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loganlermanstanaccount · 9 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 6)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 5, Part 7

summary: Everything unravels. You teach Miguel a lesson.

warnings: soooo much smut. mutual masturbation, grinding, slight femdom, Miguel is a submissive switch cuz I said so, m! masturbation. very very 18+ Minors DNI (ageless blogs will be blocked, thanks!)

a/n: yeah...so. ya.

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: 8k

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

in your half-hearted hubris,

Miguel is not a jealous man. Jealousy implies something he thought was shed long ago: a second skin of something green-eyed and crooked.

One minute, he's watching you kiss someone else. And when you sigh into it; imperceptibly, but he notices because he always sees these things about you; he's biting the inside of his cheek and drawing blood. The guy you danced with, and now your lips are on his. Is… Is that your type? Jun is slender and charming; a pretty boy, through and through . There's a hand on your thigh, he notices, milky white and willowy. It has Miguel looking at his own, rough and tan, the ghost of soft skin and pillowy thighs on his fingertips. The illicit foray of one night, one night with you , and he's second guessing himself.

Insecure.

His hands are rough and calloused. He picks at hangnails, the skin is raw from rubber gloves and mystery chemicals, and knuckles creaky because he cracks them too often. Is that what you like? The kind of thing you touch yourself to; his hands, pawing at flesh. Jun cups your chin, slender fingers pulling you closer, and your own come up to wrap around them. You seem desperate for it, panting and pretty lashes fluttering when you separate.

And you look at Jun like… like he wants you to look at him.

There's blood in his mouth when you finally do. He looks away, quick and furtive, like you've caught him doing something wrong. It's not right or wrong, he supposes, just tripping over a muddle of thoughts – still stuck on the image of your hand on Jun's.

He was a late bloomer, awkwardly proportioned and too tall for his limbs. Clumsy, if you can believe it. He's always been a bit of a bull in a China shop; bulldozing and brutish and still growing into a body that pools at his ankles and is tight around his wrists. Like an ill-fitting suit; the kind he wore to Fernanda's quince, skirting the rental hall with a bottle of j2o. In and out of conversations, tripping and stuttering over words in stiff dress shoes and a waistcoat . Gabi took a lot of photos: peace signs and pointer finger looped into coat pockets.

Point is; he's not felt this way in years . Tongue-tied, hot and cold, heart-pounding. Jun decidedly isn't; able to talk to you like a normal person, making you smile and laugh. Curling fingers into the crest of a wide palm, he digs his nails into the flesh: producing a sting that makes it crystal clear. Oh. Oh.

Fuck.

One minute, he's nursing a warm beer and trying not to take a chunk out the inside of his mouth. The next, he's on the floor of Lyla's living room, blinking up at bright lights.

There's soft hands all over him. Holding his own, cupping his cheek, moving his head this way and that as he tries to focus. He's looking at your pretty lips, pert and pressed into the lean line of a frown. There are… people talking over the other; strained and hushed in a quiet corner.

He recognises Lyla's voice, distinctive despite the ringing in his ears.

"A-All over a drink…. pushing past 'em, Jess…. he threw the first punch…"

~~~

The drive home is terse, air thick with something. Stewing, you've got your arms crossed and head turned to the windows. You're watching the streaky lights of the city zip past, lips pursed. Head on the glass, you're making a point not to turn back or utter a word to Miguel.

"You picked a fight." You swipe a finger on the condensation, finally ready to talk.

He shrugs limply. A beat passes.

"....this is the part where you explain what happened, Miguel."

"I picked a fight."

"...that's it?" Your brows shoot up. "You just… there was no build up? Why? "

"Wanted to give 'em something to bond over in the morning." He deadpans, glancing over to the passenger seat. "Matching black eyes."

You shake your head slightly. "Don't believe you."

You see something flash in his gaze, and then it's gone. He smooths over features, and that Miguel is back: lifeless and blank. Steadfast, he doesn't turn to look at you.

"Okay." He says simply.

"All that Ophelia shit from a couple of weeks ago, and you still won't –" It's under your breath as you clamp down anger. If Miguel hears, he doesn't indicate. "I just want to understand."

He purses his lips. "Nothing to understand. I'm an insecure piece of shit, and I picked a fight. I ruined Jess' birthday, and fucked it up for everyone else. I know. Can we… Can we speed this bit up? I'm exhausted. "

"No-one… I didn't say that." Your voice is hoarse. He's being mean. He's never been all that nice; sarcastic and smug, for sure, but never cruel. It feels spiteful. You're blinking away a hot tear before you can stop it. And then they become angry tears, ones that sting your cheeks on the way down.

You're not good with fights. Never have been. And it's not even the confrontation that scares you, it's the apathy. Sifting through your guts and begging someone to care, when they don't. It's like screaming at a brick wall and expecting the mortar to shift; a pointless exercise in delusion. You'd grown sick of it with Jamie; the hand-waving and the what do you want me to do about it of it all. It's the one thing you've grown to like about Miguel, about all your little fights. He's rarely the bigger person, petty, and able to get down in the shit and stink with you; because, on some small level at least, he gives a fuck. He cares .

You're embarrassed that you even thought he would be any different. Disappointed, but not with him: with yourself for getting caught up in all of this.

You're sniffling, wiping up and flattening out of sheer spite; refusing to let him see how a stupid thing like this affects you. The tears well up in your eyes, hot and blurry and you're focusing on holding yourself together by the seams before you get home.

You don't notice him pull into a side road and park the car. It rolls to a stop, and he's reaching over to the backseat; and pulling out a box of tissues. The box is floral and tissues scented; rosy and sweet in a way you wouldn't expect from him.

When he nudges you with the box, apologetic, you're still not looking at him; not even flicking over to give him a dirty look.

"Chula. " It rolls off his tongue so softly, but you jut your chin in the air. "Please. I'm sorry."

You purse your lips.

"I'm a dick."

"Yep." You manage.

"I picked a fight. I'm an insecure piece of shit–"

"No, no." You're turning back, quickly. "Stop saying that. Why are you saying that?"

He shrugs again, and you flop into your seat. You notice, he's gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.

"Relax , Miguel." You wrap a hand around his, and watch him visibly melt. His gaze softens. "M'not trying to push, I'm sorry."

You take his hand off the wheel, inspecting the purple and blue that spreads across taught skin. His palm is rough, knuckles bony and bruised.

"When we get home–" Home. You sigh, bringing it up to the little car lights. "I've got a first aid kit, somewhere. We need to clean this up, or it might get infec–"

Looking up, you catch Miguel staring , stars in his eyes, and it… it knocks the breath out of your lungs. All of a sudden, you're flustered and letting go of his hand in a hurry.

All he does is nod, starting the car. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling away with a palm on the flat of the wheel. In the light of street lamps, shadow cutting his cheekbones just so. He's beat up, he's tired, but even then; Miguel is so, so pretty.

