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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year

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Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please."

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.

You wince."...F-Fine?"

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.

"You look… wet."

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"

He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.

"Yeah?"

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.

"Huh. I guess they do."

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums.

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name."

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily.

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

edit: the full fic xx

#i am very very close to making this a full fic #(implying that this isn't alr basically a full fic lmfao)#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #kat_writes😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara headcanons #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 x reader

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python333 · 4 months

Text

glass half-full, or half-empty? — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're trapped in a coffin, then you're not, then you're questioning your whole life- basically, buried alive trope meets found family and meets age regression and they all have a super messed up baby that has the occasional good quality.

relationships caretaker! price, caretaker! gaz & little! reader (gender-neutral).

characters cap. price, gaz, others briefly mentioned.

word count 8.0k

warnings reader was buried alive, implied drugging, implied panic attack, sooo much disorientation in the first section it's crazy, british slang that only kind of makes sense, second person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of both c/n [code name/call sign] and y/n [your name], wayyyy too long.

note hey!! sorry for disappearing!!! please accept this offering as an apology!!! I've finally gotten back the motivation for writing what i actually wanna write, so now i'm back to writing fics!! enjoy this new and improved interpretation of age regression!

Someone’s ribs are encasing your own.

Well, not really, but it feels that way. Though your torso is clothed, as is the rest of your body, the defined bones of the skeleton beneath you poke and dig into your skin the same way it would if you were naked. The rotted wood around you creaks and sand falls onto your frontside from above, where the lid of your coffin is kept together solely by hopes and dreams.

Only an hour ago, you blacked out. Fighting enemy soldiers whose fighting techniques you aren’t familiar with is hard enough, especially when they happen to keep bleach and rubbing alcohol in the same place they’re fighting you in. The two mixed together, poured and soaked into a rag that was later pressed to your face, created a substance that knocked you out. You know the name of it. You know it. But you can’t think of it, because remembering is too hard, and the wood surrounding you is too suffocating.

Your limited air is becoming more and more apparent. There’s no light, no noise—well, unless you count the subtle static playing in your broken earpiece—basically, it’s sensory deprivation hell and you’ve committed one too many sins according to those enemy soldiers.

Your whole body is sore. You don’t know if those soldiers messed with you after you passed out, or if this is just the result of fighting them for a few consecutive minutes, but whatever happened caused a strange weakness to invade and overtake your body. The oligarchy in your body created by this soreness left you unable to move properly, save for the occasional twitch of your skin or the ability to move your fingers freely.

But fingers are useless when your wrists are bound. Maybe they aren’t physically bound to the floor of the coffin, but the invisible ropes made of the misuse of cleaning materials seemed to be enough to keep them down. It was irritating, and the mental ropeburn created pins and needles from your wrist to your elbow that only made you even more uncomfortable.

The static continues. It’s cold. Cold, quiet, and God, how did I even get here? What time is it? What day is it? Your uniform isn’t enough to keep you warm. The tactical gear only makes your body heavier, not in the comfortable way that it feels when you’re heavy with sleep and ready to rest, but in the out-of-body way that makes you feel both like you’re floating and being pulled down like an anchor at the same time. You recall vaguely algor mortis, the stage of death where your body begins a gradual decline into an inhumanly cold state.

Why you’re recalling it, you don’t— actually, no, you do know. The cold. That’s why. You’re cold. You’re cold. Don’t forget it. It seems hard to forget feelings, to forget the present, but you’ll find that it’s like breathing; inhale, you know that you’re cold, exhale, wait… you’re cold? How do you know? How can you feel? Inhale, you can feel things because you’re human, because you’re alive, exhale, you’re alive?

Are you alive? Have you made it this far? What have you done? Not much, honestly. Or, not much that you can remember. Though there’s an overwhelming amount of hopelessness clouding your mind, you can still make out a few moments that play like a shitty wedding slideshow at your distant relative’s wedding who you didn’t know existed until a few hours before the event. The time that you told Ghost a joke that made him laugh. That other time that you told Ghost a joke that made him laugh. Or, no, wait, was that Price?

That time that you chased after Soap while he had your unlocked phone, which, by the way, was a very normal response to that and was very valid. Yes, it was necessary for you to tackle him, even Gaz agreed with you on that. Ghost just enjoyed seeing Soap get tackled, for some very dark very strange reason that you would rather not think about too hard—assuming that you can even think any harder than a brick right now. Price, of course, disapprovingly shook his head and seemed to mentally weigh what the effect of a leash on the three of you would grant.

Static-static-static-stat— “H—o?”

You almost sit up, but your head bumps on the top of the coffin, and you groan. Oops. Thought a little bit too much there.

You’re immediately dizzy and it feels like all the blood has rushed out of your head, but you still manage to stay conscious and try to figure out how to respond to whoever’s talking.

“H—lo?” They ask again. You tilt your head ever-so-slightly so that the button on your earpiece can get pressed, and you almost start crying when you hear the small click and beep emit from the earpiece, signaling that it’s now on.

“Hello?” Your voice is hoarse and it hurts to talk but you couldn’t care less. You have an opportunity to get out. You’re desperate to get out—or, at least, you should be.

For the strangest reason, despite the claustrophobic environment you’ve been forced into, despite the sores that you know are forming along your stiffened spine from the rough wood you’re lying on, you feel comfortable in the most uncomfortable way. The fact that your memory is fuzzy and your movements are limited to twitching and stretching makes you uneasy, but at the same time, the absence of your typical nonstop stream of incomprehensible thoughts and feelings strangely lets you… relax. The lack of thinking, only lying down and staring up, puts you in a mindset that you don’t think is so bad.

The situation is awful, but for whatever reason, the results of it are— are… oh God, what’s the word? It’s on the tip of your tongue, you swear, and now you’re thinking, well, shit, maybe this isn’t the best mindset. The void that grows in your head was nice maybe a minute ago, but now you’re forgetting words and yeah, no, I don’t like this, but at least you aren’t constantly second-guessing yourself. You aren’t contradicting every other thought you have, there aren’t mental wars waging in your mind that keep you unfocused and almost lightheaded, you aren’t arguing with yourself on how you truly feel. You just feel. And hell, you fuckin’ forget what you were even feeling just a few seconds ago. Thoughts come and go, nothing more than fleeting, and a part of you wishes that there was something for them to latch onto because being absent-minded feels a little too empty but your usual mind feels too full.

You wish your mind was like that— that problem, with the glass, the… the glass… the one where everyone argues on something about it. Something about it. What do they argue about? What glass? There’s a glass, a drinking glass, that everyone argues about, and whatever side you’re on dictates how you think— what the fuck? What is that problem? God, if only you had a working phone right now to look it up.

Oh, shit, yeah, the earpiece. There’s someone talking. Only just now have you actually acknowledged their words. They sound muffled and far-away, not at all like there’s a small microphone shoved into your ear that plays directly into it.

“Private?” It’s crackly and still full of static, the sound is drowning in it, “Pr— a— —u there?”

“... Huh?” You question dumbly, sounding more confused than you ever have before. There’s a ringing building up in your ears, and the person on the other end—who is talking?―is talking again.

“Ar— —ou ther—?” They ask again, sounding… worried? Concerned? Wait, shit, those are the same thing. Damn you and your lack of a mental thesaurus. Wait, no, if you… if you use the same meaning in two different words… would that not— whatever. You don’t even care anymore. This ‘mindset’ doesn’t feel very nice anymore. You’ve been conscious for too long, you’ve started questioning yourself again, but in the worst way possible; usually, you can actually think properly when you question yourself. Now, you’re questioning your own knowledge without actually thinking about your questions first, so instead of the usual hellish loop of what does this mean? Why did I say this? What else could I have said?, you’re now stuck in the purgatory of, what was that word? What can I say? What did I just think? What? Huh?

“Yeah… genius…” You manage to scoff, despite the heaviness of your tongue and the cotton in your mouth and mind, “Where else… would I be?”

“Oh m— God,” The person on the other end breathes out, “Do y— kno— who you’re t—king to?”

You shrug—well, you move your shoulders the tiniest bit up and back down—even though they can’t see you.

“Priva—?” They ask again, like a broken record, making you groan without you even realizing it, “G—z. Sergea—t Ga—ck? Y’remember?”

“G’z,” You mutter, trying to sound out the syllables, “Giz… G— oh, shoot… Gaz? Sarge?”

“Yeah,” Gaz laughs, a little clearer now, “Sarge, sure. Y— doin— —kay?”

“Uh-huh,” You exhale, a little relieved that it’s just Gaz, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Gaz sounds like he’s smiling, it’s audible in his voice, “Y’wanna t—l me where y—u ar—?”

“Uhh…” You look around the coffin with limited head movements, “I dunno, probably… probably a, uh… one a’ those grave things. Coff— coffin. In one of those. In a grave thing. Maybe. Wha’ are those called? The things?”

You sound dazed even to yourself, and mentally chastise yourself for the usage of grave things, even though you had no better words to describe it. You swear, you know the word. It starts with an “s”, you think, there’s a whole movie with it in the title by some guy named Steve-something. It has graves, coffins, the other thing that’s a coffin but not, graves, dead stuff, all that… hm. All that swing? All that… all that jazz, right, all that jazz. Wow, go ahead and clap yourself on the back for that one— oh, that’s right, you can’t, because you’re stuck in a fucking coffin.

What a day.

“You’re in a cof—n?” Gaz asks, shocked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Underg—nd?”

“Where else?” You deadpan, even though, for whatever reason, your instincts scream at you to be a little bit nicer. For that reason only, you tack on, “Respec— …respectfully.”

“Jesus,” Gaz lets out a shaky breath, his voice growing a little more faint, as are you, “Wh—e do y— rem—ber being last?”

“I don’t…” You mumble, eyelids growing heavy, threatening to droop down and meet the waterline of your eyes.

“Don’t… what?” Gaz asks, sounding almost… scared?

“Rember— rem’m… remember,” You reply, “Woof. That was… a toughie.”

“Oh my God, th—’re lo—ng it,” Gaz whispers to himself, or maybe to someone else, “Private. Do y— know at all w— you m—ght be?”

“Uhh…”

“D—” This time, you know this is Gaz cutting himself off, because he gasps right after he begins talking and starts a whole new statement, “Is your tr—ker on?”

“My wha’?”

“Tracker, the— the th—ng, it’s a—ched to y—r earp—ce,” Jesus, how much can this thing cut out?

“I don’t… what the— what are you tryna say to me?” You ask, for some reason… censoring yourself? What? Why… huh? You don’t censor yourself, you’re not five. Well, at least, you don’t think you are, not right now. Wait, when are you five? What are you saying? Or, thinking— what are you thinking?

“The— Captain,” Gaz calls out to someone else, “The t—!”

“Tra’ker,” You mumble to yourself, “Huh. I have one a’those?”

“[c/n],” Gaz says into his earpiece, the sound suddenly louder than before, making you jump and almost hit your head on the ceiling of the coffin, “Are you h—rt?”

“I don’ think so,” You respond, looking down at the shadows casted over your body, “Can’t tell.”

Gaz lets out some kind of pained noise and you feel your eyelids growing heavier. Your lungs hurt. Your lungs hurt? Oh, shoot, your lungs hurt. Gaz should probably know that.

“Actu’ly,” You take back, sounding almost intoxicated, feeling like you’re breathing through a straw, “My chest hurts.”

Close enough.

“Your chest?” Gaz questions, the static slowly but surely clearing up, “Your lu—gs?”

“Uh-huh,” You confirm. Your breathing was already a little shallow, but now its turning labored, and it feels like there’s rocks in your lungs, more and more appearing from God knows where, weighing down and taking up so much space in your lungs that the oxygen you breathe in must search for refuge within the cracks and crevices in between the stones.

Exhale, and the carbon dioxide that leaves you seems to find a way to invite more rocks into your lungs. Inhale, and there’s less and less room, exhale, there should be more room, but instead the room— inhale, there’s no room, try to inhale again, you can’t— inhale, breathe, breathe, gasp, hold your breath, don’t exhale-don’t exhaledon’texhale—

“[c/n]!” Gaz shouting your name startles you and forces you to exhale, a low whine coming out with it, making Gaz shut up. There’s a warm liquid dripping in trails down your cheeks, reaching your jaw and chin, the feeling of it sending waves of discomfort through your body and straight to your brain.

You desperately try to breathe in, try to inhale anything, even if it’s the sand falling from the ceiling or the carbon dioxide that you’ve tried so hard to keep inside.

“[c/n],” Gaz repeats your name, in a different tone this time, something more soft, something that resonates and echoes in your empty yet full mind, “We’re close, we— almo—t there, you s—l with me?”

You continue to struggle with your breathing. Exhale, exhale, inh— exhale, inhale, ex— ex— exhale, in— in— Jesus fucking Christ, just inha— in— in—

“I can hear you,” Gaz says, uncannily clear, he must be at least… at least something klicks within the radius of… of me… of me? Where am I? “You’re gonna be okay, okay? You’re gonna be fine. I need you to stop panicking, okay? I know that— th—t sounds easy to me, because I’m not in a coffin, but if you keep breathing like that, you’re gonna make it worse for yourself.”

You finally inhale, but it feels so wrong, like hearing crunches while chewing what should be soft food. You gasp. You’re choking? What’s that other word for choking? Starts with a “c”, right? Wait, no, that’s choking. Dang it.

Gaz is yelling in your ears, and it almost sounds like he’s actually there, but the wooden walls encasing you and this stupid, very smelly skeleton underneath you tell a different story. You cough. You cough again. And again. And now you’re just forcing the bad air out of your lungs, which is great and all, but now there’s no air in your lungs, which you would like to argue is far worse but you can’t argue because you can’t think and you can’t think because you’re in some coffin with a stupid— what did you even want to argue, again?

There’s yelling. There’s commanding. There’s footsteps, heavy ones, ones that come from combat boots and men in tactical gear, the same gear that weighs you down like an anchor, that keeps you glued to this skeleton, who’s ribs encase your own.

Or, at least, it feels like they are. Even though you’re wearing tactical gear, it still feels the same way it would if you were naked. The annoyingly present bones of the skeleton dig and poke into your skin, and there’s sand falling from between the planks of rotten wood above you, where the ceiling of the coffin is held together solely by hopes and dreams.

An hour or two or three ago, you blacked out. You think you did, at least. You think you might black out again. Fighting enemy soldiers who fight with techniques you aren’t familiar with is hard enough, but fighting the invisible forces that prevent you from breathing in good air is even harder, because they don’t fight with guns or knives or fists; they fight with rocks that they shove into your lungs and vines that they tie around your already-tight throat.

There’s no light, but there’s sound. Sounds that would be useful if you could think. You don’t remember thinking. You don’t remember remembering.

But you’ll always remember this skeleton beneath you, who’s ribs encase your own.

Or, at least, it feels like they are. The tactical gear you’re wearing does you no good, serving as the only barrier—the most useless barrier ever—between you and this skeleton and this coffin and the sand that's begun pooling around you. The skeleton, who’s ribs are— why are you repeating yourself?

Gaz is yelling in your ear. Someone else is— someone else is there? Someone else is there. Talking, yelling, screaming, commanding, running, searching, above you— above you? Above you. While you exhale, gasp, exhale, choke, gasp, gasp, try to breath, fail, exhale, exhale, there’s men above you digging, digging and lifting weight off of you, you think. There’s more sand coming through. The loss of pressure must be making it looser.

Are you thinking? Are you feeling? Can you remember? What is there to remember? There’s an incomprehensible jumble of thoughts in your mind, and you think, trying to control your thoughts, I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

It’s getting easier and harder to breathe. You can’t. You can… wait, no, you can’t.

You can keep your eyes open— you can keep them open, you can k—

“—eep your eyes open, Private,” Gaz begs you, pleads for you, his voice far but close, loud yet quiet, “C’mon, keep ‘em open, stay awak—”

—e, stay awake, stay awake, no, no, no, no—

—

You wake up to a stark white ceiling and some kind of electric beeping. Your head is clearer, fortunately, but still not clear enough to immediately remember what exactly happened. You remember a coffin, a skeleton, suffocating, talking to Gaz, and that’s about it. You shiver. A skeleton. You can still feel the phantom feeling of its ribs hugging your body, something you think your captors might’ve done to make you feel even more uncomfortable.

While you’re thinking about the skeleton, you don’t notice the sliding of a curtain and the footsteps that grow exponentially louder and closer to you.

“G’morning,” Gaz says, making you jump up and sit up instinctively, before you promptly lie right back down. Gaz snickers at you, and you turn your surprisingly sore neck to glare at him.

“Y—” You cough, furrowing your eyebrows as you bring an unstable and floppy hand to slap around your face, finding an oxygen mask nestled right on your nose and mouth. You take a few breaths, the task uncannily easy now, “You can knock that off. No laughing at the injured.”

“Oh, I’m not laughing at the injured,” Gaz clarifies, sitting down at a plastic chair he’s pulled up beside your bed, “I’m getting ready to yell at the injured soldier who gave me a heart attack about five hours ago after suffocating in a coffin buried six feet under in some cemetery in Derbyshire.”

“Derbyshire…” You muse, “What’s that? Or, where’s that?”

“‘bout forty klicks from Sheffield,” Gaz hums, before seeing your blank stare, and sighing tiredly, “The one with the cute houses and the pudding.”

“Ohhh,” You nod, now understanding, before joking, “At least I got buried there instead of, like, the bluejay one.”

“The bluejay one?” Gaz asks, confused, before pausing and asking you incredulously, “Jaywick?”

“Yeah, that one,” You hum. Gaz blinks at you, before groaning.

“Is this how you felt when I thought Las Vegas was in California?”

“Probably,” You grin at him, “It might be closer to when you thought NYC was the capital of New York.”

