drugs, sex work, talks of past domestic violence, smut, just genuine misery between the two of them

America venerates suffering, that's what Travis had always told Rust. Sacrifice isn't pure if it isn't coated in a blood so red and so hot that your family can smear over their words, for centuries to come, excusing their comfort, their indulgence, their ignorance. They are afforded that comfort off of slaughter beyond their imagining. At least, that's what had happened after 'nam. A hero for his fucking country was the propaganda they had fed Travis; squash the bug of communism and, along with it, massacre millions of innocents, because what is America without its sons who are willing to fight for it.? Yeah, a fucking hero for a father, who's night terrors kept both of them up at night and who kept his engraved lighter saying High Speed Low Drag in his hunting jacket, always. That same lighter that Rust had used to light his first cigarette: rolled up flimsily in newspaper with the leftover tobacco and tufts of filter that he'd scraped from Travis' cigarette butts. The same lighter that Cassandra is now using to light her Marlboro Gold, hands shaking,

'Rust. That's all I get, huh? Not even a fucking surname?!' she spits, through a shaky exhale.

'I ain't gonna give you my surname. The less you know about me, the better,' Rust says back, his stoic demeanour attempting to mask that churning in his stomach. One that he has realised isn't for him but for Cassandra.

'Is Rust even your actual name?'

'You want a fuckin' social security number, too?' Rust drawls dryly.

'Don't you-Don't,' Cassandra's head shoots up from where it's been in her hands, her shaking tone now gaining a momentum of uncontrollable anger, 'Jesus-fuck. You men are all the fucking same. I-I ain't staying in this fucking place, anymore. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck every goddamn person in this wasteland of a place!'

Rust regards her with an even look,

'You ain't going anywhere. Not tonight. You ain't in the right state.'

'You ain't my daddy, motherfucker.'

'Goddamn right, I ain't but I'm also the only person you have who doesn't want to take advantage of you. So, hedge your bets tomorrow, baby, but tonight you're stayin' here,' Rust's voice is lapidary, stopping Cassandra in her tracks as she starts to shove clothes and books into her duffel bag.

'I said: you ain't my daddy and you sure as hell ain't keeping me in a place where I don't want to be,' Cassandra says in a tone equally as gelid, throwing her duffel bag over her shoulder. That elegant, fine-boned shoulder tinged with its bronzed hue; some of the love bites that Rust had left a few nights ago decorating Cassandra's collarbone. Rust fears that the sentiment festering under his skin is nostalgia. A nostalgia that scares him and, then, makes him cruel,

'No, Cassandra. I ain't your daddy cause all he did for you was get heavy handed with you and cut you up with his empty liquor bottles when he really wanted to teach you about mouthin' off at him.'

The colour drains from Cassandra's face,

'How the fuck do you know about that?' a sudden spark of spite reaches her as she sneers, 'Pull my file in your spare time, huh?'

Rust grabs her arm and yanks up her tank top, ignoring her yelp. He nods to the fine, white line along her ribcage,

'I ain't a fuckin' idiot, Cassandra. Skateboardin' fall, my ass,' Rust snarls, holding her ribcage with a calloused hand. Cassandra viciously claws at his hand, tears threatening to spill from her eyes,

'Get off! Get the fuck off!' and Rusts lets her go cause in that moment, the smooth, sultry cadence made slightly husky from after-sex cigarettes reverts back to the pleading of a little girl. Cassandra's words are devoid of any real bite, Rust notes. All that rage has been stripped away and all that she is left with is the panic of a little girl's voice turning into burning sobs in her throat; the stale cookies in her stomach turning sour from terror. There's that wide eyed looked, too. He can see it as Cassandra hastily covers herself back up and rearranges the duffel bag back onto her shoulder.

'Fuck you, Rust,' she says his name like it's a poison that she needs to spit from her mouth before it corrodes the flesh into a pulpy mess. Corrosion. Rust. That's what he is, it's what he does because sometimes corrosion is needed to get to the bone of things; to see what everyone else in too caught up in their delusions or affectations about fucking Natural Law to truly comprehend.