~~~

You end up in the bathroom, first aid kit splayed on the countertop. He insists on standing, despite a slight limp he tries to downplay, and so you're sitting on the faux marble with Miguel between your legs. Your dress rides up but you're too tired to care, ripping open gauze and tapping disinfectant on a little pad. At least he has the decency to be still and quiet, with his palms on the counter top and kissing bare thigh.

Miguel is tall, still having to bend over when you pat the peak of a split lip; hand on his chin ever so gently.

"Where'd you get all of this from?" He asks because your first aid kit is comprehensive : micropore, gauze and antiseptic with a name that sounds like sleeping pills.

You're swatting him gently, trying to keep his jaw still. "My ex was a med student."

He smothers a smile, like he's trying not to laugh.

"...what?"

"...is he the one that couldn't make you cum?"

You stop tending to his wounds, hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. Never have I ever faked an orgasm – the words start ringing in your head. You're not a blushing virgin, but his crass word choice makes you flush.

"None of your business."

He smirks. "So that's a yes. "

"I faked it once or twice , sue me. But… I mean, the sex wasn't bad. It was even good, sometimes."

"Sure." He cringes, and you bat his shoulder.

"Don't want to hear it."

He hums, pressing a little closer to your front.

"What was he like, then?" He seems nonchalant; but his tone is unusual, sending shivers down your spine.

"He was… nice."

"Nice?"

"Yep." Four years, and that's the best you can come up with. It's all you can verbalise, at least. How does one describe the feeling of getting hit by a metaphorical train? One that leaves you on the tracks, thinking of picnic dates and IOUs and diner coffee? They'd describe it as poorly as you do, most likely. A moment passes. "I loved him, I think."

You don't know why you said that, but the melancholy of the night starts to sink in.

"Then why'd you break up?"

You shrug. "Wasn't enough."

He looks surprised, eyebrows drawn up momentarily, as if that's the last thing he thought you'd say. You strike him as a romantic; ditzy and dopey when you have feelings for someone, a love conquers all type of person.

The mood sours, air heaving in that little bathroom. You finish up in silence, applying strips to a gash above his brow. It takes some time for him to speak, as if he's been building up the confidence.

"Is that your type?" He asks, finally puncturing that pressure.

You shake your head, a little confused.

"Nice? Like that guy you were talking to."

"...Jun?" You hesitate, sensing something else behind his words. "I mean… I just wanted to get laid."

He doesn't really react, thumb grazing the silk of your slip dress. The skin his hand brushes past feels a little hotter.

"He's pretty, though." You're careful not to make eye contact, getting to work cleaning the cuts on his knuckles. You smile to yourself. "And yeah, he's nice. More than nice, actually. "

Jun works with computers. Jun is good with his hands. And you really were going to fuck him. Until… until…

…until Miguel got into a fight. After watching you kiss someone else. The gears turn in your head, creaky and lumbering because you haven't had to navigate a shitty pseudo-situationship in forever. You're wrapping up his hand with gauze, mouth moving quicker than you can think.

"Are you jealous?"

He splutters, flashing pearly whites in indignation.

"No… No . You can fuck whoever you want." He says it too quickly. "I don't care."

He looks a mess; a gash above one eye, a nasty cut glancing the side of his lip, and knuckles bruised. Suspecting more hiding beneath his shirt, you look at him, gaze heavy. You're worried, even when you shouldn't be, even when he doesn't deserve it.

"Oh my God." You're connecting dots, and your stomach churns with the realisation. "What the fuck ?"

" M-not -"

"Just because you don't want to fuck me– "

"I never said I didn't want to–"

"You didn't have to, you just refused to acknowledge how we almost did for two weeks. "

"Neither did you!"

"I wanted to… after. And you said we couldn't, because I had a lecture."

"You did have a lecture, and you were high! That doesn't mean anything… I need you to mean it when you say it."

"So you resort to sabotage? I was gonna get laid, you fucking asshole."

"You kissed him."

" So? "

"You didn't kiss me."

That one takes the wind out of your sails, and you're stammering with the amount of brainpower it takes to wrap your head around it. You slip off the counter, putting some space between you both.

"...I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not saying you can't kiss him… o-or you're not allowed to, or some crap. I just don't get it. I don't understand."

He's holding your hands in his,

"You just met the guy, and you kiss him on a stupid dare–"

" –he kissed me." You correct him, voice hoarse.

"He kissed you . Cool. Whatever. You kissed him back. But when I tried to kiss you, after… " He trails off.

"I dodged one kiss . Maybe I wasn't feeling it."

"And that's fine. I respect that, and I respect you. But it wasn't just one kiss. It's all the time , around here. I say something, then you say something, and then… we have a moment. Time just stops. Can't you feel it? I-I feel like I'm going crazy."

You keep quiet, only the sound of your heart racing to punctuate thoughts.

"Miguel… "

He gets even closer, pressing you against the counter, his bandaged hand migrating to your waist, and then the small of your back. Your knees are weak as you swallow roughly, with Miguel; strong, annoyingly handsome, perceptive Miguel; resting his forehead on yours. You come together, intimate, even allowing your eyes to flutter shut, waiting for the press of lips on yours.

It never comes. Wrenching yourself away at the last minute, you're standing in the doorway; arms folded, because you don't know what to do with your limbs anymore.