“If it’s not the capital, then why is it named after the city?” Gaz asks, exasperated. You shrug.

“Doesn’t change the fact that the capital’s Albany.” The room is silent for a little bit. The beeping, which you’ve now identified as a heart monitor, is loud. Your heart’s beating is fast and feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest. Gaz looks down at his chest, fidgeting with his hands, wringing them.

“I, uh,” You start, making Gaz look at you again, “When I was in the coffin…” The mere mention of it makes Gaz’s gaze sharpen and his hands still.

“It was hard to breathe, and also really hard to think,” Gaz nods along, “But I was still thinking, I guess, and I wasn’t thinking too hard. Like, jellyfish type shit, y’know? Like no thoughts, but also thoughts, but like…”

Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, and you try to explain it better, “Do you remember back in like, ele— when you were five or six and you like, just got a conscious and you’re thinking but also not?”

Gaz’s face relaxes and he nods wordlessly. You continue, “That’s how I felt.”

“I’m sorry,” Gaz frowns, putting a gentle hand on the metal bar on the bed you lie on, “That must’ve been… weird.”

“No, no, I liked it,” Gaz’s face goes right back to confusion, “It was nice. Which is weird. But I didn’t feel weird. I felt, like, really calm in that sense, for the few minutes that I wasn’t panicking.”

“You… liked it?” Gaz asks skeptically. You nod.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“It was just…” You try to find the words to describe it, “I don’t know. I didn’t have control over it, which really bothered me. I felt, like, small, for some reason— like my mind is shrinking but my body is still the same, y’know? So it was really…”

After a few moments of you trying to find the word you needed, Gaz offers, “Disproportionate?”

“Yeah, that,” You nod quickly, “It was disproportionate and sucked, and it was obviously really scary, but I wasn’t processing stuff like I usually do. Which was great.”

“That sounds…” Gaz wrinkles up his nose, “... awful, but okay.”

“I think a lot,” When Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, you weakly slap at his knee and continue, “And earlier, when I was in that coffin, I wasn’t thinking. Everything was just going in and out just like that. It would’ve been nice to keep some of those thoughts, yeah, but when I can properly think like I am now, I keep too many thoughts and it’s like— it clutters up, and it just lingers for way too long.”

A small flash of understanding crosses Gaz’s expression. “So, you liked not thinking too much, because you already overthink too much, and being in the coffin and high on something happened to both help and not help with that?”

“Yeah, basically,” You hum, before realizing, “That’s way simpler than what I said. Huh.”

“That’s that overthinking,” Gaz muses, to which you respond with a frown.

“I’m not saying I wanna be all claustrophobic like that again,” You clarify, because you still see doubt on Gaz’s face, “But I liked thinking like that. The non-thinking-thinking. I think it would help with my stress and stuff.”

Another flash of understanding crosses Gaz’s expression, except this time, there’s a hint of something else in there. Realization? Curiosity? You’re none the wiser to it, getting a little more confused yourself.

“Oh.” Gaz’s slight frown disappears, the upturning of the corners of his lips now visible, “Okay. I get that. I actually think I know what’s happening.”

“You do?” You ask, confused.

“I gotta confirm it with the captain, though,” You’re more confused. It’s visible, you guess, because Gaz laughs at your expression.

“Don’t worry, it’s not bad,” He clarifies, still grinning, “I just have some suspicions. Y’mind if I let Price know what y’said?”

“... Sure?” You hesitantly say, to which Gaz responds by standing up and starting to speed-walk away from your bed, making you snort.

“I’ll be back in a bit!” Gaz calls out over his shoulder. You sigh and turn so that your whole back is on the mattress of the bed.

You were being honest, but at the cost of Gaz apparently “knowing what’s happening”, which is… disturbing, coming from Gaz, who you’ve affectionately titled a “D1 bird-brain”.

But whatever. It’s true, anyway, how you felt. It was uncomfortable, but it was somehow so much better than how you usually are. Or, well, not so much better, but at times when you’re overthinking or overwhelmed, you wish you could just turn off your brain, or something. Okay, maybe not turn it off, but turn off certain parts. You like thinking, and you do it all the time, but doing it all the time for you is like a full-time job on top of your already full-time job of being a part of the 141.

You don’t even make sense to yourself, but that’s okay. You make sense to Gaz, apparently, and possibly Price as well.

Speaking of—

“Hey,” Price greets you, his usual quokka-smile gracing his lips, Gaz following in right after him with the most smug look you’ve ever seen. What a bastard.

“What did you do?” You immediately ask Gaz, who only shakes his head and looks away, amused, making you a little annoyed. Price seems to know what you’re talking about as well, judging by the way his smile grows a tiny bit. I hate inside jokes. Only I’m allowed to have those with people.

“He told me what you told him,” Price hums, before sitting down into the chair previously occupied by Gaz, “And I have an idea you might like.”

“... Okay,” You look at him suspiciously.

“When I was still in the SAS—”

“Oh, so around the same time as the Trojan War?”

“Shut it, you.”

“Sure, Captain.”

Price sighs, exasperated, while Gaz snickers at his unamused look. Price, ever-so determined to explain this to you, proceeds, “Back when I was in the SAS, there was this other lieutenant who happened to be a good few years younger than me. Too young, in my opinion—”

“Look at yourself,” Gaz interrupts him.

“Bugger off,” Price sneers, “I’m tellin’ a story.”

Gaz puts his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “Keep your hair on, Captain, jus’ pointin’ out that you were younger than them when you first joined the army.”

You blink at the two. “I think that’s the first time that I’ve heard British slang that I can actually understand.”

Price takes a deep breath, “However, it wasn’t up to me to decide if or when they joined. So, I got to know them a little better, and found out that the stress they got after assignments was so bad that they had this coping mechanism that they had thought to be fairly strange. I asked them what it was, and because we’d known each other for ‘round a year now, and I was to be moved to a different unit, they told me that they didn’t really know the name of it exactly but what they did was they would sit down in their jammies, ones that reminded them of their childhood, watch some cartoons, all that and some more. And I asked them how that helped them, because back then, I was a dense little shit who couldn’t think for more than two seconds, and they said that it let them think the same way that they did when they were a kid.”

You blink at him. “So the idea is… ?”

“Maybe you two are related,” Gaz muses, “And the denseness is hereditary.”

Price groans, “Put a fuckin’ sock in it, Kyle.”

You gasp scandalously, before comically whispering, “First name after telling him to shut up? You’re just gonna let that slide, Gaz?”

“I’ll shove a sock up your—”

“My idea,” Price interrupts the two of you, preventing what could’ve been a fifteen-minute long spat, “is that you do that. You throw on your jammies—”

“Jammies,” You repeat incredulously.

“―you watch some cartoons, play with stuffies—”

“We have stuffies?” You interrupt Price again, who pauses this time.

“We should, yeah,” He nods, “There’s a bin of ‘em around here somewhere, for emergencies.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Emergencies?”

He looks at you pointedly, “Emergencies.”

You blink at him. Blink, bl— “Oh, fuck off, I don’t need stuffies. I don’t think any of this would help me. I’m not five.”

“Yeah, but you wanna be, don’t you?” Gaz questions you, voice a little less joking, though it still has a little humor in it— a safety blanket, basically, in case you take his words the wrong way.

You stay silent. Price speaks up, “Tell you what; we’ll come back tomorrow, just me ‘nd Gaz, and you can let us know what you think of the idea. If y’like it, I’ll get you whatever you need to help you out. If you still don’t like it, you don’t like it, and we’ll figure somethin’ else out, alright?”

You sigh, “Alright.”

Price smiles at you and gets up to clap you on the shoulder, “Get some rest, soldier, up the wooden hill and off to Bedfordshire with you.”

“What the hell?” You immediately question, looking at Price like he’s gone mad, “Up the—”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s bad British representation,” Gaz hurriedly says, getting up and pushing Price lightly out of the room, talking to him in a theatrical whisper-yell, “You’re introducing them to sayings they’re not yet prepared for! Nobody says that to anyone above the age of twelve, Captain!”

Price simply laughs and lets Gaz push him away from your bed, not bothering to push aside the curtains obscuring the view of you as he pushes him out of the medbay entirely.

You blink at the swaying curtains.

“English people,” You mumble to yourself, turning over onto your side, “God damn English people. I’m never grouping Soap in with them ever again.”

—

True to his word, Price walks in with Gaz the next morning.

Price sits down next to you.

“G’morning,” He greets you softly, chuckling at the disgruntled look on your face, “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Woke up and thought I was six feet under for a second,” You mutter, making the smile on Price’s face falter.

“Sorry,” Price apologizes, reaching out a slow hand—so that you can move at any second—to grasp your own hand and squeeze it gently, “Y’good now?”

“Mhm,” You hum, nodding, your gaze shifting to Gaz, who looks as disgruntled as yourself. You snort and ask him, “Are you good?”

“Someone,” Gaz snarks, glaring daggers at Price, “Woke me up two hours before my alarm so that he could force me to search for supplies with him.”

“I wonder who that could’ve been,” Price hums, ignoring the way Gaz shakes his head disapprovingly, “Anywho, have you given any thought to the idea?”

“The idea?” You question, before quickly realizing, “Oh, right, yeah, the idea.”

Price looks at you both expectantly and patiently, while Gaz forces himself to pull his glare away from Price and put his gaze on you, observing your expressions and response.

“Uhh…” You look at Price with hesitation, and he looks back at you without a trace of pressure in his eyes, making you sigh, “I’ll try it, but no guarantees that it’s gonna work.”

“Thank fuck,” Gaz groans, “My hard work hasn’t gone to was— ow!”

Gaz takes hurried steps back after Price stomped down hard on his foot, and the latter simply smiles at you at your response.

“Great,” He gets up, dusting off his army-green shirt and pushing his chair back, “D’you reckon you’re good to get out of bed now?”

“Probably,” You shrug, testing the waters by pushing yourself up into a sitting position. You wince at your still-sore back and your stiff legs, but otherwise feel okay, okay enough to feel confident in your ability to actually stand—though, you suspect you may need to grab onto something for extra support.

Oh well. You’re sick of this bed already, and if you can stand, you’re gonna stand.

Price sees this, however, and is quick to hold his arm out for you to grab onto as you swing your legs over the bed railing and hop off the mattress way too fast, making yourself dizzy in the process. You feel his concerned eyes burning holes into the top of your head as you try and succeed in regaining your footing, keeping a firm grip on his forearm in the process. Thank God for Captain Price and his too-muscly arms.

“You alright?” Price asks, to which you respond with an affirmative nod.

“Fine,” You hum, taking a deep breath before tentatively letting go of Price’s arm. He frowns, but doesn’t protest. Gaz looks at him questioningly, and Price shakes his head, nonverbally communicating to the sergeant that it’s nothing to get worried over.

Gaz decides to lead all of you out of the medbay, with you following after him and Price right behind you. You occasionally lose your footing, slipping on nothing, but you never fall, and even if you were about you, Price would catch you. You know he would. He’s been watching you like a hawk, hands twitching every time your footing is lost. But instead of begging for you to just take his arm, for fuck’s sake, he walks up so that he’s right next to you and starts talking.

“So…” He starts, making you look over at him, “Y’want me to go over the plan?”

“The plan?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, “Sure.”

“You get changed into your pajamas, we get on the bed, cuddle a lil’, you get a stuffie, we see what happens and then see what to do from there,” Price explains simply, “Any problems with that?”

“No, sounds good,” You hum. It sounds fucking fantastic, you think, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Good,” Price smiles down at you, before saying, “You remind me of them.” You tilt your head to the side a bit, “The lieutenant?”

Price nods, “Yeah. Really sweet person. Had a whole collection of stuffies and blankets.”

You smile, “Sounds nice. They just keep all those in their quarters?”

“Yeah.” You both fall into silence again, comfortable silence, and soon enough, the three of you reach your sleeping quarters.

You all walk in. Well, except for Gaz, who is stopped by Price at the door. You turn around to question them, but Price stops you before you can even open your mouth.

“You just go get dressed,” He says, nodding over to the drawers in the corner of your room, “We’ll be outside. Just knock when you’re done.”

Skeptically, you look between the two, before you nod and close the door, leaving you inside your room alone. You try not to give too much thought to it, trying yet failing to ignore every thought that crosses your mind, busying yourself by choosing pajamas.

Soon enough, you’re dressed in your favorite pajamas—fluffy pants and a loose t-shirt, as well as just-as-fluffy slippers to replace your boots—and knocking at the door to signal to Price that you’re done. He opens the door, and Gaz is nowhere in sight, but you choose not to ask about it. Instead, you step to the side so that Price can walk in and sit on your bed, closing the door behind him.

On the bed already is a fluffy blanket—it must’ve been set up earlier, considering that Gaz was apparently woken up at around four in the morning to get everything ready.

You sit down on the bed next to your Captain, your fluffy pajama pants and loose t-shirt already making you feel relaxed, as well as your fuzzy slippers. You don’t really wear this outside of going to sleep, but after wearing a medical gown for the past twenty-four hours, you’re more than happy to make one small change in your routine. Price smiles down at you, one arm hovering around your back questioningly, before you nod and let him fully wrap it around you and pull you into his side. You’re already pretty tired, despite the fact that you got a full night’s worth of sleep, so the pajamas are honestly pretty fitting.

You sigh, turning your head slightly so that your cheek is pressed to his chest. Gaz walks in just seconds later, your gaze immediately moving to him as he sits down on the bed right next to you, sandwiching you in between him and Price. In any other situation, this would make you feel claustrophobic, but it feels oddly… comfortable right now. You notice the stuffed animal in Gaz’s hands—a small, round, fluffy cow with a black and white coloring pattern—and look at him questioningly.

“That s’posed t’be for me?” You ask, strangely drawn to the small stuffie. Gaz seems to see your fascination with the stuffed animal and smiles softly at you, a weird sight, considering that the two of you are having kerfuffles every three seconds at the very least.

“Uh-huh,” Gaz nods, offering it to you, smiling even wider when you gingerly grab it, “Y’like it?”

“It’s cute,” You mumble, looking it over in your hands, rubbing your thumb against its soft fur and black beady eyes. You know what you want to do with it. You want to hug it close to your chest, like you used to oh-so many years ago, back before you had to force yourself to stop sleeping with stuffed animals out of fear that you would need them in order to sleep forever. It only partially worked; you never slept with another stuffie again, but instead found yourself waking up with a bunched up part of your blanket or your pillow in your arms, pulling tight to your chest.

You really wanna hug it. You missed stuffed animals. You miss stuffed animals, present tense. You miss their soft fur and the baby pink of their ears, the polyester trapped safely inside the confines of the felt and fluff, the sweetness and child-like wonder that you lost with them.

Both Price and Gaz sense the conflict in your mind.

“Hey,” Price softly rubs your arm with his thumb, with gentle circles and too many yet just enough callouses, “You’re thinking a lil’ bit too much there. You wanna hug the stuffie, go ahead and hug it.”

It’s easy, you think, so easy to just… think, but let go of my thoughts when I have him to ground me.

You hug the stuffed animal, pulling it close to your chest and wrapping your arms around it, your limbs too long for what you’re trying to do but doubt and stress in your mind slowly growing small enough to compensate for the lack of a smaller body. It’s frustrating, yes, but Price’s arm around your body and Gaz’s hand that cautiously rests on your shoulder makes your body feel the tiniest bit smaller, and it makes your mind the tiniest bit cloudier.

“There y’go,” Gaz coos, his voice a type of soft you didn’t even know was possible from him. Price only chuckles, and you should feel annoyed because they sound like they’re teasing you, like they’re a part of an inside joke that you’re not, but they’re not. They’re here right now, Price’s arm is around you and Gaz’s hand is on your shoulder and they’re speaking so softly and— and you’re letting your thoughts go.

They’re coming and going, some staying longer than others, but they never pile up, never clutter up like a messy desk or a disorganized folder. They’re neat and held up by mental thumbtacks, pinned to the corkboard of your cerebral cortex, sometimes melting into the beige board and other times staying, but never getting to the point where the thoughts are stacking on top of each other or where there’s no more room for anymore thumbtacks.

It’s something you never thought you’d be able to experience, but here you are, experiencing it, breathing it in like oxygen. Like an open field, bright and clear, with your Captain’s or your Sergeant’s arms—wrapped in blood and flesh, not stripped down to the bone, not poking and prodding at you—around you and keeping you grounded. Your very own anchorage; the perfectly crafted bumps and dips in their arms that fit around you like puzzle pieces when they pull you towards either one of them, as if your Creator knew that you would find refuge in them, as if They knew that you would know how perfect it is.

Because it is. It’s perfect, in the way that a salmon knowing its birthplace despite swimming so many miles away is. In the way that homeostasis works; your body finding equilibrium, that perfect balance between your internal systems and outside forces. In the way that the stuffed cow in your arms seems to seep through your chest and go straight to your heart and soul.

You don’t realize that you’ve zoned out until Price lightly shakes you.

“Y’alright, darling?” He asks, concerned, his gruff voice more gravelly than usual. You blink and look over at him, and you’re sweet again. Sweet and loved, and loving to love. Or, at least, you think you’re loved. You might be a tad bit delusional, but there’s something in Price’s eyes, some kind of light that reflects pink and green hues, some kind of nurturing-feeling that doesn’t go away when he blinks.

“Uh-huh,” You nod, the way your head moves up and down almost like a bobblehead figure, “All… sunshine ‘nd rainbows over here.”

Price breathes out a small laugh and Gaz raises an eyebrow at you.

“Yeah? All sunshine and rainbows?” Gaz teases you, “Are you sure there’s anythin’ happenin’ up in your noggin?”