'Don't you fu-Cassandra!' Rust's voice boils up from his chest in a rough bark, watching Cassandra explode out of the trailer door, almost stumble down the rusted metal steps and collapse into the red dirt. He thinks he can't get any angrier until he realises that she's pocketed the keys to his Harley, on her way out, and sees her bolt over to where it's parked, behind the trailer. A cloud of dust rises up as the bike rumbles out of neutral and Cassandra desperately revs on the accelerator; her legs hardly off of the ground before the Harley tears away. In other circumstances, the dramatics of the exit would have made Rust scoff and chalk it up to youth's thirst for impact: the flurry of a scene. Not now. Not when this kid is tearing down a highway in a bike that doesn't have enough gas to make it to Liberty, let alone wherever the fuck Cassandra thinks she's headed. A kid, Rust thinks, A fuckin' kid that I've pulled into the abyss with me. Rust calls her a kid now but knows that when he finds her, he'll treat her like she's grown. A sentiment that propels him into his truck, cursing to himself as the engine splutters.

It doesn't take long to track Cassandra down; there's only one road from the trailer park that lead to the freeway. No doubt, where Cassandra is headed to. Ride fast and hard, and get the fuck out when the heat starts to sting: the classic cocktail of self-preservation cooked up by kids who've already been burned. There are too many of them down here, below that Mason-Dixie line. Rust would know. Fuck, if he hasn't spent his entire career on the force witnessing the aftermath. Drugs, abuses, assaults, homicides: you name it. The abuser becomes the abused; Nietzsche's infinite return has those poor kids falling flat on their faces into the nice shit storm of generational maladjustments that their parents left for them. Shattered dreams, skin sucked dry from mosquitos, teeth black and rotting from sweet tea, underneath that sticky southern sun. Rust wants to believe that it's an innate sense of duty towards these kids is why he's currently violating every Highway Code there is. And for part of him, it is. The other part, however, won't allow himself the comfort of what he knows is a lie. What started as pure sex appeal has started to morph into something deeper, messier.

The bike has even less gas than he thought as, the first Texaco that he sees, has Cassandra next to the pumps trying to wrench open the bike's gas lock. She wants to be caught, Rust knows, Wants me to chase after her, show her I give a shit. If she didn't, she would've gotten a hell of a lot more reckless. He watches her, almost with pity, as her pulls into the gas station and slows the truck to a halt, the breaks groaning with their lack of galvanisation. Rust shoves the car door open, his leather boots landing heavily on tepid asphalt,

'Get your ass over here,' his voice rough, as he strides over to Cassandra.

'I told you to get the fuck away from me,' she whips around, her fury making her abandon her previous task.

'Get in the fuckin' truck, Cassandra. I ain't doing the whole scorned boyfriend act for these nosey fuckers,' Rust deadpans, his ice blue gaze conveying to her just how fucking pissed he is.

'Did you hear me, motherfucker? I said to go back to your junkie biker brothers, find some hooker so that you can fuck out your half-baked emotional needs and leave me the hell alone,' Cassandra says with such venom dripping from her mouth that she almost fully means it; warm milk out of hand, she resorts to spite. Not fully, though: Rust can see the tears glazing her eyes and that's enough for him. A firm hand comes to grasp Cassandra's arm and put her in what is practically a headlock as Rust drags her to the truck. Cassandra's duffel bag slips off of her shoulder as Rust holds her firmly against his chest, bicep right up against the column of her throat. Some old man up from his pump, spit collecting at the corners of his mouth as he calls over,

'Everything alright over there?' Not from the area, Rust notes. Not solely due to the licence plate and milky arms but the slight wariness of his expression. A man unacquainted with the imperatives that the arrid terrain commands. The violence. Cassandra takes it upon herself to drop the unwanted attention as she chokes out,

'They don't teach you to mind your own fucking business in Iowa?!' the rage in her voice stemming from a deep humiliation in how she must look, Rust's arm tight against her neck. Rust takes in the man's mortification and grits into her ear,

'Shut the fuck up.'