He doesn't look disappointed. Just deflated.

"Do you want to fuck me?" He asks. Yes , you answer, but he can't hear it.

"Do you want to kiss me?" Do you want me? Do you want me in a way no-one else can have me?

This feels different. Not as simple as a yes or no.

Your face must say it all for you, because he sighs. "I just want to know why."

His behaviour has been erratic, to say the least. You've spent a good month and a half terrorising each other, before coming to an uneasy truce – and he fucked it up. All that talk like he knows you, that he sees you, and it all feels for naught.

"After all the shit you've pulled… what gives you the right? I was so worried about you–" Your voice is barely above a whisper. " Fuck this. M'going to bed."

Slipping into the gloom of the hallway, and then into your room, leaving Miguel there.

It's different, why can't he see that it's different? A one night stand, with Jun, with someone else; kissing a guy in a dare doesn't have consequences. You get off, you go home. Simple, clinical, no need for niceties. With Miguel, as you've come to realise, there are other things to navigate. Even when high, you knew ; with someone like him, it's too intimate – the possible consequences too dire. He's your roommate, for God's sake.

You can hear him now, turning off the bathrooms lights and padding into his room. For once, there's nothing to be heard from behind the wall. The dim light spills in, warm yellow pooling around the door. Your window is open, moonlight and the city below to keep you company.

And you want him to stew in that room, to punish him for all the shit he's put you through in the past week; hell, the past few months you've been here. But you can't. If you're sick of the mind games, you can't keep this game of chicken going – you're both careening towards the edge faster than you can say the words: Yes, Miguel; I want to sit on your face. If you could get rid of the attitude, that would be great, too .

So you're knocking on his door, still in your dress, tugging down its hem when he opens. He's in that shirt and slacks, bloodied front and all.

Deep breath. You straighten your back, and make sure you're heard, loud and clear.

"I don't like it when you bring over girls to fuck them in your room. The walls are too thin, and I can't sleep because I hear everything. Everything, Miggy."

He's stony-faced, unreadable as ever. Still, you continue.

"I don't like it when you look at me… like that, and then pretend it never happened. You're inconsistent, sarcastic, you freak out whenever there's a sock out of place and it drives me fucking crazy–"

" I don't –"

"I'm not finished. You're a prick. You don't tell people you love them enough, when… when you do. You so clearly do. Lyla was worried when you took so long to get to Jess' – just give her a call, sometimes. Let people know what's going on."

His face is stuck somewhere between abject horror and plain old shock. For Miguel, that means his eyebrow is raised a half-inch higher than usual.

"...you finished?" He strains.

"One more.. ." Another breath. "...your poker face needs work. Because you look like you need a shit half the time."

His jaw shifts. You maintain eye contact; despite everything screaming that you should run with your tail between your legs.

"I fucking hate you , Miguel."

"I know." He softens, running a hand through his hair. Leaning against the frame, he steps a little closer; and imperceptibly, you're both pulled by the gravity of the other. All of a sudden, your head is on his chest, blood-spattered cotton that smells like him, arms wrapped around his middle. Hesitant, he pulls you even closer, slotting into the crook of your neck as best he can.

Wordlessly, you separate. You knit your eyebrows together, looking up at him. With your hand on his cheek, he leans into your touch. You graze a thumb on his lips, eyes fluttering at the broken skin: plump and messy and pretty.

"Sit down." You say it so softly, he convinces himself he didn't hear it.

You go again. "Sit down."

Your tone makes him flush, and then he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He leans back, you step forward; legs brushing his knees splayed atop the sheets.

"Do you want me?"

He's nodding before he even hears the end of the sentence, eyes locked onto yours.

You shrug.

"Prove it. "

And it goes straight to his cock: the way you say it, blasé and casual, like you haven't put words to the way he's been feeling for weeks. Usually, he'd start to spiral, endlessly loop around what you mean. Want , strong and heady; and to him that means a hungering that leaves his throat dry and innards bare.

Do you want me? Do you want me in a way no-one else can have me?

And yet, he doesn't quite know the answer. Instead, he shows you; hoping and praying he hasn't read this wrong.

Barely breathing, studying your every move, he takes your other hand. You hinge slightly at the hip, coming closer, eyes still locked onto his and he places your little palm onto his crotch. It spans his whole length, quickly hardening. When you don't react, he panics, trying to move your hand away…

…and then you squeeze .

Miguel keens, bucking into the pressure you apply with the heel of your palm. He starts a slow roll of hips, other hand wrapped around yours on his cheek; melting into it, in a way that brings heat to that sweet spot between your legs. And then he stutters to a stop, lips parted and panting.

"Why'd you stop?"

"G-Got carried away. Sorry ."

His brows are knitted, shoulders hunched, and when you slide your hand down to the corded muscles of his neck, he tenses. He always seems so stressed, but you've never seen him like this: desperate and falling apart at the seams.

"You're okay, Miguel. Relax. "

You shift your wrist, rolling around that growing tent in your palm. He hisses, palms flat by his side and head thrown back. With a little smile, you watch his shoulders melt, satisfied.

"Does it feel good?"

"Y-Yes." He groans. Despite your quickening pace, he seems to clamp down instinct; biting his cheek to muffle wanton moans.

"How about you get more comfortable for me?"

At first he doesn't understand, grumbling when you take your hand away from his clothed cock. Pulling him upwards, you make a start with his buttons, helping slide the fabric off of his shoulders. He slips his slacks off, and then he's left in black boxers; it's band hanging dangerously low.

They're tented, sporting a wet patch of precum around the fat tip of his dick. And he is large, its outline clear under the thin fabric.

You wrap a hand around his waist, other hand tracing up to his chest.

"What about you, chula? "

You look up. Miguel looks down at you, eyes low, large hand splayed between your shoulder blades.

"You don't like what I'm wearing?" Doe eyed, you don't really expect him to take you seriously.

"N-No, no. " He's stuttering, now. "You look beautiful. Always do. I just… I want to see more ."

You click your tongue with faux disapproval. "Don't be selfish, baby. You wanted my attention, right?"