You pout and lightly swing your leg at him to kick his calf, and although you’re only wearing slippers and are kicking about as hard as a pillow, Gaz makes a show of pretending to get seriously injured by it. He gasps dramatically and brings his knee up to his chest, hugging his calf to his torso and rubbing at the spot you kicked. He pouts right back at you, immature and theatrical, and you giggle—fucking giggle—at his antics. Gaz can’t help but let up the act, grinning as soon as your laugh sounds out, the noise music to his ears.

“You havin’ a laugh while I’ve gotten hurt?” He antagonizes you, voice light and fluffy, “Brat.”

“Noo,” You deny, voice growing just slightly higher-pitched, your movements a little less controlled by yourself, “I’m never a brat.”

“You sure?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, letting his leg down, “I think you’re lying, duckie.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I cannot believe you’re both still annoying, even when they’re bein’ little,” Price sighs exasperatedly, making both you and Gaz laugh, your laughter more bubbly and light while his is knowing and proud.

“Lil’ kids aren’t an exception to my teasing, Captain,” Gaz snickers, reaching over to ruffle your hair while you squeal quietly and lean back into Price to hide away from your attacker’s hand. Price snorts and pulls you a little closer to him.

“All little ones, or just this one?” Price nods down at you. Gaz hums, thinking.

“Ah, just this one,” Gaz grins, making Price sigh. The latter brings his other arm around and turns so that he can pull you to him with both arms, while Gaz suddenly frowns.

“You’re hoarding them,” Gaz whines, while Price only raises an eyebrow at him. You feel oddly joyful at the thought of Gaz also wanting a share of your attention, or at least some of your physical affection.

“Shoulda gotten here faster than me, mate,” Price simply hums. He sounds so smug, voice full of smarm and expression knowing, because he’s more than aware of the fact that Gaz quite literally could not possibly get here faster than Price had.

“You made me get the supplies!” Gaz argues, though softer than he usually does, being more mindful of your newfound mindset, you assume.

“Ehh, you could’ve refused it.” Price says, blatantly lying as he does, watching in amusement as Gaz gapes at him.

“What?”

You like the attention, but what you like even more is the conversation Price and Gaz start up afterwards. They don’t take their attention off of you, no, not one bit, but they aren’t talking directly towards you, you’re just existing and it’s amazing.

Price begins asking Gaz about something, probably his reports, and Gaz responds positively, you presume. Price is talking calmly and slowly and Gaz is nodding along, his hand making its way to your own, his fingers interlocking with yours and squeezing your hand every now and then. Your pajamas feel awfully comfortable now. What did Price call them yesterday? Jammies? Usually, you’re an avid hater of English slang, but you can’t help but feel a little warmer just thinking about the word jammies.

You can feel your eyes going half-lidded, and you can hear someone chuckling. Probably Gaz. He likes laughing at you, but it’s never in a mean way. Maybe that’s why you feel so comfortable with the laughter. It reminds you of an older sibling, someone who’s basically programmed to tease and make fun of you, but still likes you. Or, at least, is expected to still like you. You enjoy the idea of a chosen older sibling more than a biological one, funnily enough, because the expectation of liking someone is so different from actually developing a liking to someone. With the expectation, there’s almost no choice; there’s still a chance of them not liking you, but it’s expected of them to like you, so they’re gonna try anyway, and it makes it feel less authentic, less real—but with choosing, they choose you to have that bond with them, they choose to treat you the way they do, not because it’s expected of them from birth, but because they see something in you that draws them to you.

Gaz is that person. That older brother that chose you to tease, to play fight with, to argue with, to laugh with, to hold hands with—he chose you. And because of that, his laughter is acceptable, and his teasing is never taken to heart.

Your eyelids get a little heavier, and someone’s gently tilting your head so that it’s resting more comfortably against their chest. Probably Price. He likes physical touch, unsurprisingly, and shows it as much as you allow him to. He particularly likes to loosely wrap a hand around one of your wrists with his thumb resting over your veins, gently pressing inward to feel the beating of your heart. Why he does it, you don’t know. Maybe he likes the reassurance of your living. Maybe he likes how it grounds him, how it reminds him that you’re a tangible being with a beating heart and a working mind. how it might let him know that you’re real and here with him.

Or maybe it’s something deeper, maybe it goes back to that other lieutenant, maybe it goes back even further to when he was sixteen and had just joined the British military. Whatever it is, you accept it wholeheartedly, because when he does it, it reminds you as well that he’s alive and searching for proof of you being alive as well. Because you believe that living people will always search for other living beings, or at least you know that you always will, because the feeling of brittle bones and the sight of dead bodies haunts you in ways that you never thought possible.

Your eyelids droop down completely.

“I feel like I should say good night, but it’s barely no—” You think that’s Gaz.

“Shut it and let them sleep, for Christ’s sake.” That’s probably Price.

“I’m just saying—” Definitely Gaz.

“I’ll staple your mouth shut so y’stop sayin’ anything, how about that, y’muppet?” Definitely Price.

#cod #cod hcs #hcs #task force 141 #tf141 #kyle gaz garrick #captain john price #john price #price #gaz #platonic task force 141 #i love them guys #age regression YIPPEE #no beta we die like soap #sorry #python333 #i'm done with tags bro #too tired for this #too tired for tags

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hazelnut-u-out · 1 year

Text

I know I'm historically king of Morty's perspective, but I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and the ending of 'Rick Potion No. 9' (a sequence that always affects me deeply) combines two unique perspectives.

(TW for gore)

The first is, of course, Morty's experience. The effect of burying his own dead body and abandoning his original family is very present.

It always gives me chills when he walks through the home, observing his 'new' family. A lot of moments in the show can be called a 'turning point' in terms of tone, but this moment in particular seems like a true turning point in terms of who Morty is becoming-- especially when we get Rick's backstory.

On the other hand, I've also challenged myself to take in Rick's perspective, separate from how this choice impacts Morty.

Not too far after this incident-- and still at the beginning of everything--Rick is not only willing to sacrifice himself, but he makes the decision to do so. In 'A Rickle in Time', it wasn't even a question for Rick as to who was going to leave that situation alive. He gave Morty that collar to save his grandson-- ready to die for the bloodline of the person who robbed him of everything.

I keep thinking about this moment:

In the past, Rick's apathetic expression and body language have made me nauseous on Morty's behalf. Honestly, they still do. Just look…

Imagine being a 14-year-old boy and staring down at your own dead body. Cradling him in your arms. Realizing, deep down, that even though he was you... he isn't you. His parents’ baby is dead. You're alive. You've as good as killed him-- actively replaced him-- and sentenced your whole family to death. Over your shoulder, your drunk grandfather looks on, no visible emotion but irritation that you're not working fast enough. He's your only friend. He shoves you. Something doesn’t feel right. Your hands hurt. Your arms ache. The clothes you're wearing aren't yours. As you drag that limp little boy into the grave you dug for him, he stares up at you just as emotionless.

Then, imagine being an elderly man jaded by witnessing the death of your daughter, and your only real companion is a 14-year-old you basically just met. Imagine looking down at an exact replica of what would happen if you failed again-- broken, bloody, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, lifeless glassy eyes burning a hole through you. Imagine punishing yourself by staring, not letting yourself show you care. You're doing the kid a favor, so you swallow a strange sickening feeling he's going to turn out just like you.

I'm not always the best at humanizing Rick's experiences in s1, simply because of the way they were initially intended before later contextualization. Because of this, it's been difficult for me to reframe this episode in my mind, but I think I've finally gotten somewhere.

I don't know. With 'A Rickle in Time' considered, I can't help but feel a connection. I assume seeing Morty's corpse wasn't just traumatic for Morty, and we know Rick loves to retraumatize himself as punishment.

I just don't buy that this man is the same guy who didn't feel anything with all that going down:

Killing other Ricks? Probably nothing to him. Mortys? Kids?

Sure, bro.

These motherfuckers are all about that trauma bond.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #rick potion no. 9

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vikkirosko · 8 months

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Omgg requests are open?😻

So can I request Sal fisher x male reader who is barely at school because of how often he's sick? Like sal didn't meet him until like 3 weeks after he moved. M!reader is like pretty popular too, so when news come out about him coming back to school it spreads fast and a lot of people talk bout it?

For M!readers personality I'm thinking he can be rude but it's usually from how tired he is, but he also can be pretty flirty but if someone he genuinely likes flirts back he gets really flustered?

-🤡

Also how are you?, I haven't sent in an ask in a while

Well, my business is pretty good. I have successfully passed the exams this semester and now I am waiting for the beginning of the next semester, in which, it seems, I should have practice, but this is not for sure. I've finally watched all the seasons of Rick and Morty that have been released so far, and I'm slowly buying new paintings by numbers. In general, everything is pretty good. And how are you doing? I hope you're doing well

🎮 Sal Fisher x male!Reader headcanons Often sick 🎸

You met Sal a few months after he moved in. He didn't see you at school and assumed that you had just moved in, but that wasn't the case. As it turned out, you had been living in this house for several years, but because of your weak immune system, you were often ill and skipped school. You were still sick, so you couldn't communicate for a long time, and it was only at school, when you were supposed to return to class very soon, that Sal found out that you were popular

The news that you were supposed to return to school soon spread very quickly and became the topic of a lot of conversations. Then Larry told him that you were popular, even though you were often sick. When you showed up at school, you were glad to see Sal again. You communicated as friends and sometimes you were rude, but usually these days you were tired and when you went to school together you could complain that you went to bed late and that you didn't get enough sleep and felt tired

Pretty quickly, Sal became someone you talked to a lot. Flirting flickered quite often in your communication. You were quite flirtatious with him and Sal was embarrassed by it at first. You weren't bothered by his prosthetic, and at first Larry claimed that it was part of your character. However, when Sal, who started having feelings for you, started flirting back, he saw how worried you were. This surprised the others, and Sal was able to understand that you actually liked him

You still often missed classes due to illness, but now Sal often went to you to bring homework, notes, snacks or medicines. You could get sick very easily, so Sal often reminded you to dress warmly or not to forget to take an umbrella. He was genuinely worried about you and you were grateful to him for that, because thanks to his care, your illnesses began to pass easier

When moving into a new apartment, Sal did not think that he would meet a person who would sincerely love him for who he is. He hoped that there would be no disagreements between you. He would like you to be together even after graduation, he would like to boldly tell his father about your relationship. Sal would like you to be happy together

#Sally Face #Sally Face x Reader #Sally Face headcanons #Sal Fisher #Sal Fisher x Reader

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conanssummerchild · 13 days

Text

my own ranking of every rick and morty episode, inspired by the lovely @fandomwe1rd0 :3

sorry this is a bit scattered, the random quotes are just lines that i liked/found funny. i had to shorten all my reasonings by a fuck ton bcs i was just going on forever lmao, so if some things feel kinda cut off, that's why.

i binged all of rick and morty in like a week to make this, just to make sure the ranking was fully accurate to me and it took me way to long but i'm finally done !!

btw this isnt a ranking of which episodes are objectively the best, its very biased and just my personal opinions, im aware some epsiodes definitely shouldnt be as high as they are but a lot of them are just my comfort episodes 🤷

f tier: episodes i actively dislike, have little to no redeeming qualities.

71. rickdependance spray: audibly said "oh, fuck no." when i realised this was next. the rest of weird-ish episodes have some redeeming points but this one just has no plot relevance and isnt very funny.

70. raising gazorpazorp: main reason i dislike this episode is the end credit, it reminds me of when i was listening to family line and my dad insinuated conan was making it up and that if i got famous i'd do the same, like, no, if i talk abt what a shitty dad you are its bcs you were a shitty dad, do better. anyway i just thought it was an unfunny joke. due to daddy issues. also its just a boring episode.

69. a rickconvenient mort: summer and rick's storyline was ok but not enough to make up for how much i hate planetina. i liked beth in this episode. rick and summer's dynamic was nice too, but unhealthy.

e tier: episodes i don't dislike, just find boring/have bad elements but more redeeming qualities.

68. m. night shaym-aliens!: the little crystal wrestle was adorable. other than that not a super memorable episode.

67. rise of the numbericons: the movie: i didn't hate it but compared to the rest of s7 it was pretty weak. i think mr goldenfold is funny, but not enough to get his own episode. it would've been more entertaining if rick was in it lets be real, i missed him.

66. interdimensional cable 2: tempting fate: i care very little about jerry's penis. the interdimensional cable was good as usual though.

65. how poopy got his poop back: fine episode, not my fav. i liked seeing bp and squanchy again.

64. edge of tomorty: rick die rickpeat: "Damn, Morty, you're bad at maths, but I'm giving you an a-plus in confidence!" an okay episode.

63. rick: a mort well lived: pretty weak episode to follow solaricks. summer's die hard was good. some cool emotional components.

62. rattlestar ricklactia: "Hey, Morty, listen. I can tell you're pretty upset about the whole snake encounter thing, so I'll tell you what. I'm just gonna go ahead and avoid you for the rest of the day." rnm were kind of cute at the end. yk, until rick punched morty in the face :/.

61. the jerrick trap: sorry ik a lot of ppl love this episode but tho burger & fries were cute characters its not all that for me. memory rick's return, however, was all that. i love him.

60. childrick of mort: "Oh my god, grandpa, you fuck boy." rick being a space nerd <3. loved to see more of beth and rick together but other than that this episode was kinda mid.

59. amortycan grickfitti: honestly made me feel bad for jerry which isnt easy, i sort of liked rick here, he seemed reluctant to let the hell demons make fun of jerry, he still did, but even apologised with only a little prompting. can't say the same for beth. summer and morty were sweet in this episode, i wish we would get more of them.

58. rickmancing the stone: "I don't know why I'm crying." "Well... try crying 15% less?" not bad, i liked the emotional components.

57. mortynight run: again, not super memorable to me. the roy montage was good. You kind of wasted your 30's, though, with that whole birdwatching phase." the animation for the song was great.

d tier: mostly okay to good episodes with minor faults that i can look past in the general scheme of the episode.

56. one crew over the crewcoo's morty: fucked up what rick did to morty. and to mr pb, his life went to shit after this, bcs of rick.

55. night family: had some great moments, but wasnt my fav.

54. anatomy park: loved dr bloom, john oliver voiced him perfectly.

53. lawnmower dog: sweet scenes between rnm. liked the dream inceptor, loved scary terry, snuffles was good too but not as much.

52. claw and hoarder: special ricktims morty: "Are you gonna slay it?" "First off, i always slay it, queen. Secondly, yes." summer being on morty's side was nice. while the soul orgy was a bit weird, the rest of this episode was pretty entertaining which is why its higher up, sorry.

51. bethic twinstinct: jerry saying he would khs, not cool jerry fuck you. "You ladies discuss responsibility while i get stoned and play video games with your kids." the end 💀 i felt bad but it was funny lol.

50. final desmitation: maybe my fav ep of jerry and rick's relationship. i liked seeing rick disapprove of them making fun of jerry, had some funny moments and i even liked jerry here.

49. a rick in king mortur's mort: not the best but i enjoyed rickbot being nice to morty. also this episode sets up for rmrm which i love.

48. promortyus: morty's little yee-haw 😭. and their conversation, so sweet. taking the adderall line as an adhd rick confirmation. "It is my thing. Just like yours is dying alone," get his ass. i feel like the romance couldve been a compelling story if the hosts werent rnm.

47. the whirly dirly conspiracy: rick's take on jerry was accurate. "But no, like father like goddamn daughter! You wanna be like Rick? Congratulations, you're just as arrogant and just as irresponsible!" morty ate. i prefered summer and beths storyline to rick and jerry's.

c tier: solid, episodes, some have a few faults but theyre small

46. mort: ragnarick: it's so high up because i found rick to be likeable and liked his dynamic with morty. ricks clone was cute too.

45. look who's purging now: "Screw you, Rick! I'll purge you too, you old rickety piece of crap!" rnm's storyline was great, i liked arthrisha.

44. the ricks must be crazy: "I dropped out of school. It's not a place for smart people." "Ohhhh, snap!" lmao literally my reaction. "Ooh. Wow. Gaaay!" "That is pretty gay." not much more to say, good ep.

43. never ricking morty: rnm were sweet in this ep. the gay ass song with rick and bp. "Rick are you– do you need to go to the hospital?" the forehead kiss was sweet. (we're ignoring "Lips if you want.")

42. mort dinner rick andre: mr nimbus is a great character. the wine storyline was a bit boring. "I havent been to a full week of school in years! I don't know shit!" love the peek at rick's backstory too.

41. rick potion #9: important lore episode. some funny bits. morty was a little creepy in this one. i love jerry primes character development. first look on down from the bridge moment !!

40. forgetting sarick mortshall: "What are you, eight? Is this macaroni art? You expect me to believe you built this because you don't care?" liked ricks storyline and he actually does seem to be showing minor development. the end song was good. liked garbage goober's lore.

39. morty's mindblowers: rick removing whatever memories he wanted was fucked up. rick saying granite instead of granted will always be funny. also him losing in chackers and skiing into a tree.

38. mortyplicity: entertaining enough if a little convoluted, i liked it though. sweet moment between the decoy family, shame they died.

b tier: good to great episodes.

37. big trouble in little sanchez: actually liked jerry and beths storyline in this one. tiny riiick !! "old rick! ruining everything!" good episode.

36. pilot: good intro, sets the tone. rick is such a dick (affectionate). rnm's dynamic !! the animation is great. overall great episode.

35. pickle rick: ik its a overrated but i think its good. hes pickle riiiick. dr wong's speech to rick was actually really good and accurate.

34. meeseeks and destroy: rick was such a whiny bitch this episode (affectionate), up until the mr jellybean stuff, which i liked bcs it was handled well by the writers and rick was actually very sweet.