He opens the truck door and shoves her in, slamming the door and heading over to the driver's side to catch her as she climbs out. Rust concedes her a heavy slap to the face before getting in, essentially crowding her back to the passenger's side. As he starts the ignition and pulls out of the gas station, Cassandra is eerily quiet, tears leaving hot tracks of salt and mascara on her cheeks. Rust debates on whether it's shame at getting caught or just pure desolation at, once again, finding herself completely fucked over, until he feels his jeans' waistband go slack. He feels the air hit that sweaty patch of back where the barrel of his .38 S&W was pressed and licks the inside of his cheek in an almost smirk. There she is, Rust thinks, knowing full well Cassandra's loathing of acquiescence as she points the gun at his temple, sweat curling his caramel hairs.

'Pull over or, I swear to God, I'll put your brains all over your goddamn car windows,' Cassandra's voice is firm but Rust sees her fingers trembling. Red. Her nails are lacquered the same colour as a Shirley Temple, poised on cool gun metal of the safety.

'You don't want to shoot me, Cass,' Rust says, his tone flat.

'Oh, I don't?' Cassandra scoffs.

'Nah, you wanna make a fuckin' scene so that I'll burst into tears and beg for your fuckin' forgiveness or some shit. That ain't gonna work on me, baby. I'm around too many pussies who ain't man enough to pull a fuckin' trigger, as it is. I can tell when someone's bluffin'. And you, Cass, I can sure as hell tell when you're bluffin'.'

'How are you so sure?'

Rust looks at a small trail leading off of the main road before sparing a sideways glance,

'That gun ain't even cocked.'

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls the hammer back,

'Happy?'

Rust steers the truck off of the road, onto the rocky country road, before stopping and turning to her,

'You wanna go? Go.'

Cassandra's gaze falters before she contrives it into that practiced indifference,

'You're kicking me out?' she says, her voice so fragile that Rust almost feels bad for putting her in this situation but tough shit: wisdom comes hard.

'Nah, just callin' your bluff. You got 30 seconds to go, if you want to,' Rust says, not even facing her but staring straight out ahead.

Cassandra stares at him, lowering the gun, and looks around helplessly. The tears come back, not when she looks at Rust's stony expression or the destitute surroundings, but when she looks at her duffel bag. All her life fitting into some beat up gym bag and, now, she's about to throw away the one thing that can protect her. A gun isn't shit compared to his hand on her ass and his fingerprints bruising her thighs; not to these fucking animals. Rust gives her the mercy of two minutes of silence before speaking,

'You ain't movin',' he says more as a statement than a question.

'Don't mock me,' Cassandra murmurs out.

'I ain't mockin' you.'

'You know that I ain't gonna go. I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to.'

'You can and you will, eventually.'

'I ain't sure, Cra-Rust. You ain't either.'

'Use Crash. I don't need you gettin' confused and fuckin' this up,' Rust says, gruffly.

'You sure that's it?'

'Am I sure 'what's' it?' irritation starting to creep into his tone.

'That the reason you don't want me using your real name is cause I'll jeopardise your cover.'

'I thought you were smarter than that, Cass.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' Cassandra suddenly straightens, her voice hard but still slightly tremulous.

'I thought you were smarter than to get your emotions mixed up with what is gonna keep your ass outta the crossfire.'

It's a low blow but it hits home. Cassandra looks down at her scraped knees, gravel and raw skin, before looking up again; her voice now a whisper,

'Do you feel sorry for me?'

Rust clenches his jaw, the simple juvenility of the question making him feel sick. He knows neither of them will be able to bear whatever tidal wave of sentiment is about to breach their carefully instated distance. The partial revelation of his true identity has already been more of an unmasking than he can stomach; especially to someone he cares so deeply for as Cassandra. Her knowledge of 'Rust' throws whatever the fuck they are doing with each other into something that goes beyond sex and protection, and Rust can begin to feel everything veering off track. He won't allow her to expose herself to him like this, not when he's already emotionally fucked her over so much, today. So, Rust finally turns to her and says,

'Take off your top.'