He nods, with the self-awareness to be hesitant at your tone.

"Then," You start, slipping a hand into his boxers. You wrap a dainty hand around his length; thick and slanted and weeping at the tip. "Learn to be grateful."

"Ayy-" He wraps around you, head bowed to dip into your shoulder.

You pump his cock, other hand around his neck; eyes sparkling as you force him to look to his side, at you.

"F-Fuck–" He's breathing heavily, mouth open into a pretty little O , and you clamp a hand down to his jaw.

"What do you want?"

"R-Rapido, mas rapido por favor -"

[Faster, faster, please-]

Surprisingly vocal, he loses it as you press your thumb onto his slit; flushed and pouring with precum. You rub his wetness along the length of his shaft, squeezing and turning your wrist as you get to his tip. He likes that; hips bucking to fuck into the ring you make with your hand.

You want to savour this moment: Miguel stripped down to his boxers, beautifully tanned skin pressed up against yours. And of course, that look on his face; a lusty haze, even stronger than the one you were under when high, all those nights ago.

His lashes flutter, and you watch as his core tenses; watching and waiting for just the right moment to… stop.

You pull away, and he chases it, bucking into thin air. You're pushing him back onto the bed, with a hand to his chest. Eyes blown , he leans back onto his forearms; unable to tear himself away. There's a certain glow about you, a glint in your eye, one that takes his breath away. Something smug , a little smile as you drag a black thong down your pretty thighs. It's long forgotten when you chuck it onto the bed; Miguel still can't get over the sight of legs and a flash of your cunt, committing it to memory.

Sidling up to his chest, you kick a leg over and seat yourself onto his lap. Flush against the fabric, you settle onto your knees. The look in Miguel's eyes almost bowls you over; stunning and windswept, as he runs a hand over your thigh. Eyes wide at the way the fabric pools around your body: the swell of tits cupped by silk, how good it looks against your skin.

He's staring at where you meet, that spot between your thighs when it happens; when you guide his hand to the apex of your pussy. His thumb slots against your clit like it belongs there, rough pads applying just the right amount of pressure.

"Oh f-fuuuck," You sigh into it, pressing your tits to his chest in a way that makes him hump into the pocket left by your body and the smooth fabric of your dress.

Even in his haze, Miguel is hyperfocused on your pleasure, obsessed with the noises he can pull from you. With a big hand on your waist, he pulls you closer to slot you against his front. It's your turn to moan, the prettiest thing he thinks he's ever heard, slipping his cock between your lower lips with a swirling intensity.

You're drunk with the pleasure, hands on his shoulders to angle him towards your clit. He thinks you look like an angel, head tilted back to expose the expanse of your neck. Bringing his teeth to that slight vein, he's a killer; sucking rough hickeys to the skin.

"M'close, fuck –"

"Damelo, hermosa, " He places two palms at the globes of your ass, squeezing and pressing into you even closer.

[Give it to me, beautiful.]

"Miguel…shit–b-baby, think I'm–"

You cum, gushing and clamping down around nothing. Miguel is more interested in the way you transform ; fine lines and deep furrows of your face softening, the pure bliss written into the gentle arch of your body. He did that. It makes his chest warm, it makes his cock swell; and with the feeling of slipping through your pretty folds, he gets so, so close to that biting edge.

You stop, slipping off of his lap and he whines at the loss of you. Tugging down your dress, you make your way out of the room and he's reeling , clutching at your arm so you don't leave.

"Chula ," He's babbling, tucked back into his boxers, but on his knees for you. "I'm sorry, please. Do you want me to beg? Because I will , baby, I w–"

Helping him up, you give him a little smile that he's too pussy-drunk to realise its true nature. Dangerous, you cup his face with both hands, brows pressed together and large, sparkling eyes. Not quite sympathy, but it's enough to make him think you'll wrap a hand around his cock out of pity, press those pretty tits against him and–

On your tiptoes, you give him a chaste kiss between his brows. You flash him a stunning smile, bottom lip hooked under your teeth.

"Goodnight , Miguel."

And then you're out the door, down the little hallway and into your bedroom. Miguel runs a shaky hand through his hair, unsure whether to laugh or cry. And he knows, still rock hard, body burning with the memory of you: he's fucked.

~~~

When morning comes, Miguel wrenches open his eyes, bloodshot and sore. He feels like shit , barely able to sit up without feeling like his chest will collapse.

It feels like he was ran over in a headfirst collision; and he was, essentially, wincing at the memory of that fight. He can feel strike one and two; between his ribs, to the side of his navel; but the real knockout punch was you – a deadly, calculated assault that he almost hates you for.

Almost.

He came harder than he has in months last night; bent over his cock, pumping shakily. It had only taken a couple of rough tugs until he spilled all over himself; embarrassingly quick. He lasted longer the second time, unable to help himself.

In his defence, the black thong you had slipped off was right there ; rumpled amongst the sheets. He had pressed it to his nose and then wrapped them around his shaft; eyes closed as he imagined being buried in your plush pussy. All his fantasies; quickies in the shower spent jerking off to the thought of you, where he'd hold onto the feeling of brushing past you in the kitchen, or little touches on the couch. You've surpassed them, well and truly.

Now, he stumbles into the shower, stripping on the tiles. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he pokes at flesh; purple bruises stretching over brown and tan muscle. Turning around and craning his head, he follows them all the way to his back and then… oh. He can see them: scratchy-sharp lines, spanning the width of his shoulder blades. You did that, he thinks.

Fuck . He's hard again, sighing heavily as he clambers into the shower. It sputters to life, ice cold, but he grits his teeth and takes it , trying to free his mind of cotton and cobwebs. As the water warms up, he presses both hands flat on the tile, head down and eyes closed. The water washes over him, down his back, and like a flash of lightning he's imagining you pressed up against him, bent in half over his cock. He'd press a thumb to your clit, slamming into your ass; fucking you hard, like you deserve. You'd like that , he thinks, from what he's heard of you in your room, the filth that spills from your mouth and to his side of the wall.

"Miguel?" It's a little muffled over the shower, but you get closer to the door.

"Yes?" He shouts over the rush of water. He shouldn't . He really shouldn't.

"You've got a call!"

He hums. With the way you say his name he caves, making a tight ring around his length.

"It's Lyla, and-" Something clatters. " Fuck , sorry."

Your voice is breathy, little groans as you pick up whatever's dropped to the floor. Miguel feels like a perv, turning the water pressure down to listen to your voice properly. All the while, he keeps a steady pace on his cock.

"Should I just let it ring? Keep it going?"

Keep going is what he hears, and then he speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him. What would it would it 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.

"Miguel?"

Or maybe you'd be 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, please–

That's how you would ask him, clawing at his back, and he'd capture those pleas in a searing kiss.

"–Miguel!"

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes onto the tiles. 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 tile.

"Just take a message," He strains, panting as you say something in response. He doesn't quite catch it, of course, too busy reeling from the aftershock.

The shower croaks and gurgles, spluttering to a stop. He listens as your footsteps recede beyond the door, moving away.

Shit. It's going to be a long day.