33. rick and morty's thanksploitation spectacular: president curtis' alcoholic sci-fi boyfriend is probably my favourite way rick has been refered to in the show LOL. overall i enjoyed this episode.

32. something ricked this way comes: idc now but, the first time watching rick's r slur speech it was obnoxious and offputting. summer and rick were great, i adore their dynamic, love summer and rick episodes, but idrc for jerry's storyline, he bores me so bad.

31. full meta jackrick: "Rick can't change, Morty. Change is what you might call his Kryptonite." there were a lot of things i liked abt this ep.

30. vindicators 3: the return of worldender: very good episode. forever a believer that the ride was for morty and rick just chickened out.

29. a rickle in time: the va for the testicle monster was great. beth and jerry's storyline also wasn't bad. rick jumping into the hole and sacrificing his life for morty, im sobbing. great episode.

28. the vat of acid episode: morty trying to make rick feel better about not being able to make the thing was very sweet. morty's relationship with that girl was adorable, so sad it was erased by jerry's dumb ass /lh. fuck rick in this episode. the end was funny.

27. rixty minutes: while i do love interdimensional cable this episode would've been lower if it wasn't for all the character moments. "You can't leave, you're 17." "Yeah, and I'm not pregnant. I'm gonna have better judgement than you guys had at my age." loved summer getting screentime. beth and jerry's moment was quite sweet.

26. ricksy business: bp and squanchy !!! >:) bp coming through with the deep speech. the montage of rick morty and summer at the end is so adorable i love them sm <3. "I love my grandkids." "Aw :)." "Psych, just kidding, my new catchphrase is i dont give a fuuuck!"

25. get schwifty: first president curtis episode !! i love him. love morty and bp interactions haha. "In bird culture, this is considered a dick move." "It is random debris. I found it in my carpet. I don't know what humans eat." crying i love him sm. one of my personal favs lol :).

24. juricksick mort: tbh i mostly like this ep bcs of "You pompous autistic cadaver!" but there was other good moments and it was entertaining. rick was funny and likeable and very much a disaster of a human being, as i was promised when i started watching rnm.

23. star mort rickturn of the jerri: space beth !! "You cosplay as your shitty father in his 30's." "Its funny. I always wondered who would win if we ever fought." "Then you were always a bad friend." :(. "Holy shit, I'm a terrible father." i forgot how good this episode was, very angsty.

22. total rickall: genuinely love this episode. KEITH DAVID >:D. rick's "weird made-up sounding catchphrases" compilation is one of my fav moments in the show lol, everyone looks so concerned 💀.

21. rest and ricklaxation: "Grandpa's here." SOBBING. "Because you kept drunk-dialing me and crying about it!" "I wasn't crying!" loved jessica and ricks dynamic lol. great episode.

20. rickfending your mort: great follow up to unmortricken, i like that rick doesnt just go back to normal and we see it takes a while and even then its only bcs morty steps in. morty making up titles for all their adventures is adorable. great sweet scenes between rnm.

19. the rickchurian mortydate: autistic rick !! also minecraft. the president is such a pathetic loser lol <3. i loved rick and morty being on the same wavelength in this episode. the ending was good.

18. wet kuat amortycan summer: summer-centric episode !! rick was likeable, liked seeing him clumsy getting his grove back. him saying summer reminds him of diane again, he's getting so much more open, im so proud, can you imagine s3 rick being sincere like that?

17. close rickcounters of the rick kind: best s1 episode, love citadel episodes. evil morty !!!!! some funny moments. "You're crying? Over a Morty?" sobbing. "Yeah, but wheres the transmitter?" and the evil morty song oh god, best scene ever fr. i love my evil guy :3.

s tier: outstanding episodes, the 16 best imo.

16. that's amorte: FANTASTIC episode, the end montage is the only part of any rnm episode thats made me cry a little, it would be higher up but i have some personal favs which i put higher. i feel like this episode was very classic rnm after having them separated half of s7.

15. the old man and the seat: jerry and morty's dynamic is pretty funny. tony and rick's storyline was fantastic. some pretty angsty stuff. "The saaaddest piece of garbage in the entire cosmos."

14. the abc's of beth: rick and beth episode !! rick saying that an adventure clearly needs morty in it, aw. i did not care about jerry's storyline at all. beth had no right being so relatable in this ep.

13. ricktional mortpoon's rickmas mortcation: rick relapsing into finding prime !! "I'm not touching that thing. I'll get neurotypical cooties." ok, so ik a lot of ppl don't like the speech rick said to morty, but i do, he was going through a LOT, this clearly took him quite a few steps back in development and healing, i think it was less bad than a lot of other things he's done and way more justified.

12. fear no mort: loved morty getting his time to shine, LOVED diane and rick. morty realising rick wasn't in the hole has to be one of the best moments in the show. rick not going in the hole at the end bcs morty told him not to, hope some day he'll get to the point of doing things for morty in front of him so he can realise how much he cares.

11. analyze piss: look at rick asking dr wong for advice. him relating to piss master :(. also i read a phenomenal fic abt this ep (tw sh) (link).

10. air force wong: UNITY RETURNS! Rick was kinda childish in this episode but i feel like it was justified, he wasn't being a dick just bcs, he was hurting, and he even kinda apologised to summer, hes trying. rick going to drink with the president instead of being alone.

9. the rickshank rickdemption: RICK PRIME. "That, diane, is the last great idea that will ever be had in this garage." :((((. ricks backstory. "he's not a villan, summer, but he shouldn't be ur hero." fantastic ep.

8. rickmurai jack: love two crows rick. rick's full "crybaby" backstory !! "Now you're evil morty, too. sooner or later we all are. on this side of the curve." THE END OH GOD. THE MUSIC. EVIL MORTY LETTING OUT A SIGH OF RELIEF. INSANE finale.

7. gotron jerrysis rickvangelion: rick is so spectacularly autistic in this one. i like how he doesnt silly hyperfixtate, he full on unhealthy hyperfixtates. i practically know this ep off by heart. comfort ep fr.

6. rickternal friendshine of the spotless mort: im not sorry for putting this up so high, i love this ep so fucking much. memory rick is so silly i love him sm. "You were a good friend, Rick. Goodbye." the blood ridge confession makes me FERAL. i can quote it word for word.

5. the wedding squanchers: THIS EPISODE. rick watching bp die in front of him. rick turning himself in :(. "everyone i know goes away in the end." the music was so good. "he's not coming back, is he?"

4. the ricklantis mixup: best citadel ep, fight me. j-22 trying to save simple rick only to suffer the same fate :(. slick jumping into the wishing portal. the ending was phenomenal, every single storyline was amazing and important. and evil morty returns.

3. auto erotic assimilation: love unity and ricks dynamic. blim blam humbling beth and jerry. jerry using the weed whacker right in front of the garage where rick just attempted. and no one notices. bc that's how it is. "do you feel it?" is a great song. maybe this ep is higher than it should be but it's my comfort ep, it means so much to me.

2. solaricks: first time we get to see dimension c-137 out of a flashback !! "I hope Summer knows what happens to the people you love!" "Oh, am I cool enough for you now? Well, that was easy. It only cost me fucking everything." "I don't know him. You're my grandpa, rick." rip jerry prime, my fav jerry. THIS EPISODE IS PHENOMENAL.

1. unmortricken: ok anyone who knows me knows this is my fav ep bcs i never stfu abt it. i mean, evil morty backstory, rick beating prime to death, GOD. ian cardoni was COOKING with the delivery of those lines, and the lines were fantastic. some good rnm moments. the angst is so good. "How's it feel? Better? No? Exactly the same? Yeah, it always does." best look on down from the bridge moment.

i keep going over this a million times just to make sure everything is perfect but idk, some episodes are maybe interchangeable, im just going to post it bcs its been rotting in my drafts for quite a while now, everyone promise you dont hate me for putting an episode 1 slot too high or low /j

and sorry for all the jerry hate in this post, i dont hate him i just find him boring, so eps where he's the centre tend to be lower on the list.

#alex says shit #rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #beth smith #summer smith #jerry smith #rick prime #evil morty #ranking

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weirdstuffinthewoods · 3 months

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The inevitable what if...?

Freddy vs Jason (2003)

Horror fans constantly seem divided on what constitutes "real" horror, or even "good" horror.

The issue with gatekeeping the genre is that you start to get bored with the offerings that fit the qualifications. Original IPs are best rewarded only if they're frightening enough to satisfy lovers of jump scares and dread alike. Franchises are begrudgingly watched for ever-lengthening amounts of time, and attempts at reboots are either met with rightful scorn (the moneygrabs) or badly received because fans are still clinging to the original too hard to make room for the new (think Candyman 2021). Between the two options, restricting what constitutes as worthy horror can leave you in a stale place.

All this to say- I watched Freddy v Jason tonight and it continues to be one of my Ol' Faithfuls. While not necessarily frightening, balls-to-the-wall movies like Freddy v Jason, Deathgasm, House on Haunted Hill (1999), or the Hong Kong fever dream that is Rigor Mortis offer something that truly frightening films sometimes can't- fun.

Sometimes intentionally and sometimes not, horror and comedy have always gone well together. You see it as far back as films like The Old Dark House (1932) and at Halloween haunts worldwide every year. A scare actor gets a scream out of you and you run off, laughing. The tension of a film builds and builds and is finally cut by comedic relief. Horror and comedy make the perfect group watches- the acting is usually mediocre, and someone's always going to have a questionable costume or hair and makeup choice (lookin' at you, knockoff Jason Mewes and frosted-tips cop). There's plenty to laugh at but also plenty to make you go

The film is directed by Ronny Yu, a director who also breathed life back into the Child's Play franchise with Bride of Chucky, another one of my favorites. In Fangoria 221, Yu notes that for Bride he was asked if he'd seen the original films. When he answered in the negative, he was told "No worries-you can catch up later or just forget it and start fresh." Using a similar philosophy here (as he was not familiar with either franchise before pairing the two in a match made in hell), Yu managed to keep the lore as consistent as it's ever been (not very) and also give us a horror milestone that manages to be really, really fun.

Still not convinced? Here's a short list of reasons:

The 2000s-era over saturation!

This movie focuses on BLUE as their color of choice- movies like Cabin Fever or House on Haunted Hill were very focused on RED. If you want to forget what colors the real world is, movies from this decade are for you!

The stupid one-liners!

(and casting easter eggs like Kelly Rowland here and Ginger Snaps icon in the lesser but still memorable role of "Gibb")

Joint-smokin' Freddy caterpillar (in super dated cgi, but who cares?)

The entire cornfield rave!

Who throws raves in a cornfield? Is that a thing in the midwest? Who cares? It's a great place to hide Jason's bulk and watch some obnoxious jocks get gutted.

It's like watching a wrestling match between two legends. Both Freddy and Jason have built their respective (if questionable quality) franchises that both began with iconic films that shaped the slasher genre. The pair are polar opposites in every way- Freddy a quick-witted, small, overly talkative set of brains with some knife fingers, and Jason a hulking, silent mass with both his strength and his machete on hand at all times.

The kills are still fun and the blend of practical and cgi effects don't feel totally cheap just yet, but the real payoff is the finale that pits the two legends head to head in an over-the-top, totally rock-n-roll finale. While you can and do root for both of them, the surprisingly sympathetic lens put on Jason adds a layer of connection you usually don't get with the silent behemoth, making it an impossible to call fight. I can hear the theaters full of screaming fans now.

I'm just saying- Horror, if no other genre, is a place for experimentation, especially with its long-running penchant for low budgets. Where else are you going to see crossover fights outside of fanfiction?

When given the choice, definitely champion an original idea (don't want to encourage those big budget studios too much), but if you're having a Halloween rager, why not throw on a bloody good time like this one?

#freddy krueger #jason voorhees #freddy v jason #freddy vs jason #2003 horror #2000s horror

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thesoftboiledegg · 10 months

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The dawn of another new Rick and Morty episode is upon us. But before "Rickfending Your Mort" airs, I went to the mall to see what new merchandise awaits.

Toxic Rick: now on boxer shorts!

The bootleg canvas sign store had a new illustration, complete with marijuana leaves that make me suspect that it's adorned a few head shops. And Rick's favorite thing: crystals! 💎

Spencer's had a new shipment of Rick and Morty blankets waiting to hit the shelves. One day, I might buy one.

Mini lanyards! I love it when merchandise leans into the trippiness.

Spencer's also had a new hoodie that I nearly missed because they'd piled it on a shelf with other black hoodies. I feel like you need 3D glasses to see the design.

When I visited the other mall today, I saw a Rick and Morty air freshener hanging in someone's vehicle in the parking lot. I took that as a good omen!

Sure enough, Rue 21 had a T-shirt with a twist: two views of Rick and Morty from the front and back. Rick looks pretty agitated!

More pajama pants. This is probably my favorite design yet. They're SO soft and snuggly, too.

The "nerdy" store had a beanie decorated with Rick's electrocuted skull. He looks a little like a pot leaf, which might be the idea.

Some of you might remember that I found tiny Rick and Morty figurines in the clearance section, doomed to a life outside the original packaging:

I browsed the shelves and found a collection of tiny people! Tiny Jerry, tiny Beth, tiny Summer, tiny Mr. Poopybutthole, tiny Arthricia: the season two gang's all here.

I wonder which brand manufactured these. Seems like somebody dropped off their whole collection like they did with the Funko Pops.

Anyway, this Spencer's location had what's now one of my favorite T-shirts:

I didn't buy it because white T-shirts stain easily, but that design is so perfectly bizarre. Everybody gather 'round for Rick and Morty Show! It looks like the best kind of bootleg merchandise.

Pickle Rick was crammed at the bottom of the cage. Tough break.

Who knows, buddy: the leg might become the new Pickle Rick. Dudebros might start screaming "I'm a leg!" at McDonald's employees. Spencer's will stock Rick leg pillows. Has Pickle Rick finally met his match?

Eh, let's be real: the pickle is here to stay. 🥒

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #spencer's #rue 21 #roundup

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quilna · 5 months

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I'll be honest, I'm really curious about the god au. anything interesting to share about it? 👀 the idea of Frankenstein just calling Hyde/Jekyll out on being a god is incredibly appealing to me xD

Sorry about responding to this late, I was busy this weekend!

Ah the god au! Honestly my oldest au and one that could probably do with some tweaking and fixing up, especially since it was more than anything an excuse to draw characters in funky god outfits so a lot of aspects were very out of left-field. Not to mention, things in the comic have changed since the au was made but I can tell you what I’ve got!

I wrote a lot of this off of my memory since I've lost a lot of the old posts I made for it (They were banished to the shadow realm for containing my old, awful art) so things might be different now.

So the god system is vaguely based off of a book series called Fly by Night where there are hundreds of gods for every little thing - for example, the patron god of the main character is the god of keeping flies out of jam jars. So the gods in my au have complicated titles for rather small things and often have trouble finding worshippers.

Jekyll, specifically is the god of keeping rabbits out of the garden and he's both a trickster god and a guardian. For those he dislikes, he’ll often open garden gates, invite in pests, etc, but he’ll protect those he likes (for as long as he feels like it).

Eventually he and Lanyon meet while Jekyll is letting pests into his dad’s garden and they end up becoming good friends. However, Lanyon has to go to university and leave Jekyll behind but Jekyll takes a human form and a human name to follow him.

In the process, however, he ends up splitting himself in two. Hyde manifests into a pure trickster god as the god of letting pests into your enemy's garden and Jekyll manifests into an almost full guardian god (besides a bit of lowkey trickery on the side).

While people are very much aware that Hyde is a split-off from the original rabbit god, people aren't aware that Jekyll is that original god. As such, the news eventually gets to Lanyon that the god he once befriended all that time ago has split and he gets worried. While splitting is normal, it's often not exactly something that happens when a god is happy and, worse, he can't find the rabbit god anymore and Hyde's very obviously actively avoiding him.

Jekyll, meanwhile, is aware of none of Lanyon's internal conflict and he wants to make a society for small and little-known gods who aren’t getting enough worship to survive in the hopes of helping them.

Frankenstein is one of the few gods to be considered big. She's the goddess of freezing the dead (rigor mortis) so they don’t return which makes her well-worshipped. With some more recent reveals in the comic, I think I’d say that her title also isolates her a lot. Sure, it’s important to make sure the dead stay dead but it’s still death. Her name is still one that people curse when someone is taken prematurely.

When she arrives at the society, injured by her fight with another god, Moreau, she’s treated like an idol by the other gods. However, she recognises that Jekyll isn’t as human as he appears and assumes that whatever reason a god would have to pretend to be human to lead a society of gods wouldn’t be any good one. On the other hand, she's too injured to directly call him out for this so she spends her time quietly and subtly drawing gods away from his side and back to hers.

Of course, she’s more than a little peeved off when Jekyll is finally revealed and instead of being some terrible god of darkness or evil, she’s literally just caught a rabbit god. She hasn’t even caught one of the more dangerous trickster gods, she’s caught the guy who pretends to be human, asks for people’s hospitality and, whenever people are rude to him back, releases a hoard of rabbits into their garden while cackling and thinks this is the absolute height of mischief.

Being a known trickster god and all, I imagine the reactions from most of the lodgers is just groaning and complaints. It’s pretty standard for them but probably a lot more of a shock for the poor humans like Robert who are outside of the usual god politics and now have to deal with the knowledge that their friend was a god the entire time (Lanyon has a crisis over telling a literal god “Why would anyone give up their future prospects for someone like you?”)

Anyway, it’s vague and I’m not sure I remember every aspect of it but a bunch of small notes:

Griffin is actually a god of evil who once reigned terror over a small town. Joining the society is a form of community service for him to learn his lesson.

Hyde insists that he’s a hare god, not a rabbit god (because hares look creepier and more otherworldly. He’s still a rabbit though and everyone knows it)

Doddle was another trickster god and fully aware of Jekyll’s identity but, by trickster code, kept quiet about the whole deal. It’s very rude to ruin another trickster’s tricks after all.