Cassandra falters, her voice still that hoarse whisper as she ask,

'What?'

Rust wills himself to turn his pity into scorn,

'Did I fuckin' stutter? Take off your top. Those shorts, too,' he says, his tone unnervingly even and made rough from his Camels. Cassandra stares at him for a moment before indulging him: shirt discarded first before she lifts her hips and awkwardly shimmies out of them. Rust notices her holding her side, her hand cradling the scar; something she's never really done until now. Not until Rust had forced her shame into the searing white light of recognition. He knows what Cassandra must be thinking, grouping him into that homogenous, male blob of ill-intent: her next job, her next dance, her next humiliation. He tries to pretend that it doesn't slightly tear him the fuck up when she looks at him with those eyes, now cold.

'What now?' Cassandra asks, sitting up with her spine long and upright, shoulders terse.

Rust pats his lap,

'Come here.'

'Rust, I-'

'I ain't ever remember sayin' you could call me Rust, Cass,' he says harshly, completely disregarding whatever appeal Cassandra's about to make over how to treat her. Pretty words that don't mean shit to Rust nor to this godforsaken part of the country. A place where women bring guns in their purses to hookups and there are wards for the babies born hooked onto opioids, has no use for floral, storybook sex. Here, it's fast and it's hard and it's painful and it's often paid for. Cassandra knows this type of sex, or rather its corruption. So, she shuts up and sits in Rust's lap; swallowing the bitter pill of docility.

'Move 'em to the side,' Rust taps the waistband of her panties with his knuckles. For a moment, a light tinge comes across Cassandra's collarbones at the crassness of the act. She hooks her fingers into the waistband, moving to pull them down, before Rust grabs her wrist,

'I say to take 'em off, Cass?'

'No,' Cassandra murmurs, trying to asses if Rust is pissed beyond belief or on some pretty loopy downers.

'So, you can hear me. I was thinkin' otherwise, given some of the shit you've managed to pull,' that dangerous mix of anger and worry begins to seep into Rust's tone. He can feel her wet heat through the lace of her panties; almost disappointed that she can get turned on by this shit. Old habits die hard, Rust thinks, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into his seat,

'Undo my belt.'

Cassandra stares at him, holding unflinching eye contact as she unbuckles him and unzips his fly. It's like a game of fucking chicken: which of them is willing to degrade the other more, for the sake of self-preservation. Rust exhales a slow stream of smoke watching Cassandra's thighs tremble from the exertion of holding her position. He quirks an eyebrow,

'You gonna tap out on me, baby?'

'No.'

'You wanted this shit that bad, didn't you, Cass?' Rust says, the forcefulness in his tone coming out of the pit in his stomach when he thinks what he's done to her.

'I did. I wanted this shit. Don't paint me out to be some dumbass little girl who opened her legs to the first man who reminded her of her daddy. That ain't what this is. I'm tougher than that, you know I am,' her voice starting to tremble again. Her hands absentmindedly wrapped around her midsection., as if to protect herself from the next laceration.

'You want it? Then move those fuckin' panties to the side.'

Cassandra stares at Rust with that fucking stupid bravado of rapacity, before gripping the crotch of them to the side; the tepid truck air mixing with the heady scent of her arousal and Rust's cigarette smoke,

'Go on. Fuck me like a man.'

Rust looks up at her while he pulls down his boxers, before grabbing her bruised hips and slamming her onto him. Not giving a fuck about the sharp, shuddering inhale. The lamb must learn to run with the wolves and Cassandra is far from a lamb. Especially as she is now, gulping down her whimpers of pain, desperately rocking her hips against his coarse hair to stimulate her little nub. She buries her head into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing against his jugular as Rust lands a firm slap on her ass,

'Don't get sentimental on me now, Cass,' he manages to grit out, feeling her arousal literally drip down him, 'Fuck am I gonna do with a weak lil' thing, huh?'