~~~

You sleep like a baby. Lulled into blissful sleep, after practically floating into bed. That orgasm does wonders; and you sleep better than you have in months. You dream of cotton candy clouds, flowing green grass, and tanned, muscled men on their knees; in the kind of sleep that wraps around you like a blanket.

Surprisingly fresh in the morning, you wake up before Miguel does. You're milling about the hallway when he barrels into the bathroom, and on the couch when he leaves.

"Mig?" You poke your head towards the door, and he almost jumps half a foot into the air.

Eyes wide, and he can barely manage a weak smile.

"Lyla called."

"Yeah, you…" He sighs, clutching the towel slung around his waist a little tighter. "You mentioned it."

In the light of the morning, you're able to assess him a lot better. To put it plainly, he looks rough ; blinking at you oddly, shifting when you come closer. You don't touch him, Miguel seems much too antsy for that, but you get closer to inspect the bruises that bloom across his side. It looks even worse than yesterday, purple and blue across taut muscle. You reach for it and he flinches, so you pull away.

"...you okay?"

" Yep. " He grits it through a plasticky smile; and the fact that it reaches his eyes is a red flag in of itself for the usual grump.

The side-eye you respond with isn't quite enough to chip at it, so he continues.

"M'just fine."

" O–kay . Lyla said something about a debrief , earlier."

"At the usual place?"

"...uhhh. She said at HQ? In about an hour."

"Okay… okay. Nonono, that's fine… okay." He's muttering to himself and about to turn around when something catches his eye. Your lips; pretty gloss and freshly done. In fact, you're fully dressed to go out; in a display that has him confused.

You answer the question he posits with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"She invited me, Mig."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Of c.. of course she did."

Distracted and haphazard, Miguel gets dressed; squeezing into the car with a flask of coffee to-go. It scares you; the way he barely flinches while taking sips of the bitter liquid you know must be piping hot. He's acting weird, even weirder than usual; but you let it wash over you and move on.

Eventually, you pull up to HQ ; a shitty dive bar that is inexplicably serving breakfast and other miscellaneous items at 12pm. At least, that's what it looks like, arriving to see one overcrowded table and a sea of pancakes and coffee. Jess sports a croissant and orange juice, whilst Peter scoffs down a burger almost as big as his face.

"Miguel!" He says it with a mouthful of pickles, beef and patty, slapping the man in question heartily on the back.

He winces, batting Peter away before sliding into the seat next to you. For barely a second, your legs brush together and he's shifting away. Okay. That's… odd.

You're sifting through menus when you glance over to the counter and you see her : a pretty woman of about 25, tucking red hair away behind her ear. Your heart stops, and then you're tapping Miguel.

" Look, " You hiss quietly, nodding towards the counter. " Isn't that…? "

June McGinnity, the premier main character in the hit tv soap, And Everyday Before The Last; The Final Season. It's the very same show you've been bingeing for the past 6 months. 18 seasons, 3 spinoffs, and a revival currently in the works; you're obsessed with the show that's gotten you through your last breakup – and the one before that, and a couple of rocky moments with your parents.

She's been a staple for the last couple of seasons, quickly skyrocketing to popularity in her minor role, and now , in The Final Season, she's got her well-deserved spot as a season regular. June is tenacious, smart, absolutely hilarious, and–

" –she's coming over here . Shit, Miggy, she's coming over," You whisper to him and for the first time this morning; he smiles, wide and genuine. It takes you back; not just because he looks so pretty when he smiles, but because you have no idea what's so funny.

June slips into the seat besides Peter, and your eyes almost fall out of their sockets. She gives him a kiss on the cheek , as Peter brushes away blunt bangs. Frantic, you turn to Miguel, who's trying not to piss himself laughing.

He's borderline howling, and you put a hand around his arm to get him to keep quiet – to stop embarrassing you in front of June – but he's too busy wiping away tears.

Peter turns to the scene, clearly confused. He says something to June, and then he's turning to you, saying your name.

"Hey, I don't think I've introduced you to– Miguel, please shut the fuck up– this is–"

"MJ." She smiles, brilliant and sparkling, with her hand outstretched and you think you might pass out.

"I'm–" You're stumbling over your words, grasping her hand before you can overthink it. Maybe it comes off as overzealous, but you're desperately trying to shut out Miguel's laughing. "I'm a massive fan, you're so incredibly talented ; as June – I always cry at that one scene when you meet your long-lost sister... a-and when you find out that Jackie is actually your Mom, I swear, I get chills–"

The man besides you splutters, hunched over and gripping onto the table for support. It's getting egregious, now, and you make it known as best you can with a dirty look.

"I'm, oh fuck, no… I'm done, I promise." He clamps down a smile, hands up in surrender.

"Was that… too much?" You gain some semblance of perspective, and then you're falling over yourself to apologise. " Shit , I'm really, really sor–"

" – No, no. You're good, it's nice to get recognised for that show! Most of the demographic is old people and pensioners, honestly. Not a lot of IRL interaction with fans, if you know what I mean." She flashes you that smile, again, and you melt. She turns to the man beside you. "Don't be a dick, Miguel."