I can’t remember what titles I gave a lot of the lodgers but I think Flowers was the goddess of keeping moths from eating holes in your clothes?

Hyde very much keeps up Jekyll’s old charade of pretending to be a human and then punishing those who are rude to him with pests in their gardens. Not even pests in their houses or anything, that’s out of his jurisdiction, so if they don’t keep a garden or plants he just has to grumble about it. I imagine at least once, someone who wronged him in the past finally got themselves a house plant and Hyde absolutely leapt on the opportunity immediately, basically flooding them with caterpillars, slugs, and at least one live rabbit just in their actual house because it's close enough to a garden, dammit!

#quilna's asks #god au

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fandomwe1rd0 · 6 months

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Rick and Morty angst. This made me cry.

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING THIS POST CONTAINS TALKS OF SUICIDE AND SELF-HARM IF ANY OF THOSE TOPICS DISTURB OR TRIGGER YOU, FEEL FOR TO SKIP THIS POST FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO READ IT, THE STORY IS UNDER THE CUT

Morty took a black hoodie and pulled the sleeves over his wrists. Good. The sleeves hid them perfectly. He walked out and shoved his hands in his pockets. Rick gave him a skeptical look "Why the fuburpck are you wearing that? It's 90 deburpgrees." Morty quickly looked down "I-I just like it I guess" Rick scoffed and took a swig from his flask "Whatevburper" Morty sighed. He couldn't believe Rick believed that, oh well, works for him.

A little later in the day, Rick came barging into Morty's room and grabbed his wrist "Let's go Morburpty I need your help with someburpthing" Morty sighed "Fine." Rick waved his hand dismissively "I wasn't planning on giving you much choburpice Morty." Morty sighed, of course, what was he expecting? Rick never gave him a choice on anything. Morty just went along with whatever Rick did. Why did he even put up with Rick anymore? Rick wouldn't have done half of the things Morty does for him. In fact, he's convinced that Rick doesn't give a crap about him. He certainly doesn't care about his safety. Rick opened another portal and walked through it, with Morty following close behind. The adventure was just as traumatizing as usual. Why did he let Rick keep doing this? Morty didn't even have an answer anymore.

Morty went to his room. He made sure he locked the door. He went over to the bookshelf, moved the books, and saw the pocket knife behind them. He remembered how mad Rick got when he realized his pocket knife was missing. Thank god he didn't check Morty's room. Morty grabbed it and sat on the bed. He pressed the cold blade against his skin and moved it in a swift motion and seeing the blood flow was comforting. He felt….better? Or at least he thought he did, but it's been so long he couldn't even tell how it made him feel. He just did it after every adventure, it became a twisted routine for him at this point. Thank god nobody walked in on it yet. He made sure to always lock the door. Someone might pretend to care if they saw it. He repeated this process a few more times, moving the knife down each time. This was normal to him. This was good. This was comfortable. After he was done, he put it behind the books on his bookshelf. He checked again to make sure the sleeve was covering his wrist. He mostly just stayed in his room. What was the point? A lot of the time he couldn't even find a reason to get out of his bed. He mostly just moved when he absolutely had to or when Rick dragged him on another traumatizing adventure. Another day passed.

Morty made some fresh cuts and Rick burst into Morty's room. He grabbed onto Morty's wrists tightly. Causing Morty to inhale sharply. Rick spared him a glance "You ok?" Morty forced on a smile "Mhm! I'm fine Rick!" Rick sighed, clearly not buying it but not caring enough to proceed. Rick dragged him on another adventure. But this time something different happened. Morty lost his footing and nearly fell. Rick grabbed onto his hand, but the position Morty was in caused his sleeves to fall. Revealing…everything. He heard Rick's light gasp when he saw the scars. He saw his eyes slightly widen when he saw the scars. He saw the light leave Rick's eyes when he saw the scars.

He was silent when they drove home. When they landed, Morty was quick to try and leave the car, but Rick quickly grabbed onto Morty's upper arm, careful not to touch the scars. Rick finally broke the silence. "So when were you gonna tell me?" Morty gulped. Play dumb. "I-I don't get what you mean Rick." Rick shot him an angry glare "The scars Morty! How could you do that to yourself?! Do you have any idea how that made me feel!? Do you think I liked seeing those?!" Morty jolted back and Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath "Just…leave." Morty looked down and left. Rick stayed in the garage for days on end. Morty tried to speak to him a few times, but Rick always shut him down. He didn't know what to do. He was left with so much free time now. He remembered how all he wanted was to be free of Rick. Now that he completed that he just felt empty. He stayed in his bed most days. Pretending to be sick to avoid school. He finally decided that enough was enough. He saw a rope and grabbed it.

Rick knocked on Morty's door. After days of thinking it over, Rick finally knew what to say. He thought it'd be best if he stopped invading Morty's privacy. Rick knocked on the door again. No response. Rick kept knocking but still. No response. Rick called out "Morty? You in there?" Nothing, what was going on with that kid? Rick called "I'm going to open the door, Morty!" No response. After 2 minutes of knocking and calling out for Morty, Rick opened the door. Oh my god. Rick fell to his knees. He felt….numb. How are you supposed to feel when your only reason to live….was hanging right in front of you. He quickly untied the knot and attempted CPR. Fuck fuck fuck. No. No. No. NO. Not now. He already lost Diane he couldn't lose Morty too! Rick's frantic breaths became sobs when his attempts failed. He tried everything he could. Nothing worked. If only Rick had come a bit sooner he might've been able to preserve the living tissues…if only he came sooner….Morty might still be alive. This was all his fault. He attempted to revive Morty for days but nothing worked. Why did he make it about himself when he saw the scars? Why did he scream at Morty? Why couldn't he have been understanding? He looked over to the device. He tried to use it after Unity left him. He wondered if it still worked. He put a crystal in it. He tested it on an alien blob. It worked. Then he used it himself. And this time, the laser didn't miss him.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #rick c137 #tw self harm #tw suicide #rick #and #morty #angst

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whovianbuffalo · 9 months

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Evil Morty: Melody Of Certain Damaged Lemons

To expound upon this post

It's no secret that Evil Morty's theme is tied up with the album Melody Of Certain Damaged Lemons by Blonde Redhead: It's the album where For The Damaged Coda comes from, but the lyrics of the rest of the album fit into his characterisation, too.

“In Particular”:

Some place safe I would imagine Someone new would be so cruel Incurable paranoiac Hysterical depression

- Even when Evil Morty has escaped the central finite curve, he still can't imagine himself forming any new friendships or relationships because of his lasting trauma

Everyone else is really boring

Anyone else won't be good enough

Despite this, the only people that Evil Morty is drawn to are Rick C-137 and Prime Morty. Again and again he keeps returning to Rick because anyone else won't be good enough.

Sometimes I spin around for days Skip and chase and say Forget about tomorrow Until I realize This valid and logic motion Is what keeps me from moving

EMorty tried doing what all other Mortys do: he pushed it down and tried to ignore it, until one day he finally snapped.

“Melody Of A Certain Three”

Crawl, crawl as a child and move like a man Pushing like a father, pulling like a friend Whatever it takes, forever it seems But despite of all that, all is well, all is well

As @trucknoisettes said in a post, Rick Prime is the only adult/only Rick we have seen who actually acknowledges that Evil Morty is still a child...

In S5E10, Rick also says the only "man" who ever hacked his portal gun was EMorty, which reiterates this fact.

However, every Rick has underestimated Evil Morty at some point (and paid the price for it), so "move like a man” really nails home the fact that EMorty is able to get the upper hand because he 'crawls like a child's and then strikes when they least expect it.

Pushing like a father, pulling like a friend

The Ricks and their neediness and their fucked up relationship with Mortys: “an infinite crib around one infinite fucking baby”

Rick is the patriarch of the family, in S3E1, C-137 even declares himself the new head of household in Jerry's absence.

We also saw in the Rick And Two Crows arc that Prime Morty and C-137 Rick played out the same dynamic we see in EMorty's flashback: the arguing. Rick says "it's abusive" but he really does seem to consider teenagers to be his peers more than people his own age are (a point I believe @thesoftboiledegg has made before). He is often more like a friend or sibling to Morty than a grandfather, and certainly not a figure of authority.

“Hated Because Of Great Qualities”

I was worried I might be rude to you So worried that I was It's a lie to serve the truth And I'm still guilty

“A lie to serve the truth” certainly sounds like EMorty's entire election campaign.

“Loved Despite Of Great Faults”

The only secrets We talked about Were all the fears In all these years We spent together That you refuse to fade away I hide to stay the same

EMorty had to leave to protect himself, and similarly, Ricks refuse to hide or fix their 'great faults', but EMorty can't help but love them despite it.

“This Is Not”

So she left everything and traveled to the other world

Evil Morty left the CFC.

But life was like a dream

A series of meaningless movement

Yet Morty still feels the same sense of detached nihilism and hopelessness that Rick feels.

“A Cure”

Oh I see how his life resembles yours

And you somehow are like him

I see I know I've been too good for you You know he's just like me Pleasing you and now all You do is wish I was more and more like him If so, would you consider keeping me closer?

If the Freaky Mortys theory turns out to be true this lyric adds so much... But even if Evil Morty and Prime Morty did not switch places, it's clear that Evil Morty longs for it on some level.

So now I call myself a pleaser This time sitting on a secret One secret everybody knows

Evil Morty gets the plans for the Omega Device so he can deter future threats against him

“For The Damaged”

And here we have the most important track on the album:

Maybe again He will be alone Guess we're both equally damaged Find your name Do it all the same, equally Signal when you can't breathe no more

Ultimately, every Morty has suffered similarly at the hands of a Rick, and EMorty tortured and murdered several Mortys in order to achieve his goal of escaping the CFC, therefore perpetuating the cycle of abuse.

Then you could see the view You'll know we are equally damaged Don't be a fool, make it easier You'll learn to say when Signal if you can't say, "no more"

Morty already knew all-too-well that getting revenge didn't make him feel whole again, but Rick C-137 was ultimately incapable of letting go of his vendetta and that's what got him killed. Now resurrected, not only is he in EMorty's debt, but he's now all the more aware of the similarities between the two of them.

#Evil Morty #Rick And Morty meta #Evil Morty meta #Melody Of Certain Damaged Lemons #Blonde Redhead #Freaky Mortys

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countlessrealities · 1 year

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Send 🖤 and my character will answer about yours || Accepting !

@advnterccs sent: 🖤 { And the Mortys 👀 }

Attractiveness

repulsive / hideous / ugly / not attractive / unappealing / not unattractive / meh / no preference / ok / mildly attractive / nice looking / cute / adorable / attractive / pleasant on the eyes / good looking / hot / sexy / beautiful / gorgeous / hot damn / would tap that / perfect / godlike / holy fuck there are no words

"I-I know that we, uh, look the same, b-but...FM...I think he looks better than me. H-He's cuter, an-and I could stare at him all day. I-I wouldn't do that with myself. I-Is it weird? I don't know. An-And then there are times on adventures, w-when he's really ho-...I-I mean, badass and that makes me want...I-I really admired that, you know?"

Personality

grating / irritating / frustrating / boring / confusing at best / awkward / unreasonable / psychotic / disturbing / interesting / engaging / affectionate / aggressive / ambitious / anxious / artistic / bad tempered / bossy / charismatic / appealing / unappealing / creative / courageous / dependable / unreliable / unpredictable / predictable / devious / dim / extroverted / introverted / egotistical / gregarious / fabulous / impulsive / intelligent / sympathetic / talkative / up beat / peaceful / calming / badass / flexible

"W-We're pretty similar personality-wise too, but...H-He's more level-headed than me. L-Less impulsive and kinder. I-I don't know how he does it, w-with everything we went through...B-But I really love that about him. I-It makes me feel calmer too. An-And safer. An-And he's so badass...uh, I-I already said that...an-and smart and I-I love his ideas. I-It's...we can talk for hours an-and I'll never be bored.",

Level of friendship

never in a million years / worst of enemies / enemies / rivals / indifferent / neutral / acquaintance / friendly toward each other / casual friends / friends / good friends / best friends / fuck buddies / bosom buddies / practically the same person / would die for them / true friends / my only friend

"W-We became best friends b-before getting together an-and I still consider him my best friend. W-We're dating, but w-we also kept the friendship part, y-you know? I-It just felt right. W-We can be friends and boyfriends. I-It makes us closer."

First impression of them

i hate them so much / i don’t like them / i don’t trust them / they annoy me / they’re weird / I’m indifferent / meh / they seem alright / they’re growing on me / truce / I think I like them / I like them / I’m not sure if I trust them / I trust them / they’re cool / they’re genuine / I think we’re going to get along / I really like them / I think I’m in love / oh fuck they’re hot / I love them

"W-Well, I knew that he was me, s-so...we clicked very quickly. H-He was nice and funny an-and I finally had someone who really understood...I-I liked him since the start. F-For once I was glad that Rick had messed up."

Current impression of them

"I...T-There's not...I mean...H-He makes me happy. A-As I've rarely been. An-And I've never felt what I feel for him. I-It was a little confusing at first, b-but now I love feeling this way. I...I love being in love with him. I-I know, it's cheesy as fuck, b-but it's true. FM is wonderful, an-and I'm so lucky to have him an-and his affections."

#[ ic :: Morty ]#[ headcanons :: Morty ]#[ When I'm with you I finally feel good enough :: Morty & Morty ]#[ v. Rick Double Morty and Trouble ; timeline split :: Morty ]#advnterccs #[[ gotta love how there's some stuff he won't say out aloud xD ]]#[[ but that he thinks about a lot x3 the striken parts! ]]#[[ but well he's just so enamoured with his boyfriend 🤭 ]]#;; queue

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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year

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Rigor Mortis (part 5)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 4, Part 6

summary: You deal with the aftermath of last night. Lyla has a party.

warnings: very suggestive. mentions of sex, vulgar language, etc 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: this is so so so self indulgent i cannot express it enough. probably ooc asf: you've been warned.

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 8.5k (i'm on a strict plan and had a lot to get through lmfao)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

and they were good.

Eventually, you're bundled into your room in a fit of giggles and with shaky legs. Even in Miguel's hoodie, insisted upon by the man himself, the sheets feel a little colder after he leaves. Initially, he had collapsed on top of you; smothering you with the heat of his bare skin and the sweats that ride down his hips, dangerously low. You're pushing him off, or trying to, heavy and leaden-limbed. Whether it's the weight of that orgasm or the remnants of that blunt that turns your arms to jelly – you don't know.

Honestly, you don't think you care. He's resorted to laying his head on your chest in mock sleep – clearly still high as fuck – and stretching out on top like a housecat. He's warm on your lap; so you bring a hand to card through dark brown curls that rest on the flat of your sternum.

You'd never have known it: Miguel has a playful side, beneath all the sarcasm and red tape.

In the morning, he's gone - with only his hoodie as proof that something happened. For you, it's a hazy memory - warmth tinged in the lazy light of last night's high. It comes and goes like the tide on a quiet beach: remembering how he touched you, the feel of bare skin on bare skin, the way it burned when he kissed your shoulder….

And it's gone, again. You're left tracing the hickey at the base of your neck, and it aches . A little moment like that, fooling around like teenagers on prom night, and it shouldn't feel as intimate as it does. Groaning into your pillow, you burrow into the expanse of your roommate's hoodie. With a busy week incoming, you can't afford to be distracted – not like this.

And so, you bury the urge to knock on Miguel's door, and put your lips around the words that mean… more. You want more. It feels greedy to verbalise it, as if you've seen too much of him already. The irony; humping almost fully clothed and yet, feeling so bare. It leaves a strange taste in your mouth – blood, maybe. Maybe he's finally done it: stuck the knife between ribs to find out what colour you bleed. Miguel's a scientist after all; prone to making things go pop and snap , slicing into specimens with a steady hand.

It's too much, too close for comfort and you can't afford it: affection and intimacy in any shape or size was a fatal wound , especially after last time. Instead, you let the morning waves crash over its outline left in sand. A body – blood and gristle and guts – washed away by the tide.

You find yourself pushing down dangerous feelings. After finally getting comfortable with Miguel, all that progress seems for naught; bumbling around the apartment like a deer finding its legs. The first morning, you're spared a confrontation as he's already gone from the apartment. Earlier than usual, and you hand-wave away that little voice in your head that says: he's avoiding you .

He's not. He can't be. And you know it because he's able to look you in the eye. Briefly, but it's much longer than you can last. You have a whole conversation when he comes home and it only makes you want to rip out your eyeballs a little.

You're on the sofa, hands in your lap and antsy. There's a stupid soap on the TV, but you can barely concentrate; head too full of cotton to make sense of the screen. You're so lost in thought that when the door clicks open, you jump half a foot into the air.

"Shit." You turn, watching Miguel kick his shoes off at the door. Flashing him a nervous smile, you wave limply and turn around to cringe.

"Heeey," God. You burrow into the cushions.

"Hey." He's got a plastic bag in hand. He drops the rucksack on his back, and goes straight to the kitchen.

You call out. "Takeout's in the fridge."

He hums, and you hear clattering from the doorway. Turning, you watch; sleeves rolled up in a smart shirt. You can see the muscles in his back from here; the ripple of hard lines under cotton. Craning your head, you can't help but be curious.

"Stop sticking your nose in."

You're halfway off the couch, and stop dead in your tracks.

"M'not-"

He peeks out from the doorframe; catching you in the act.

"You're not allowed to look."