Cassandra tries to nod, her eyes squeezed shut and her groans muffled into the leather of Rust's jacket. Rust wraps his arms around her, holding her in a vice grip for the third time today, all of which have been some form of degradation or excavation of the dirty, nasty shit that Cassandra keeps hidden under sultry, bedroom eyes and that cutthroat tongue. At least this time, the aggression of the act is more tangible; neither of them are allowed any delusions. Not with how Cassandra's spit smears against Rust's stubble when he fucks into her especially hard or the cutting of taught lace on her hipbone or Rust's still lit cigarette burning dangerously close to Cassandra's dark waves. Apt symbolism, Rust thinks, as she angles her head to inhale from the tip; eyes starting to roll slightly at the mixture of in adverted friction of her bundle of nerves, and Rust's angry, frantic pace. She turns to look him right, as she leans her head in him, exhaling the smoke right into his mouth. Rust catches some powdery grey wisps, shoving Cassandra down once more onto him. As she groans, her hands never loosening, Rust leans in to mutter into her ear,

'You never fuckin' learn. Do you, baby?'

[catsukiiee]

# POSITIONS & R&B.

౨ৎ class 1-a & class 1-b boys x masc/fem!reader

[fan favorites only]

wordcount ; 893

paragraphs ; 41

sentences ; 53

songs used ; songs listed by each character.

all of them are their canon ages (24+)

# CLASS 1-A

# TENYA IIDA [ blame by bryson tiller ]

Tenya doesn’t care what position you two start off in, as long as he’s able to get inside you and hear your moans, then he’s sated. Unfortunately, though, our glorious king, Tenya Iida, cannot last long in any position where he can't see your face. That man NEEDS to see your face; he’s absolutely addicted to seeing your every reaction, especially when he goes deep, sound is not enough. He loves having you in the eagle position, don't even try hiding your face in the pillows.

“I wanna see your face, please.”

# DENKI KAMINARI. [ let em' know by bryson tiller ]

Desperate. That’s the only word I have for this motherfucker. Wanna have sex? He’s down. In doggystyle? Even better. Trust he’s losing his mind as soon as he sees you bend over; expect to have your hair pulled and your shoulders marked with bite marks at the end.

“Look at my little masterpieces.”

# EIJIRO KIRISHIMA [ gang over luv by brent faiyaz ]

As gentlemanly as he is, he’s far from a gentleman in the bedroom; in fact, his favorite position is low doggy. Simply because he can push your face into the mattress and go ham. You want to try and crawl away? Nah baby, he’s grabbing BOTH your arms and locking your ass down; you aren’t running until you’re both finished and he’s tired.

“Why are you moving? Cmere baby.”

# RIKIDO SATO [ ballin by partynextdoor ]

Lethal. He’s strong as fuck, so you better expect to have your pussy absolutely obliterated after a couple of deep strokes, but just like Iida, he needs to see your face to cum, and he's not pulling out either. His favorite position to put you in is young stallion.

That's exactly why y'all have five kids.

“A few more won’t hurt, baby.”

# HANTA SERO [ things & such b partynextdoor ]

THIS MOTHERFUCKER RIGHT HERE IS CRAZY.

The moment you mention wanting to have sex, you don’t even need to move to the bedroom, he loves fucking your brains out on the couch anyway, locking one of your legs over his shoulder while his hands hold your other leg down to keep your legs open so he can watch himself going in and out, your hands WILL BE TIED. Sero is obsessed with watching your breasts bounce to, it drives him insane and makes him finish in a matter of minutes, and he’s not stopping even after cumming first.

The messier the better.

“Look at you sucking me in, goddamn.”

# SHOTO TODOROKI [ jaded by drake ]

Probably the calmest man you know outside the bedroom, but when you’re both in the mood? Your back will be hurting. He loves seeing your back arched; if he goes too deep and you ruin the arch, he’s pushing you right back down immediately.

“What did I say? Lower it back down.”

# IZUKU MIDORIYA [ can i by drake ]

A whole power bottom, he loves having you on top of him, guiding your hips while you ride him. When he's feeling a little adventurous, he likes to grab your throat, forcing your eyes to stay on his as he starts to fuck up into you. HE'S A WHINER. The closer he gets, the whinier he gets.