"Yeah, Miguel." Peter continues to inhale what you think is his second burger, wagging a sauce covered finger. "What she said."

Miguel rolls his eyes so hard you think they might rattle about in his skull, and you give him a rough shove for good measure. Down the other side of the table, you spot Lyla; downing a brightly coloured drink and massaging her temples.

"Shit , Lyla. You want to slow it down?" Jess says, and then her eyes are flicking over to yours. She does a double take, giving you a wide smile. " Hey , y'all! When did you get here?"

"Not long!" You call back, and she gives you a thumbs up in response. Lyla coughs beside her, sporting a nasty grimace; and then she's up and looking around the table, as if taking a headcount. At least, you think she does, as it's hard to see her eyes between pink tinted shades. They slip down her nose and she brings a fork to the empty glass; silencing the rabble.

"M-Morning…" She stills, hand on her chest like she's got heartburn; throat bobbing as she gags slightly. "Morning, everyone. First off, hope you all feel as shitty as I do."

And then there's cheers and good-natured elbowing, especially towards Ben and Miguel. Apparently , if you're to believe the whispers and rumour mill; Ben took to bar-hopping across town, ending the night without a shoe and someone else's shirt. He gives a rueful smile, holding up a mug to scattered laughter. And Miguel… well, he's Miguel , sitting back in his seat with folded arms.

"Second," She pauses, for dramatic effect. "Someone's volunteered to pay for the next round of food to apologise for last night… everyone say Thank you, Miguel."

She starts a limp round of applause with a flourish, and sits down. There's only about a dozen people there: most you recognise, and some you don't. There was no attempt to explain what exactly a debrief was; so you're left disorientated in the mash of voices. Miguel picks at waffles besides you, in his own world. Without a word, you get up, making your way towards neon bathroom signs in the corner.

It's some peace and quiet, a moment to think as you look at your reflection in the mirror. You look lighter , as if a weight was lifted off of your shoulders last night. Your skin looks a little brighter, eyes sharper and even your hair falls differently, today. You feel good, and it seems to translate to the person looking back it you. Wow. You're practically–

" -glowing. Shit , you look good." Lyla calls out from behind you, entering the little bathroom with Jess.

Jess gives you a warm hug, and Lyla follows before pushing up heart shaped glasses.

" Damn, girl." Jess gives a low whistle, hands on her shoulders to turn you this way and that.

They make you giggle, with a warmth that blooms at your chest.

"Was it that cute guy from last night?"

Lyla interrupts. " Jun! Did he send you a little something after you got home?"

"Did you ditch Miguel to get some?"

"God, did you invite Jun over? "

Jess gasps, before quickly adding. "No judgement, of course. Once upon a time, we probably would've done the same thing."

It's a back and forth that gives you whiplash, dodging fastballs that get hit into the tiles. Not trusting yourself to speak, you shake your head, demurely.

"...are you telling us you didn't have sex last night? Because that glow says something different."

You clamp down any words that might give you away, but Jess' sharp eyes latch onto the cracks: a little smile tugging at the sides of your lips.

"So not Jun … but someone else? Last night…? "

The penny drops and then she's grabbing at you and Lyla. When realisation hits the mousy brunette to your side, she's flinging off pink shades to look you in the eye.

"You fucked Miguel?"

"No!" You're hissing, trying to calm raucous behaviour. "Technically, not… yet."

"Not yet? " Lyla repeats, astonished. "I mean, I thought you two were already–"

"It makes sense! Could've sworn I saw his knees shakin' today…"

"Okay, okay…" You're laughing, finally understanding the magnitude of the grenade you've just lobbed at them. "It wasn't like that . It's not a thing."

"...do you want it to be a thing?"

You tilt your head, pretending to think on it. Yes , you want to ride him till something breaks; but Miguel is a walking red flag. You know, deep down, nothing good can come out of it.

"Don't… don't say it like that."

"Look, Ly, she wants it to be a thing. "

" Definitely. It's basically already a thing ." Lyla concurs, nodding firmly.

"Fuck you guys." It's not said with spite, leaving your mouth with a smile.

"Oh, no. You like 'em tall, and tan, and a little grumpy. You mean: Fuck me, Miguel. "

You're swatting her away, whilst Jess is doubled over in laughter; hand on the ceramic to steady herself. They're good fun; raucous and boisterous and making you feel welcome, when you know they really don't have to.

The laughter dies down, and they're leading you out of the bathroom to their side of the table, chattering away. Jess digs into another pancake, rock hard, and all of a sudden you're telling her about the waffles at Pam's Diner, and all the interesting characters you've met there. Lyla nurses another sweet cocktail, chattering on about a pre-game she's got in a couple of hours; and then you're exchanging stories about hangovers and missed lectures.

From their conversation, you slowly learn what a debrief entails: the remnants of a tradition they'd started when 19 and spotty. All of them, friends of friends, roommates, classmates; growing to know each other in the dinky bar across the street from their dorms. Tending to hangovers in the morning from an all night rager, or pre-gaming before the biggest events of the year: it's something that trickled down to every so often later in their adulthoods. It's something else Miguel started, surprising you yet again.

So absorbed in their heart-to-heart, time flies by; and late breakfast turns to brunch. You're exchanging phone numbers, and left smiling from lots of little tete-a-tetes, before Miguel tries to drag you to the car. One last goodbye had turned into two, which had turned into four; and then he's grumbling alone in the car for a dire couple of minutes.

You open the door, glowing. Your mood dampens immediately as you sit down; soured by Miguel's own swirling dark cloud. He seems worse than before, somehow. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the air thick with something. Where you would've bit your tongue before, pushed down difficult-to-say words, now, you find a surge of confidence.

"Miguel," You start, and he turns; key still in the ignition.

You look around at the parking lot, mostly empty, except for you two.

"Can we talk?"

"...sure." His tone seems anything but sure; which feels like a first, for him.

"About last night."

"Oh." And then he's gone again, eyes flicking around the cab of the car. All of a sudden the mirror needs fixing, and he's fiddling with some buttons on the dash.