It leaves you spluttering, getting off the sofa like a spoilt child. He's telling you not to look, and like clockwork you're itching for it; padding towards the counters. Miguel must have superpowers the way he catches you, leant against the doorframe with his arms crossed across his broad chest. You're on your tiptoes and trying to get a glimpse into the kitchen. He shifts in the way, tight-lipped and shaking his head.

"Meant it. It's a surprise." You cock your head, like you can't believe what he's saying.

You step to the other side and he steps along with you, blocking your view.

"... Miguel ." You say it slowly, incredulous. You're stepping closer, ever so slightly, but he stays stony-faced and resolute.

For the first time in 24 hours, since you basically fucked him in the room next door, you're looking each other in the eye. Squinting, you hold his gaze but he barely cracks a smile.

"Sit down." He says it sternly, but his voice is soft. "Please."

With a flourish, you bring your hands up in surrender and inch back towards the couch. It's the usual chopping and thudding of cabinets being opened and closed. It takes everything not to look back, but you force yourself to concentrate on the TV.

Finally, he places a bowl in front of you before flopping to your side. He's still in his work clothes, adjusting the waistband of black slacks and popping off the buttons at the top of his shirt. You're trying not to stare, not to drool at the way he just melts ; sinking into the seats like a lolly on a hot sidewalk. When he brings his bowl closer, that's when you inspect the contents of yours.

"Is this…?" You start, and he hums; taking a healthy slurp of noodles in the process.

You shake your head to no one in particular. It's the very same instant ramen you've stopped buying, after constant complaints and lectures from the man himself. There's enough salt in here to banish a demon, he'd spit. In retaliation you'd bite back, saying, maybe you'll fuck off where you came from, and retreat to your room to eat in peace. It's your favourite flavour; perfectly salty and flavourful and definitely not good for you. In the broth, there's the milky white and yellow of an egg, with spring onions and fresh veg breaking the surface. Even before you've taken a bite, you feel that warmth at your chest, again.

He doesn't even look at you, pointing a finger at the screen instead.

"I thought Jenny was dead?"

You clear your throat of that lump, rising up like a fishing boat spit up by the waves.

"That was her twin sister, Jane."

"...I thought Jane was dead." He frowns.

"No, no, Jane faked her death in the mining accident; and ran off with all that inheritance money… were you paying attention last episode?"

"No, you watched it without me."

"Yeah, but you said you hated this show–"

" –only because it's a total rip-off of La Patrona ,"

"And yet, you're begging me not to watch without you–"

"Begging seems a little strong–"

He's kept his sharp tongue, and you're too occupied with arguing to notice the hand wrapped around the back of the sofa; how you're both inching closer until your legs come to rest on his own. You're focusing on his lips, drawn in by a pull that seems stronger than gravity.

He's saying your name, and you snap out of it. Blinking up at him, a deer in headlights, you remember yourself and look away. Tension pulls at the both of you, a string as thin as fishing wire that snaps with your realisation. You like the way he looks, flushed and flustered after a long day. You could make him feel even better, right now, if he wanted it. You'd drop to your knees and wrap a hand around his cock, pulling those beautiful sounds out of him – the very same ones you'd fucked yourself to the thought of, not so long ago.

If, being the key word. And with the way he shifts back, away from you, you're not too sure if last night was a flash in the pan or something more.

Everything about Miguel screams dangerous; flags in deep scarlet that are telling you to stay the fuck away. He doesn't commit, sleeps around; refusing to define or put a label on any significant relationship in his life. He won't even admit, say the words, that he's fucking a half-dozen girls right now; even when you've got concrete proof in the form of messy lips and banging on the walls. Okay, maybe half a dozen is a stretch; but three girls, on three separate, multiple, occasions for sure. Probably; you haven't technically seen anything but if the precision of last night was any indicator – the terrifying speed at which he made you fold like a lawn chair – he had significant experience. He was a fucking veteran; dedicated to the sport for the love of the game.

You find yourself caught in his web all the same; kicking yourself at your naivete. He's turned away now, seemingly unfazed, making little comments at the show you've got on TV. It's becoming increasingly clear where you stand: caught in a game of chicken with your roommate – a man with balls of steel, if last night was any indicator. You're ill equipped to deal with such levels of conflict avoidance, despite years of hands on experience.

The question remains, stuck in the gaps of your teeth like udon, thick and dense and chewy: how exactly does he feel about you? Where do you belong?

~~~

It's been quite the week and a half, mostly spent trying to make sense of Miguel. One minute you're at each other's throats, and the next, he's talking you through rate laws and kinetics equations. Apparently , you've got a lecturer he used to have, and he insists on sidling up to you on the dining table; prodding at your paper and liberally crossing out errors. His inconsistency has you irate ; and it means you get petty, picking fights and laying easy bait. Frustratingly enough, all it does is make that tension worse; thick and choking ; in your little apartment.

The only thing you have to look forward to is the party at Lyla's; of which you've volunteered to help set up. It means food, and drink, and a couple hours of respite, hopefully.

On the day, you get to Lyla's early. Miguel's at work, promising to be there in a couple of hours, and so you take the subway instead. Yet again, walking up to her apartment feels like another world – one of marble and faux fur and lots of animal print. When she lets you up, you're left with only your thoughts and the quiet hum of the elevator. In the mirrored wall, you take stock of your outfit: snug denim and a little shirt. Admittedly, your wardrobe felt a little lacking – jeans and a nice top being your go to. Right now, your only hope is that the dress code would be more forgiving.

The door swings open and Lyla's pushing you towards the living room, chattering away at a mile a minute. It's overwhelming as you're dragged into the light, half a dozen boxes and its miscellaneous contents strewn onto the floor.

"–and Jess has the nose of a bloodhound, so if anything seems even a little off, she'll know… "

You nod slowly as Lyla squeezes your arm with so much force, it cuts off blood supply.

"Like clockwork. We need this to run like clockwork."

Fingers numb, you watch as her features set; a wide smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes and shadow that cuts her face just so. Overcast and dramatic; simply put, it's terrifying.

There's a loud Pop! from behind, making you jump.

"... sorry !" Peter's voice rings out, and there’s a tangle of brown hair and dark eyes peeking over the kitchen island.

Walking over, you can see he's splayed out on the tiles, balloons littered all over the place. A balloon pump, long discarded, sits in its packet at barely an arm's length. More importantly, though, he's got a bundle of red hair and freckles in his arms; little May, sniffling and whining with what's left of a balloon between chubby fingers.

"Might need some help, over here…" He says it softly, rocking the little girl in his lap.

Lyla rolls up non-existent sleeves, face scrunched up in concentration. She closes her eyes ; fingers dancing as if typing on non-existent keys.

"...okay, okay, change of plans." She turns to you, eyes wrenched open and hands clasped together – Machievellian in nature. You suppose; with the sheer extent of her party planning skills, able to pull strings this way and that; it fits. "We've got exactly 3 hours and 23 minutes before everyone else arrives, plus about 17 minutes, give or take, before Jess does."

"How do you kno-" You start, but Peter presses a finger to his lips. She's in the zone, he seems to mouth.

“I need you and Pete to get these balloons done, and then we can set up the archway. I’ll call Ben, ask him where the fuck he is, and then we’ll see if we can get some banners and streamers up…. God , and the food…. think I need to threaten someone at the catering company, give me a sec,” She stalks off, muttering something that sounds important. Pete shrugs, kicking over a box of balloons; black, white and gold, a lot fancier than you had expected. May is eased off of his lap, and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. She sniffles, holding her head up bravely. It's probably the cutest thing you’ve seen all year.

“I give her 5 minutes before she realises Miguel’s going to be late.”

“...and God help us when she does.” You finish for him, settling down on the cool marble.

You make a start on the balloons, opening the untouched packets and pulling out a shiny pump.

“How long have you known each other?” You busy your hands by stretching the neck of a deceptively small balloon.

“Oh, Lyla?” He frowns. “A couple of years, maybe. We met because of Miguel – same with Jess and Ben, actually.”

It's your turn to frown. Miguel was the glue? It’s a picture that doesn’t quite match up with the meet-cute that you were painting in your head. If they met because of your roommate, it must’ve been a contentious group project, or someone rear-ended in the parking lot, that brought them together: something with a lot of shouting and arguing, you decide.

Maybe Pete sees the surprise on your face, because he adds, “I’ve known Miguel for longer, though… and he’s a lot nicer than people give him credit for.”

“...I didn’t say he wasn’t.” Nice? Not a chance.

“But you were thinking it. Promise, once you get to know him–”

He’ll give you a mind-numbing orgasm and pretend it never happened. Or something like that.

“ –he gets less confusing?” You grumble. “I’ve seen enough, I think.”

“So maybe he’s a bit of a prick. But under that cold, stony exterior; buried deep, deep, deep…”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Deep down , somewhere, he’s got a heart.”

“I just,” You pause, choosing your next words more delicately. “I didn’t expect his friends to be like you guys. Fun and–” …a little batshit, and… “ – spontaneous. He’s so stoic sometimes, it’s worrying. Like, he’ll just blank out on the couch–”

“–frowning in the corner like the wall’s pissed him off personally? Yeah, I’ve seen that one a few times.”

“He’s just so hot and cold! Sometimes we’re good and almost friendly, and then all of a sudden he’s avoiding me at all costs, holed up somewhere. A-And then he’s making me breakfast, like that blip didn’t even happen… did I do something wrong? Has he said anything to you? I-I just want him to–”

The man besides you chuckles. And then, you flash him a violent look that has him flattening his features in a hurry.

“He just… takes some time to warm up, s’all. He’s changed – changing. I mean, we went to highschool together and I didn’t even realise ‘til we met again in college.”

“You went to highschool with him?”

“Yeah, but I was like, 2 grades ahead of him. We didn’t really talk except… we were both in this robotics club afterschool.”

“Robotics? Wires, and circuit boards, and–”

“ –robots. Honest-to-God, hand-on-heart, stupid little robots. And being teenagers with way too much time on our hands, we’d build ‘em, and then make ‘em fight to the death. Miguel… he took it way more serious than everyone else there. We’d mess around with goobers and battlebots – hell, sometimes we’d skip to get food. He was.. He was always there, though, hunkered down in the corner and tinkering away at something.”

“Now, I wasn’t popular in highschool, at all – I went to Robotics Club , so I think that about sums it up – but I remember… no-one could really understand him. Top of his class, always up for awards, but people thought he was a little weird. Come rain or shine, he’d always be in that corner seat with a screwdriver basically glued to his hand. And we didn’t have a clue what he was building.”

He seems wistful, thinking back to that time.

“When I finally asked him what it was, at the end of maybe… 2 semesters,” He smiles, one that deepens his dimples and brushes the corners of his eyes. “He finally told us. It was a… a fucking arena for all the stupid stuff we built. He’d really thought it through, too: all our equipment would get jumbled up, so he made little boxes and sections to separate them in. There was an LED pad he’d programmed to keep a scoreboard. It was made out of this… self-healing vinyl so we wouldn’t need to replace it too often. He got so excited when he was explaining it all; about how it folded up so we could bring it with us when we changed classrooms, and… honestly, I think they still have it there.”

He sighs. “I think that’s all he knows how to do, y’know. That’s the language he speaks, the only one he really understands. Taking care of people, giving them what they need. You’re barely friends with Miguel, then all of a sudden he’s giving you hangover cures cooked up in his kitchen, and cussing you out in the morning, ‘cus you went a little too ham after a breakup. Or…he’s bringing pizza to your apartment at 3 in the morning, ‘cus he knew you were lying about being okay after your Uncle’s funeral.”

He’s got a faraway look in his eyes, an absentminded hand in May’s. Her stubby fingers curl around his, and then he’s back, snapped out of that distant daydream.

“Give it time. He’s been through some shit. Miguel’s got layers, like–”

“Like an onion?” You offer, weakly.

“No, no. Like one of those cheese wheel things that May likes so much. With.. with the wrapper and the waxy red stuff on the..?” He handwaves it away. “Forget it. MJ knows what they’re called.”

~~~

You put your back into helping set up. You don't quite get the theme, but Lyla explains it all whilst you hang the contents of those boxes on the wall: a maximalist, hedonistic mish-mash of food, drink and decor. She wants it to feel like if Gatsby three raves, and actually fucked that sad twink – whatever that means. The visual representation of an orgasm, but classy, she says. More, more, more; and if your back doesn't hurt by the end of it, then it's not enough.

She's got you hauling ass across her front room, draping fabric and moving furniture like it's your job. Ben arrives and between the four of you (five, if you include May clambering on decor), it's all done. You can't help but think she's done a great job: the whole room decked out to look like the cover of an expensive wedding in Vogue – excessive but in a way that's only classy when rich people hire someone else to do it. Lush fabric in lieu of streamers draped on the walls, balloons sculpted into arches and tastefully dotted around the floor. The theme is black and white, with hints of gold, and gentle strings of pearl hang from ceilings and walls. It looks good, because it has to; Lyla's made you move everything around about a million times.

Gleefully, she rubs her hands together, turning to all of you. "Food's going to be here in 10, I think. You guys get changed and I'll double check when Miguel's bringing the cake."

Peter and Ben disperse into various rooms – with Peter noticeably rubbing his back, May on his arm. You're left with Lyla, awkwardly looking towards her for guidance.

"...get changed?" You look down at your woefully casual outfit. It seems you've come completely unprepared.

"Yep. Miggy didn't tell you about the dress code?"

…it's becoming increasingly difficult to cut your roommate some slack. With everything that's happened, rather conveniently, he's neglected to make any mention of a dress code.

Sheepishly, you start, "I didn't know, shit –"

Lyla cuts you off and brings a hand up to silence you. Bouncing on her toes, she's almost giddy with excitement.

"I know exactly what you can wear!"

She leads you upstairs to her room. You perch on her bed; and whilst you grapple with the fact that she even has an upstairs, you lose her in the deep depths of a walk-in. Lyla rummages through almost cartoonishly; wading through fur and leather and giant coats like an explorer hacking through dense forest. Eventually, she resurfaces, waving a bundle of white fabric. She hands it to you with a grin.

She gives you some room, pushing you through the double doors of her closet to get changed. The dress feels amazing on: well-made, thick fabric and endlessly snug in all the right places. In the mirror, you marvel at how such a simple garment transforms you: a silky slip that stops about mid thigh, draped beautifully on your shoulders, and hugging your hips like a glove. There's a little slit at the side that stops just a bit higher than you'd usually be comfortable with, but… it works. Incidentally, your makeup and hair compliments the look; soft and pretty and–

You hear a small gasp from behind the door. Lyla's got her head peeking out into the room, and then she's at your side with a gentle hand on your arm. She spins you around in front of the mirror.

"You look…" Her eyes light up, marvelling at you. " Gorgeous. You have to keep it."

"No, I can't… I won't . I was already underdressed, and this must have been expensive. I can't."

"No shit, of course it was expensive. But that's not a good enough reason… I barely wear it, and I've got more than enough clothes. Keep it ." She's smiling, head just over your shoulder in the mirror.

"It's not too much…?"

"Honestly, babe, it's not enough." She giggles. "D'you like it?"

It feels weird to look at yourself like this, dolled up and pretty – contrasting how you've felt in the past few months. It feels like you've been in survival mode; exhausted and perpetually tired. On, all the time, and sick with worry about one thing or the other. You've forgotten to take care of yourself, and as a result, this feels different.

Lyla notices: the way you stand up a little straighter and adjust your hair; the way you try your hardest to clamp down a smile. Do you like it? Slowly but surely, you nod.