“Can I cum in you? Please let me cum in you. I wanna cum in you so bad, please. Fuck, I'm cumming."

# KATSUKI BAKUGOU [ altitude by monetell fish ]

As soon as the “Wanna have sex” comes out of your mouth, it’s over for you; it doesn’t matter if y’all are in the living room, bathroom, kitchen, or out in PUBLIC. Trust, he’s going to find a way to have your ass folded and panting. He likes folding you into a pretzel just as much as he likes having you on your hands and knees.

Wanna try and move his hands? They’re locked behind your back. Start squirming and crawling away? He’s got a solution for that ass.

“Stop fucking squirming and take it.”

# HITOSHI SHINSO [ first fuck by 6lack ft jhene aiko ]

Gentle touches and hard deep strokes.

He’s far more focused on having his hands explore your body while doing it, might accidentally brainwash you when he asks, “Is this okay?” or “Want me to go harder? I can’t understand you baby.” 

He loves positions where he can see your face as well.

# CLASS 1-B

# NEITO MONOMA [ sweat by zayn ]

This bitch cannot accept defeat; all that shit talking about lasting longer only to cum inside you after a couple of pumps, seeing your back glistening and your ass rippling each time his hips snapped against you was enough to send him over after five minutes. Don't worry though, he keeps going until you're finished, and then keeps going... and going just to get the 'last word' in his own way.

“What was that? All I hear are mumbles, tsk tsk, what a shame.”

# TETSUTETSU TETSUTETSU [ feel it by jacquees ]

Oh baby, he LOVES folding your ass as much as he loves your reactions to him going balls deep each time. Pulling your hair, shoving his fingers into your mouth when you got too loud, and pushing your back down into a deeper arch just to hit it deeper when he has you on your hands and knees.

'Overstimulation is key' is his mindset when he's fucking you.

“Yeah baby, keep cumming.”

i think y'all can tell who i listen to a lot and which characters are my favorite by writing this 💀..

I'M SORRY IF THE SONGS DON'T FIT THE CHARACTERS </3 THIS WAS ORIGINALLY GOING TO JUST BE ABOUT SERO BUT THEN I HAD AN IDEA

TEACHERS ARE NEXT!

[pygmi-says-hi]

writing tips pt. 2- angst

angst is all about the sad, heart wrenching stuff. usually, there’s quite a bit of internal narrative because its the best way to truly experience the pain. well, when writing a train of thought, write it like the thought appears. this might mean breaking the grammar rules. that’s ok! it might give grammarly hemorrhoids but whatever. a break in the system, so to speak, draws the reader’s attention. Shakespeare does this when he breaks the meter. the stutter in the pattern makes the audience go ‘hey, that’s important,’ and the context directs the new feeling. same thing!

Anxiety - typically spiralling, out of control thoughts. formatting might look like: a lack of commas, cut off sentences, repeated words, unpredictable sentences ->

“no no no no couldn’t be happening this isn’t real please no god don’t let it be them-”

anxious vocab (behavior description)

tremble

unsteady

stutter

cower

whimper

quake

fret

keen

Anger - similar to anxiety, racing thoughts that get angrier and angrier. builds up, add more expletives, italics, language gets more intense. Anger is be more verbal, so add some actual dialogue in the middle ->

how could they. unbelievable. one fucking job, and they screwed it up. it was all so perfect, so fucking precisely planned and they couldn’t get their head out of their motherfucking ass long enough to-

“DAWSON! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!”

tip - italics are a little better than caps lock. idk why but we’ve all equated italics to intense emotion. caps is kind of jarring and more like a shout. 'shout’ is different than 'bellow’. which sounds angrier? bellow, right? like in my previous fluff post, vocabulary and dialogue description is a biggie.

running out of angry vocab, try:

bellow - shout, but with more of a roar

seethe

stew

growl

rage

furious

venomous

bristle/bristled

spat

spew

hope this helps! xo