You place a hand on his to still him. He doesn't flinch.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He shrugs. You don't believe him.

"Did you like it?"

He pauses, chewing his lip. " Yes ."

You believe that .

"Good." You hum. "I liked it. But you made me feel like shit, too."

He softens. "I did?"

"You did. You only wanted me after you saw me with someone else. After I kissed Jun."

You wait to see if he admits it, and his hand curls into a fist, tight. His grip relaxes, and then his voice comes out in a whisper.

"Y-Yeah… I was jealous." He seems remorseful, at least.

You sigh. "I don't want a relationship with you, or anything. But it made me feel like… an object. A conquest, another notch on your belt because you only want me when you can't have me. It made me feel shitty, Miguel."

"I fucked up," He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wasn't really thinking, chula. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Miguel. I like fucking around with you." You say it with a small smile. "I want… more ."

"Me too." He's smiling back, shy, brushing against you with fingers stretched out.

"That's fine, more than fine. We can do this because I make you feel good, and you make me feel good, and somehow… this works . But we need to keep this," Gently, you push away his hand, gesturing between you both. "...and us separate. My heart can't take the possibility of this blowing up. And… And it's probably going to be me; 'cuz I seem to like getting my heart broken."

You give a watery laugh, but he doesn't laugh with you; instead, boring into your soul with red-brown eyes.

"If we're going to do this, it means I can't kiss you, properly ; it means no cuddling after sex, or staying the night in your bed." It's why you couldn't kiss him before, and you hope he understands. "You can say no… you probably should say no. But that's what I want, right now. And those are my terms."

It takes a moment before he respond, mulling it over, and you barely breath in the interim.

"I want you ." He nods slowly, and then more firmly as he turns the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life, as Miguel turns to you with as best a smile he can manage. Lip cut, hair smattered across his forehead, and thick brows softening; he says, firmly, " Yeah, I'd like that."

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@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #rigor mortis 😼#kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut

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sharenadraculea · 2 months

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The primarchs having dinner together

Lion: He is a cat. He only eats the meat. Not even touching his veggies. He doesn‘t really get why they are having this dinner, but Luther thought him some decent table manners and he is happy to eat the meat of everyone who doesn‘t want theirs. He is eyeing the pidgeons sitting outside the window. They are gone by the end of teh evening. Fulgrim: He has some really bad allergies. Like one small bite can easely turn into a medical emergency. He really hoped to eat the same food as the others, but it‘s not safe. He takes his own food with him and feels pretty bad about it. Ferrus needs to comfort him. Perty: Grumbeling the whole time. Magnus dragged him here, saying it would be fun. Maybe it kind of is. But Calliphone still cooks better. Jagh: He is very excited to try some new food, very adventurous taste. He‘s having a great time, very supportive of his brothers who are a bit more picky than he is. Offers to buy everyone drinks. Leman: He has a lot of fun too, needs to be stopped from drinking too much. He is a bit sceptical of everything more complicated than bread and meat. A chocolate dessert needs to be ripped from his hands to avoid a medical emergency. Rogal: He has ARFID, so eating in general and especially going out to eat is difficult. Brought his own food with him and when told he eats like a toddler, goes on a extended rant/presentation about ARFID. Brought some extra dino-nuggets to share with his brothers. Ends up distracted and builds a fortress for the dino-nuggets to live in. Konrad: So much food! He has no idea where to look first. Eats very fast and has no table manners. Despite this, he won‘t touch his veggies, because cat. Heroically liberates Morty from both his meat and dessert. Somehow catches the rat which he nibbles on between courses.

Sang: He has perfect manners. Tries everything on the table, does a extensive food criticism. Definetly asks for the recipies of some things, the cook is crying in joy. At some point goes on a long tangent about food on Baal and how good snakes taste. Everyone is shocked that Sang would be a fan of raw snakemeat. He isn‘t very picky. Also eyeing Konrads rat and Lions pidgeons. Ferrus: Not enough stones for his taste. Attempts to also eat the plate. Very worried about Fulgrim and kind of hoovering around him. Lactoseintolerant and is carefull not to end up having a horrible stomach ache, Angron: The nails make tablemanners difficult, he has decided that everything is fingerfood. Surprisingly calm, ripping apart food probally helps. Rob: He got the menu weeks in advance to mentally prepare. Still, it is difficult to eat so much new food. He is kind of regretting that he didn‘t bring his own food like Rogal. Someone notices how stressed out he is and asks the cook if they can send him some spaghetti. This helps a lot. Morty: Meat just gives him the ick. Can‘t eat it, very glad to give his to Konrad. Very happy to eat Konrads and Lions veggies. Kind of intimidated by eating with so many people and very quiet. Looks like he thinks someone will take his food away any moment. Ends up hiding some food in his pockets to eat later, Magnus: He has brought his books with him, just in case. Not all that interested in the food, but keeps three conversations going at the same time. Later drinks two glasses of wine and is passed out, transforming into a blob of warp-goo. Horus: Loudly commenting on everyone else and what they are eating. Then Rogal lectures him and he is humbled for approximatly three minutes. Lactoseintolerant, which he fully ignores. Later loudly complains about his tummyache. Lorgar: His religion has pretty strict rules about what you can eat, so he is very angsty. But he also doesn‘t want to cause problems and it looks and smells so good and Angron keeps handing him squished things and that‘s weirdly cute… Vulkan: He is just so happy that they are all here. Buys everyone some icecream for dessert. He has brought his mothers extra spicy BBQ-sauce with him and puts it on everything. It is classified as a weapon of mass destruction by everyone not from Nocturne. Corvus: Has some food-related trauma (specifically the hadn‘t had emough as a kid) and so keeps eating pretty much everything handed to them. Evem tries Vulkans BBQ-Sauce, which does not end well. Vulkan buys them birdseed in exchange, which makes them very happy. Alpharius Omegon: Somehow got their hands on a McDonalds Happy Meal. Very happy to witness all the chaos

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rae-blogging · 4 months

Text

CROSSING LINES: Prologue

pairing : park jongseong x fem! reader, park sunghoon x fem! reader

genre : angst, fluff and smut

word count : 700 (for the prologue)

format : series (not in lowercase)

synopsis : jay and y/n are content in their happy relationships with minjeong and sunghoon, blissfully ignorant of each other's presence when an accident turns their lives upside down. was anything ever the way it had seemed?

contains : themes of death, infidelity, heartbreak, unhealthy coping mechanisms, sexual harassment in upcoming chapters, jay being a complete jerk who def has anger issues, y/n being extremely delusional and naive

a/n : it has been ages since i've really sat down and written, but i had wanted to write this for a while now so here it is. this is based off a show called 'bepannah' which despite its flaws i was absolutely in love with, jay and y/n's characters are heavily inspired by those of aditya and zoya so if ridiculous anger issues or seeing jay be petty and horribly mean is not something you'd like to witness, i'm sorry.