"You're allowed to like it, y'know," She says, softly. "You look happy. You look good. "

You believe it, when she says it. You let that feeling carry you down the stairs; one hand on the railing and Lyla babbling away with an arm looped around yours.

~~~

Miguel is late – really late .

He was meant to be at Lyla'a about an hour and a half ago, which means he's rushing to get the cake. For once, at least that goes smoothly; and he picks up a little red velvet affair, piped to perfection and with " Happy 27th, Jess!" written on its face. It keeps him company on the way to the party, sitting snug on the passenger's seat as he drives more carefully than before. He figures it's better to be safe than sorry; already this late, there's no need to add cake smasher to the list.

The day's been draining, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed with his favourite podcast. He knows his friends like the back of his hand, and knows that when Lyla says a small celebration for Jess, just a house party ; what she means is going the whole 9 yards, an excess of food and drink and disgustingly expensive decor, all for the sake of a birthday. He's had a glimpse of the guest list, and recognises about half of the people there – Lyla's too friendly for her own good, he thinks. He'd tried to talk her out of it, knowing Jess would be more than up for a smaller dinner, but she had her mind set. And it's impressive, what she's no doubt managed to achieve in the past few weeks of meticulous planning.

Nevertheless, it's not something he has the energy for, right now. Work had been a slog; and he'd had a couple hours of lectures before a meeting with his thesis supervisor – where she had ripped his outline to shreds, frankly. He's still sore from that verbal lashing, but fears the one he'll get from Lyla more, if he doesn't come.

And… and there's you, headstrong and stubborn and insisting on attending; even though he had made it abundantly clear you were under no obligation to do so. It must be out of spite, he thinks. But with the dress code, he can't help but daydream as to what you'd look like; maybe, a pretty little dress on, hair done a bit different, and… ohhh fuck. He didn't tell you about the dress code.

He's gripping the steering wheel, annoyed at himself for such a little slip up. And it's not just the fact that he's forgotten; but he knows, considering the past few days, you might take it the wrong way. He's not stupid ; he knows he's been wishy-washy, all because it's hard to decide how he wants you or if he should. More than anything, he feels guilt; getting you high and oh-so close to fucking you, just the way you deserve, and then… he can't. It's hard to explain, and even harder for him to wrap his head around. That logical part of him screaming: you can't fuck your roommate without consequences. But he's already had a glance into Pandora's box, a taste of that sweet fruit – of temptation , strong and heady.

It's that taste left in his mouth, of something sweet, that lingers when he walks into the party. The door's open, but even from down the hallway he can feel it: the rattle and shake of pumping music. He squeezes himself in, dodging the mass of bodies packed into the main room. The lights are low, music loud and the celebration well underway. More than anything, he's hoping it's so busy he can just show his face for a bit, and then slip out.

He towers over other people, shuffling past, giving a nod or hello to all the people that slap his back and greet him. A scattered chorus of 'Hi' s and 'S'up, Miguel's, and then he's placing the cake on the counter, pushing past half-empty drinks and beer bottles. He snatches one up, looking around. He's watching for the furred collar that Lyla's no doubt wearing, or mousy brown in the neon lights; but with the pumping mass of bodies, he can't see much.

He's ready to check upstairs when the crowd parts, and he sees you ; swirling in the mass. It makes his chest bloom with heat; you're gorgeous, dressed in white like an angel and smiling in a way he's never seen before. And then, his heart stops as someone else comes into view: another man, somewhat taller than you. There's an arm wrapped around your waist, and the man dances up against you in a way that makes something cold and bitter flare up within him. Miguel stays glued to the spot, for some reason, unable to take his eyes off of you: illuminated in the light, beautiful and flowing like a spectre. And like nails on a chalkboard, all he can do is watch as you dance up against someone else.

His mouth goes dry, and then he's making a beeline for the double doors at the back; a glassy entrance to a balcony tucked away. The air is stifling in there, but when he's on the balcony, finally, he's able to breathe.

There's someone nursing a brightly coloured drink, in its corner. Jess, big hair braided back and a velvety red jumpsuit on. She turns at the clatter of the door opening, before bursting into a wide smile.

" Miguel!" She cheers, enveloping him in a hug.

"Hey," He smiles warmly, sinking into her arms. "Happy birthday, Jess."

"Thank you, kindly." She curtsies, producing a faux southern twang and laughing all the same. Then, she wags a finger at the man in front of her. "You're late . "

He rubs his temples. "I.. I know."

"Lyla's gonna fucking kill you. "

"I know."

She gives him a playful punch. "You okay, over there?"

He gives her a rueful smile. "Yeah, Jess. Of course. When am I ever not okay?"

"I've got a list, big guy, but we'll be here all day."

She laughs and Miguel glances over through the glass; drawn to you even now. The song's changed, a bass line that rattles the panes, and you're still glued to that guy . Just as quickly, he looks away.

With a front row view to that display, Jess raises an eyebrow. She follows his gaze, connecting the dots.

" Oh. " Her voice is gentle. "S'that her?"

" Her?" Miguel echoes.

" Her . Your roommate. The one Lyla says you're fucking."

"You and I both know– "

"Okay, okay, maybe she didn't say those exact words…. but there's something there, for sure."

"Not possible . " He says it plainly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

She leans against the railing, taking a careful sip of her drink.

"Xina says you're doing stupid shit to impress her. Peter says you're making heart eyes whenever she's in the room. Ben says– "

"Xina? What's she got to do with anything?" He's deflecting, Jess notes. Miguel, usually so quick with the sarcasm, and he's refusing to touch the other half of what she said.

"...you're tutoring half of her classmates."

He purses his lips. "Yeah, but I didn't think –"

"...you didn't think girls would talk?" She splutters. Of course it sounds stupid, when she puts it like that.

"Yeah, well, Xina's still not talking to me , so…" He trails off, shaking his head.

"It's almost as if you broke her heart into a million tiny pieces, Mig." She rolls her eyes. "Get your head out of your ass, man."

She turns to face the city and Miguel does the same, with a heavy sigh. It's quiet for a moment, with only the sound of cars below and dull thrum of speakers behind to keep them company. He's always liked this, he thinks. A moment of calm with Jess, the only sane person for miles around. They're able to sit in comfortable silence, in a half-minute that transcends words.

He reaches into his front pocket, pulling out a little parcel that's wrapped up in red paper. He nudges Jess, handing the present over.

"Happy birthday."

She smiles, tearing into the little package. Then she stops halfway, heart melting at what peeks through.

" Miguel… " She coos, a hand on his arm to steady herself. Out of the packing paper, she produces two little boots; red and blue and made of soft wool. "How did you…?"

"It wasn't obvious, but… sick in the mornings, switching to soda when we go out to a bar…" He allows himself a smile. "And I asked what's-his-face, just to be sure."

"See, I can't tell if you actually don't know my husband's name or–" She cuts herself off with watery laughter. "F-Forget it. Fuck, I'm gonna cry all this makeup off,"

He takes a sharp intake of air. "They were… mamá made them."

"Thank you, oh God . I know how much this–"

He cuts her off with a hand wave, as if to say; don't worry about it. "Sorry I couldn't come to the wedding. Your husband seems nice, and he treats you well. Although , he's kind of–"

" Corny . Yeah, we get that a lot." She's half laughing, half crying, fanning her face to stop her mascara from running.

He wraps a big arm around her, pulling Jess into his side. Happy tears, he hopes as she blubbers.

"I think m'getting too old for this… we don't see each other enough, lately… a-and I would've been happy with the dinner, then Lyla told me there was an emergency over here–"

"She did good. Really good. Don't tell her I said that, though."

She nods, bringing a finger to her lips with a smile. "And you don't tell the other's about…"

"Of course not. When you're ready, Jess."

"I love you, man." She grins wide, and Miguel returns it with one of his own; an increasingly rare megawatt smile. It quickly falls with her next words.

"If you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll break your kneecaps and blame it on the hormones."

She grabs his beer, opening it with her teeth, and hands it back to him. A little scared, Miguel takes a healthy swig.

"Oh, shit. " Jess exclaims, batting his arm. "I completely forgot. Lyla's got some stupid games on, upstairs."

"Who with?"

"The usual suspects, Mig – though Peter's long gone and… I don't even know where Ben goes, actually. But you can bring your girlfriend up, if you promise not to eyefuck her across the room."

" Gross , Jess."

She raises a hand up in surrender, leading the way back inside.

~~~

Miguel's here all of a sudden, and in a moment you thought would be more of a bang ; you lock eyes with him as Jess herds you upstairs. It's less of a sharp pain at the ribs and more of a crescendo; pooling warmth spreading to fingers and toes. He's still in his work clothes: crisp white shirt with a couple buttons undone, and black trousers. A little formal, and yet, he doesn't feel out of place; wearing the monochrome of the dress code, and looking twice as good as any man in the room. Somehow, you've forgotten how tall he is; lumbering over everyone else as he cuts between the crowd. He snakes behind you, giving you a strange look as you walk up the stairs. All of a sudden, you're weary of your dress, tugging down its hem as best you can. Miguel stays behind you, a gentle hand at the small of your back.

"You're okay," He whispers, sending shivers down your spine. " I've got you ."

He doesn't mean it like that , but it's too easy for you to close your eyes and imagine what it could be; words he kissed into skin when you're on top, struggling to take his length.

You ignore that coil tightening at the pit of your stomach, choosing instead to focus on Lyla stumbling through the door, trademark pink shades slipping down her nose. Behind her, there's a little sitting room; plush furniture and a massive tv – with quite a few consoles in the corner, you note. She shouts your name, barely audible over the music.

" – oh, and hi, Miguel!" She's too drunk to be mad, and you don't notice Miguel visibly relaxing. She takes your hand, calling over to Jess just behind you. "We saved you a mocktail, J."

Taking your seat, you settle down next to Lyla; perching with your legs crossed on the seat. Miguel sits some way away, on the opposite side of your makeshift circle, clearly trying not to make eye contact. Jess elbows him, and he turns to her, before having a heated argument; all hushed whispers and hand gestures. It's the most animated he's been in the past week, for sure…

"We're playing Never Have I Ever, Jess! Like back in college."

The woman in question rolls her eyes, giving a flash of pretty dimple. Back in college, Lyla says, when they'd drink cheap beer and spill their guts in dive bars – a tradition Jess wasn't too upset to see go. She didn't have the stomach for it then, and she doesn't now; but it probably wouldn't hurt to relive some of that fun.

It's a warmup round, so to speak; a strong drink thrust into your hands. You take turns going around the circle, starting off relatively tame. First, it's Never have I ever skipped a class. Everyone, all college aged or older, drinks to that one. It's practically a given. And then someone chips in with Never have I ever broken a bone . Again, most people drink – taking advantage of the freebies to get a little tipsy.

It's Lyla that throws out the juicy ones, after a couple of duds.

" Never have I ever faked an orgasm." She says it from behind her glass, giggling.

Less people drink, this time. Sheepishly, you raise your glass, taking a healthy gulp. Lyla takes the opportunity to gasp, clutching at her chest and fanning her forehead dramatically.

You're whispering back, half laughing and half telling her off, "That's not that weird, Ly. Hasn't everyone…?"

"Not me. How's your partner meant to know it's shit if you fake it?"

It's her sincerity that makes you laugh; wide-eyed and completely incredulous. You're clamping down the giggles when you look around, immediately locking eyes with Miguel. He gives you an odd look, as if amused.

You're up next, and roll up metaphorical sleeves. "Never have I ever had a threesome. "

There's murmuring around the room, and a couple of people take a drink. Lyla does, with glee, and someone else you don't quite know the name of. What surprises you, however, is when Miguel takes a swig; eyes locked onto yours.

You feel heat rising, blinking away as best you can. You still feel his gaze, of course. That game of chicken, the one you've so desperately been trying to avoid, rears its ugly head. You think Miguel is winning.

The questions get more and more provocative. Never have I ever been pegged… or pegged someone else. Lyla drinks, Jess takes a gulp of her fruity mocktail…. and so does Miguel. Never have I ever been cheated on. Most people drink to this one, including yourself. A shitty teen relationship barely counts, you suppose; but you're taking every opportunity for a drink right now.

Never have I ever cheated on someone. One or two people drink, and at least they have the decency to be ashamed. When Miguel drinks, however, you shift in your seat. Something settles within you, discontent. Yet again, your image of the man in front of you changes. For someone who sleeps around, maybe it's not too much of a stretch for him to cheat ; but the word feels so final, too cruel. It doesn't match up, for some reason, with your Miguel, who brings you piping hot noodles and hot water bottles on a bad day.

This time, he doesn't meet your eye.

Lyla decides she's bored, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"New game – truth or dare!" There's faux groans from around the room. Lyla sticks a tongue out, ignoring them, and continues. "Jess, as the birthday girl… you get first pick."

Jess lights up, gorgeous , with the hoops at her ears swinging to and fro when she looks around. You haven't spoken much to her, but she seems like good fun; making a whole song and dance of picking the first victim.

It's obvious, in hindsight, who she'd pick. There's only one person in the room visibly squirming, almost sweating , at the idea of something so out of his control.

" Miguel," She says, turning to the man sinking into cushions. "Truth or dare?"

He gives her a look, and she combats it with one of her own; the kind that could melt steel beams, and says It's my birthday, don't be a dick.

" Dare ." He grits his teeth.

"I dare you," She pauses for dramatic effect. "...to show us your porn watch history."

Imperceptible, his eyes flash towards you. You notice , mouth dry. He groans. "We're not 19 anymore, Jess. It's childish. I'm a grown ass man–"

" Truth or Dare , Mig."

"Truth." It's quick – which is very reasonable, considering her tone.

"When was the last time you fucked someone?"

Everyone turns to Miguel. He's looking at you, of course, wincing at the words he's about to say.

"I don't…" He's swirling the beer bottle in his hand, and then he shrugs noncommittally. "I don't know. A… month, maybe."

" Bullshit!" Someone whisper-shouts, and then there's some laughter.

Jess' eyebrows jump up, and Miguel bats her concerns away, whispering something under his breath. You can't quite catch it but his body language is clear: don't ask. He downs the rest of his drink, lips around the bottle, as some liquid trails down the side of his jaw. You're watching, unrepentantly obvious, and he catches your gaze. Without breaking eye contact, he swipes a finger to the liquid and licks it up.

Heart racing, you force yourself to look away and try to concentrate on the next few dares. The circle seems to have moved on, more interested in whatever juicy shit they can drag up in the next poor victim.

You've all but zoned out when it's the turn of Jun, egged on by a couple of friends. You frown. He's that guy you were dancing with earlier, caught up in heady music and swirling lights. Jun is handsome, in that famous starlet kind of way; square-jawed, pretty eyes, and dark, cropped hair. Boy wonder is lean-lined with a nice smile; the very same that had reeled you in on the dancefloor. Maybe it's the liquor, but you think he's looking at you now; raking sharp eyes over your figure.

"How do you know him?" You whisper to Lyla.

She cups a hand to your ear, more than halfway to being absolutely wasted.

"Used t-to work with him. He's nice enough, I think…? There was a rumour around the office; and apparently, he's got a massive di-"

"Truth or dare?" Someone says.

"Dare. Obviously." He flashes a smile in your direction.

You squirm, and Lyla shines with realisation.

"Oh my God." She whispers, and then she's interrupting before you can stop her. "Makeout with the hottest girl in the room. A proper one, tongue and teeth and–"

You elbow her, square in the ribs. Thankfully, she takes the hint. Jun cocks his head, as if mulling it over. He gets up.

Your head spins with the drink, and you're concentrating on keeping your sneakers flat on the ground. Head down, you don't notice the man walking over. He crouches, tapping your knee.

"Oh." You say, blinking up at him. "Hi, again."

"Hi, again." He smiles. It's like you're the only two in the room, and with the way he looks at you, eyes darting to your lips… "Can I kiss you?"

The words get caught in your throat, so you nod, fumbling.

He places a hand to your chin, gently pushing you closer and then you're kissing; sweet and gentle. You separate, and you open your eyes to find his blown . You've got tunnel vision: his lips are pretty and wonderfully swollen – you just can't help it.

You go back in again, parting your lips to let him in. He's cradling your jaw, tracing a hand up your thigh and it feels good. Closing your eyes, you sink into the heady haze of booze, grabbing at his shoulders. They're not as broad as Miguel's, and Jun isn't as clean shaven. When you snake a hand to the nape of his neck; it's rougher than your roommate's hair, cropped into a boyish cut instead of Miguel's gentle curl. Sighing, you both come up for air, and you're almost disappointed at the distinct lack of red-brown blinking back at you.

Nails on a chalkboard, and you're back in the room. You look around to amused faces, catching Lyla wide-eyed besides you. Jun's cheeky, placing a quick peck to the side of your mouth before sitting down. From your vantage point, you're scared to look, to really look , in fear of what you'll see.

Miguel, in the corner, with a white hot grip on his beer bottle. Catching that stormy gaze, something just clicks. Something resembling power, absolutely intoxicating, that heady rush you got from kissing someone else. Or, more accurately, getting a reaction from your roommate. Notoriously unwavering, and yet … he reveals a gap in his armour. A silent swipe to the ribs that doesn't kill, but draws blood.

People are dispersing now, growing tired of the games. Lyla darts off; with the attention span of an excited pomeranian, and the excessive alcohol, she's already lost interest. You take a breather, sinking into plush cushions and catch Miguel's eye. In the commotion, he's tossing his beer and walking up to you, as if gearing up to say something.

Someone sits into the seat besides you: tall and handsome, but definitely not Miguel. It's Jun, who smells like fresh flowers and cut grass, nudging your side.

"You're good at that," He says, with a little smile.

"Good at what?" You say, confused.

"That kiss." He seems a little bashful, probably sobering up. "It was… good. "

"Not…" You're distracted, eyes flicking over to find Miguel. He's gone. "Not my best work, I think."

He stretches an arm around the back of the sofa, caging you in a little closer, and all you can do is blink up at him.

"....you want to try again?"

He's handsome. He's flirting . And he's present; able to give you clear signs that he wants you. It's more than a certain someone can provide, and you're left with a deep-seated need that no-one else seems to be able to fulfill. Four words ring out in your head, clanging around like pinball. You. Might. Get. Laid.

It's enough to have you leaning up against Jun, a hand tracing circles in his thigh and fluttering your lashes as best you can. Hopefully it's a look that's says seductive, and not pink-eye. This far into the night, you don't quite have the energy to care.

Heavy petting and drunk giggling; you spend God knows how long in that little room, whispering stupid shit to each other. You introduce yourself, and so does he. A brief overview of your life; and you find yourself desperately trying to skip the small talk. Jun works with computers. You're a student. Jun is very good with his hands. You're a visual learner. Everything seems to fall into place.

Soon enough, you're swapping numbers and leading him out the door to somewhere more private . His apartment ; you find yourself hoping, as you make your way downstairs.

He's draping a jacket on your shoulders, and you wade through the crowd. The lights are spinning a little less, you find, holding onto Jun's palm. In that great big room; people packed in like black and white sardines; all you're looking for is something to tether yourself to – or someone. Relationships, you've learnt, were overrated. You're young, and single, and gorgeous ; able to bag whoever you want. And what do you want? A hookup, clearly; something simple and uncomplicated, without the mess of feelings to untangle yourself from in the morning.

There's a commotion from a corner of the room, and Jun pulls you back; craning his head to see. A jumble of people, crowded around the epicentre. He nods towards the bustle.

"Isn't that Miguel?" He shouts over the bass, and your eyes widen.

You push past, trying to get a better look. Flashing lights, pumping music. In the red and blue and black, he's there ; hand wiping a bloodied nose. He's saying something; and a couple of guys surround Miguel, giving rough shoves and shouting something you can't hear. Someone throws a punch and he takes it, barely shifting at the continuous blows.

It's a sobering sight, and you're worried; looking left and right at the onslaught of bystanders.

"Why isn't he fighting back ?" You say, barely audible. No-one's doing anything but watching; one or two even pulling their phones out to record. The sight makes you sick, and you're shouting his name, trying to get closer. Like a gunshot, sudden and sharp and cutting through the noise, he locks eyes with you. His eyes dark, with that same look he gave you not too long ago.

Another cruel kick, and he's down on one knee, clutching at his stomach. You notice the broken glass, the blood in his shirt. He's goading them, and still , he refuses to fight back. 250 pounds soaking wet and at least 6"5; he's a fucking killer – and everyone knows it. Why won't he fight back?

There's a pounding at your skull, and something deep and dark and complicated that twists around your insides, threatening to rise up – and then.. and then…

The lights are turned on, and the music stops. Lyla's at the stairs shouting obscenities; telling everyone to get the fuck out, or I'm calling the cops.

People disperse out the doors, but only a few rush towards Miguel. You do, of course, and then Jess is by his side to help him up. He must look worse than he feels because despite the bruising and pouring blood; he pinches the bridge of his nose like he always does, as if it's just a headache. He's laughing ; the smug bastard; incisors sharp and dangerous and flashing pearly white. Your heart's still racing; betraying complicated feelings. As the last dregs drip out of Lyla's apartment, you're all left to deal with the aftermath.

Jess looks shaken, Lyla's sobering up; and you're holding Miguel's hand, elbow deep in the oil spill.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #rigor mortis 😼#kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara smut #atsv miguel #miguel x reader

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cutiemarkofcain · 11 months

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Rick and Morty spoilers. Under cut for length and negativity. This was eating at me.

I hated That's Amorte so much. It literally makes me angry. I was so excited for it. They were hyping it up. It was written by the same person who wrote Final Desmithation- a really entertaining episode! Morty was going to be in it a lot! It was compared to Pickle Rick and Vat of Acid! And then... we got this mediocre thing.

I have seen Pickle Rick and Vat of Acid, and you sir, are no Pickle Rick or Vat of Acid. And I'm even kinda meh about those episodes, but at least they showed the complexity of Rick's character!

Okay, characterization. Rick was reduced to the toxic dudebro fan ideal of him: asshole who gets away with being an asshole because he's always right. Morty- poor Morty! Finally gets an episode this season and he spent the whole time being pushed around and shat on by other characters and the narrative. Don't get me started on the rest of the family. They were fucking demons- I felt like I was watching an episode of Family Guy, just swap Morty for Meg. (Disclaimer, I haven't watched Family Guy in years, but I remember it being really mean-spirited for a while, I don't know if that's still the case, but yeah that's what I'm referencing.)

As for the theme... I just really dislike moral dilemmas that are totally bizarre and never apply to the real world. Just strikes me as pseudo-intellectual. And what is this episode trying to make a point about? Assisted suicide? The meat industry? Capitalism? Pick a fucking lane.

The story was the worst part. We've seen Morty try to do the right thing, only to make things worse, so Rick has to fix everything (Mortynight Run, Rattlestar Ricklactica, etc), so nothing new there. And it's fine that that's not new, because at this point it's happened enough that it's a trend, but That's Amorte does nothing new with it. The scene where Morty was letting his family have it was reminiscent of a similar scene from A Rickconvenient Mort, except it had emotional weight there. Here, the family's dismissal of Morty is treated like a joke. The suicide angle worked so much better in Analyze Piss because the subject was treated with the gravity it deserved, whereas here it was an element in a stupid thought experiment. And that scene showing the random dude's life? I was so pissed I refused to watch. It was like they realized what an emotionless husk the episode had been so far, so they tried to tug at the heartstrings in the laziest, easiest way possible, with some poignant scenes and sad music. That shit worked in Vat of Acid because it was about Morty and we care about Morty. I can tell when I'm being emotionally manipulated.

All in all, it felt like they took a bunch of superior episodes, had no understanding of what made them good, and threw them into the blender dimension along with a bunch of spaghetti. It felt like it was written by AI.

I can say, with confidence, that it was my least favorite episode. There was nothing I enjoyed about it. Less than Rickdependence Spray? Hell yeah, that episode was dumb but funny. Less than Raising Gazorpazorp? ...Okay, that one had no redeeming qualities either, but I didn't get hyped for it, so it wasn't a disappointment. Less than the last two episodes of season 6, which I refuse to remember the names of? Yes. Even though the last one bored me, at least Rick was nuanced and interesting there. As for the penultimate one... welllll, I mostly felt betrayed about that episode lying to us, so I feel I can't properly judge its quality. So that one doesn't get a score.

This episode offended me as a fan of Rick, as a fan of Morty, as a fan of the show, and as a writer.

Rick and Morty forever, huh? If it's just going to be an eternity of Rick being an insufferable smug jerk, Morty being abused, and both of them being miserable and hateful to each other, I don't even want another day of them. I guess this is the "Too Bleak, Stopped Caring" trope in play.

The only thing that makes me feel slightly more at ease is pretending like this episode didn't follow the main family. And that's why everyone felt like they were from season 1 and hadn't gone through any character development. (The mind eraser device looked different, by the way.) But that only solves the characterization issue, not the rest of it. Edit- realized that couldn't be the case because of how Summer says "parmesan".

Okay, I think that's everything I wanted to say. I hope that's everything, because I don't want to talk or even think about this episode anymore.

#bitch bitch #rage rage #long rant #seriously look away i am not nice here at all #and i apologize for nothing #except maybe for switching tenses throughout the rant

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dorylinae-supremacy · 4 months

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💀 Necromancer AU 💀

Wooo I'm home finally time to post my snippet!

Uhhh AU I've posted vaguely about before but its basically Phil being a delulu necromancer who thinks of himself as an artist and ends up accidentally making himself a son (or three) as he decides to explore a new 'era of art.'

Tags: Dark Phil, darker than usual so heads up, explicit gore, i mean its a necromancer au, idk what you expect, dead boar, graphic description of corpses / rot, grubs / insects, ~584 words, you get the vibes as you read.

Phil liked to think of himself as an artist.

Really, if you thought about it, that's what he was. He took what was discarded by others and turned them into wonders of art that few could even begin to imagine.

Sure, sometimes his artworks liked to rebel. Some parts simply rejected their other parts and forced him to find new materials that would actually be able to fit but that's what made it fun. It kept him thinking.

No piece of art was ever truly done, sometimes one might get a bit too reckless and a part might fall off. Luckily as a witch he was able to fix such minor mistakes. He was able to toy with the very material of reality and he could turn it into the most beautiful of pieces.

That's what led him here, he was desperate for a new piece to work on. All others had slowly lost their shine, no longer filling him with satisfaction every time he looked at them. Now he looked at his old works and only saw mistakes, things he could've done better if given the chance. He didn't bother recycling them; the parts felt tainted and useless.

This work would be a brand new start. A clean slate for him to test all his skills on. Luckily there was a market for his discarded pieces, people looking to snatch up whatever shit he decided he didn't want anymore. It'd be pathetic if they weren't giving him such good money for it.

Or maybe that made it even worse? He was never sure. It wasn’t like he cared enough to, after all. They gave him money and he gave them crap. It worked out wonderfully in his favour.

Tonight he was following a path through the woods that led him to his harvesting grounds, a scrapyard that had unwittingly become the source for his most recent materials. The pieces he was able to find always had some knack about them, a quirk that told a story. It made wonderful fuel for his imagination.

He surveyed the ground, sending out little magic tendrils to feel for the telltale spark of opportunity. He always allowed his magic to guide him in his artistic pursuits, the mana that fuelled his veins had amazing taste in scraps.

He shifted the grip on his shovel as he made his way to the first blip, eagerly cracking open the earth below him. A couple minutes of digging and he was soon rewarded for his effort.

In the shallow grave sat a boar, bloated and rotting. Flies and whatever other insects had already gotten to it, maggots working their way out of where they were laid. The stench of death wafted with the disturbed soil but he didn’t let that bother him.

It felt almost welcoming, something so familiar about it bringing him a warm comfort.

There was no doubt that livor mortis had already set in for this cadaver, the fur wet and sticky against his hands as he hefted it out of its pit. Eagerly, he brushed away the squirming grubs from their feeding grounds in favour of inspecting the corpse a bit more.

Some of the insects were clearly still inside, skin writhing when muscles have long gone still. It would do well for a new piece of art. The little skin that he could see was a deep purple in colour, confirming his suspicions of blood pooling.

That wouldn’t do, though.

It wouldn’t do at all.

#dory writes #dorys snippets #necromancer au #dark sleepy bois inc #dark sbi #i guess its enough for the tags

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alvaroz-starrs · 1 year

Text

(THIS IS OUTDATED AND IM NOT PROUD OF IT BUT IM LEAVING IT HERR SO YOU CAN READ IT IF YOU WANT, ITS HISTORY NOW.may 11 2024)

FAN FICTION

How they met

(Kinda Byortis?)

(Note/contents: Mentions of abuse, oppression, swearing, and sad children. This explains how I think they met, they are all kids when this happens)

The sound of shattering glass alone was almost too much to handle. Byron ran in his room, and locked the door.

Fucking Christ! What's his problem?!

Byron cracked open the window, wondering if even leaving for a moment would be worth it.

.. He'd rather be lost in this dumb park, than be frightened for his life because of that piece of shit. He quickly grabbed his satchel and put in what he'd thought he should take. Notepad for writing and drawing, pencils and pens, and a couple of dollars in case he wanted to buy something. And that should be it-

He looked at his night stand and saw the pocket knife he was given by his sister. You never know when you might need it.

He slowly opened the window, grabbed his satchel, put the knife in his pocket, and hopped out. He slid the window down, not fully closing it, but just enough so bugs wouldn't get in.

He ran down the street, heading into the center of Starr Park. Maybe all the people there will be a good distraction.

But no matter how much he reasoned with himself, he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit of guilt.

…

Byron slowed down and caught his breath, he might look suspicious if he kept running. He looked around and decided to treat himself. "..I'm surrounded by food and merchandise anyway, why not?"

He stepped over toward a little candy shop. God's, it's so bright in here.. they definitely want kids to buy as much as they can. The walls were covered with paintings of all kinds of candies.

I'll just pay and go as quickly as possible. So obnoxious here.

Byron grabbed some chocolates off the shelf, and went to pay at the register.

"Where are you parents, son?" The candy-man seemed tired, he probably expected Byron to be just as loud and difficult as the children outside the little candy shop.

"..They're just outside near the fountain..waiting for me." He slid over a couple of dollars to the man. The man seemed too tired to give it much more thought, and slid the candy back towards Byron.

"Thanks." Byron quickly ran off, he went around the fountain just in case the man was watching. Once Byron was covered by the crowd, he headed to the alley.

A little dark, peaceful area. Nobody really went there. It wasn't nearly as bright as the rest of the park, the most colorful thing in the alley was the occasional poster.

Byron sat down behind a wall near a box, away from any people. Talking to that candy-man alone was too much interaction for him.

"Finally.." Byron sighed out. He had a break from his Dad. A break from the awkward stares of people. And he had the whole alley to himself. Just him, and his chocolates.

As Byron unwrapped and ate his chocolate, he heard something. Sounded like someone…hiding? Not only that, but the noise was so close. As Byron opened his mouth to call out to anyone there, a voice interrupted him. A voice with a lisp, a..young voice?..

"Whatcha eatin-"

"AHHHHHHHHHHH FUCK"

"ahhhhh!"

"AHHHHHHHH!"

"Ahhhhh! Heh! Hahaha! What are you so scared of?" The boy was laughing, it seemed like he intentionally joined Byron in on the screaming.

"YOU!" Byron snapped out, he fumbled back a little. The strange boy walked towards Byron, and stood across from him. After Byron took a closer look at him, he was even stranger than he thought.

He wore a black hoodie, with little bat wings sticking out on the side of the hood's head. Odd choice in the middle of summer. He also wore long, dark, baggy pants. The boy had very pale pink skin, and had sharp little fangs sticking out. (Is that why he had a lisp?)

Is he a fucking vampire?! No no no no no! I-it must just be the darkness. He probably just has an overbite.. and he's probably just pale!

"Hi! I'm Mortis! You?" Mortis stuck his hand out, waiting for Byron to introduce himself.

"..Byron," He stood up and shook his hand. This 'Mortis' was just as old as him, maybe slightly older?

"If I may be so bold…why do you have fangs..?"

"Hah…!.haha…. no need to speak like we're in the eighteen hundreds, you sound like my parents-! B-BECAUSE THEY-THEY'RE REALLY POLITE." Mortis looked..scared?

"..You didn't answer my question.." Byron thought he was deflecting.

"Sorry! What was it again? I was too focused on your grammar!"

"WHY DO YOU HAVE FANGS????" Byron hadn't yelled, but he said it clearly and slowly. No more side tracking now.

"It-it's just an overbite! I..really need braces..?"

What a bad lier. Byron thought more and more how Mortis looked just like a vampire. What about his ears?

"What's with the hood?" Byron crossed his arms and stared intently.

".. Uh- I'm.. cold?"

"Yeah, your hands certainly were."

"Hey- how about we talk for a while?"

"Fine. But I'm not moving from this spot." Byron sat back down near his original spot.

"Okay! Then I won't move-" Mortis sat down close to Byron. "-with you!" Mortis had a genuine grin on his face, Byron could see his fangs even more closely.

"..So!.." Mortis sat on his knees, he patted his legs with his hands like drums. "What's your favorite thing to do?"

"To eat chocolate in peace and quiet." Byron's head nearly rested on his knees, his arms were wrapped around his legs, and he was slouched over.

"Cool! I like walking in the alleys, away from people, and the scorching sun. Sometimes I get lost in my thoughts.. Soooo I'm glad you're here!" His eyes pierced into Byron like broken glass. How can one be so cheerful?

Byron looked away. He didn't want to leave, but he didn't want Mortis to look at him. It's as if his very joy was a weapon.

"-!"

"Hey, are you okay? You seem to be thinking about, a lot right now.." Mortis placed his hand on Byron's shoulder. He flinched.

"Don't touch me!"

"Why do you even care, VAMPIRE?" Byron took out his pocket knife, and pointed at Mortis.

Mortis jumped up shaking, he looked around all possible corners checking for any eavesdroppers.

"SHHHH! Keep your voice down!" Mortis spat out in a panicked whisper.

"Why should I? You'll just drink my blood anyway!" Byron was scared, but kept his knife pointed.

"That's a myth." Mortis seemed suddenly calm.

"Wha-?"

"It was made by vampire hunters to make us seem like a threat. The only blood I drink is from cows, pigs, sheep, and chickens. Not humans."

"A-and why should I believe you?" Byron's beliefs on others started to crack faster than glass.

"Personally, drinking blood from another sentient being makes me feel gross. Gross as a person, I mean." Mortis sat down with his legs crossed. He seemed a lot more calm now.

"You probably have some weird curses from the eighteen hundreds! Hell, you're probably a thousand years old!"

"I'm thirteen. Also, lower that knife. You're all hat no cattle."

Byron put away his pocket knife, maybe he's right…

".. Show me your ears..!" Byron wanted his last bit of proof that Mortis was a vampire. He couldn't accept it. Was he dreaming? No way a vampire could actually think like this! Right..?

"Okay, okay! Just cover me if someone else comes!" Mortis slowly took off his hood. His hair was frizzy, a bright shade of purple.

His ears were pointed. Just as Byron refused to believe. How was he still shocked?

"Shit.. You've got long ears.."

"Just insult me, I guess."

Byron reached his hand out, trying to study the structure of his ears.

"Hey, you okay?" Mortis pushed Byron back,

"Yeah-yeah. Sorry." He scratched his head. "I guess I was just in denial."

"Oh… hey uh-" Mortis sat next to him.

"I have two questions.."

"What is it, vamp?"

"I have a name, use it dork."

"Alright Motorhead. What's your question?"

"One… Can you keep me, being a vampire… a secret?"

"Sure, but you suck at hiding it. Your fangs stick right out."

"Ah, thanks for telling me!.." "And two, why are you here?"

Byron shivered, "What do you mean?"

"Where are your parents? You're here all by yourself?" Mortis had concern seeping through his voice.

"I-.....I could ask the same for you!" Byron felt defensive. He barely knew Mortis, and he's already prying into his personal life? "Why are you here?"

"I don't want to get sun burnt. Plus, if I get in danger I can just fly away."

"Right, I should've thought of that, mosquito.."

"Hey, I just wanted to make sure you were okay!" Mortis got closer.

"Fine. You want to pry so bad? I ran from my dad. Just to get a moment of fresh air and silence! I'M SICK OF HIS SHIT! I'M SICK OF HIS DUMB ALCOHOL PROBLEM! S-sick of the dumb broke-en glass..!. Sick of him… I-I'm so tired.."

Byron started to cry. His words broke. He sobbed.

Mortis hugged him, he didn't know what else to do- so he hugged him.

"I'm so sorry. It'll be okay, at least one day, I swear.."

…

They stayed there for what felt like forever. Byron sobbed, Mortis did his best to comfort him, he even took him back to the candy shop, to the candy man's dismay.

Byron and Mortis munched on candy while they talked.

"So, same time next week?" Mortis asked, he sat right next to Byron, being there if any support was needed.

"How are you so comfortable with me? I literally tried to kill you." Byron asked that genuinely.

"I haven't really gotten many…friends… This is kinda new to me. And, I forgive you."

"Oh, okay.." Byron didn't have many friends either, even before he moved away from England. "Also, I don't have a watch on me." Byron crumpled up the candy wrappers, and threw them in a nearby trash can.

"I do! I have another one at home! Take mine," Mortis took Byron's palm, and put a watch in his hand.

"Yeah, sure. I like the sound of that.. Promise you'll be here?"

"I promise, Byron."

(FIN. God that was a long angsty one.)

#brawl stars #brawl stars mortis #brawl stars byron #fanfic #tw abuse

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