Park Jongseong had only ever been sure of two things in life:

Flying

Kim Minjeong

And he couldn't ever come to a conclusion about the order. It didn't matter, though, because the only person he needed to understand that was always by his side, his best friend, his girlfriend, Minjeong. With her, Jongseong could be Jay; he could be childish, immature, and whiny. He could be flawed. He could be more than the arrogant heir of Park Industries.

Jay didn't honestly remember when he fell for Minjeong; all he knows is one day she was singing along to Harry Styles in his car, and the next, they were tangled on the back seat, her voice whispering a confession he could only smile in response to. For Jay, the transition was easy, and their relationship was effortless because, to him, despite everything, Minjeong was his best friend above all; she knew him inside out, and he, her. Nothing could ever change how he felt about her and how he felt with her.

Why then was he standing, trembling on this unassuming street of Seoul, with his darkened eyes fixated on the dead body of his girlfriend and a stranger right now? Their hands intertwined. Rigor Mortis, the doctor whispered, not even bothering to glance up at Jay before he turns to the team of detectives at the scene.

Jay could barely feel the glass shards from a stray bottle crackle under his feet as his body unwillingly staggered back, only then realizing there was someone behind him. His body turning around, and he blinked at the hazy silhouette he saw on the ground, his vision blurred by the thick sheen of tears covering his eyes that he didn't even register were there.

His mind still trying to make sense of the situation when his eyes meet your reddened ones, his ears suddenly becoming aware of the sound of loud sobs. Your frame kneeled upon the muddy ground whimpering while one of the detectives tries to console you and get you back up. Jay can catch a few words from the conversation, his mind too muddled to pay attention when you try to push past the cop towards the bloodied bodies.

“It's my fiancé! You don't understand! Sunghoon!” You cry, and Jay wonders for a second if he should be screaming too. His body unable to react or respond to the sight, his eyes blankly falling at the ground where his girlfriend now lays dead. Her face somehow free of any major scarring; she looks just fine, and he almost calls out to her like he can hear you do for the man in the background. His eyes once again darting towards the intertwined hands of Minjeong and Sunghoon as he stares lifelessly. She wasn't wearing her ring.

He can faintly hear the sound of a few detectives whispering, his brain barely able to piece certain words together, but he could guess their words as he stared at your frantic self overwrought with emotions that Jay hadn't even acknowledged yet. He saw how you vehemently shook your head to something one of the policemen said and your tearful but firm voice piercing his ears as he clenches his fist at your words.

“They were just sharing the cab!” You protest, trying to wipe your tears, but more keep falling. “She was- she scared, she must have been scared, she must have asked for a lift" You sniffle, trying to sound sure of your words as your eyes meet the sympathetic ones of the policeman in front of you, his gaze angering you as you gulp down tears, "Some women have to be like that, they- she must have been running away from home, so, so he held her hand; she must have- she must have asked him to. Sunghoon is kind, he's really nice like that, he-”

Anger finally flickers on Jay's face, his presence left unnoticed as he clenches his jaw at what you say, his voice cutting through your heart as you immediately jump back, not having even realized he was standing there.

“Your fiancé cheated on you.” His voice is sharp and almost hollow, and you can feel faint memories of earlier this morning resurface at his appearance. Memories that suddenly seem of a distant past. “Your nice, kind fiancé cheated on you with my girlfriend.” His cruel words of disdain making you open your mouth in immediate denial and anger, but he doesn't let you. “You are an ignorant id-” His words getting cut off by a wary detective, “We are taking the bodies to the hospital for an autopsy; if there's any immediate family, you can inform, please do it now.”

Your hands immediately fiddling before you ask hesitantly, “Did he- did he- did it happen immediately after the car crash?” The detective sighs, “We can't be sure yet, but the doctor seems to think so, yes. Both seem to have died at the spot right after the accident. We'll find out more once we take them to the hospital.”

Jay's lifeless gaze flits over the ambulance his girlfriend is in. His dead girlfriend. Just a few hours ago, he had been out buying a birthday gift for her. And a few hours before that, Minjeong had woken him up after opening all the blinds and teasing him when he protested.

“Don't be a baby," she grinned. "You know I have to leave for Busan for the art exhibition soon. Now get up!"

Jaw clenched, hands balled up into fists as Jay realized how easily she had lied to him. Was any of it ever true?

“You can't think the worst of everything," your voice shakes Jay back to reality, your soft eyes still brimming with tears as you try to console an angry Jay. “I'm sure there's an explanation. Sunghoon would never cheat on me, neither would- would your girlfriend if she loved you. You don't have to take everything as you see it. That's foolish."

Your voice magnetic and firm enough to almost make Jay believe your words, but he could hear the slight waver in your voice, the uncertainty in your lilt, how it sounded more like you were convincing yourself than him.

“You are a fool to force yourself to believe any of that.” Jay's words are flat. “You and I were both cheated on, and right now, I don't know if I am infuriated or devastated, but it doesn't matter because you are neither. You are just a fool whose fiancé probably cheated on her because she was too delusional to live in the real world. Anyone would cheat if they had to deal with someone like you.” Jay's words seem to prick your soul. Your heart wrenching as he walks off, his hand grabbing his phone as he walks out of earshot, and you are left to stand on the once barren road, the quiet buzz of policemen and ambulance not enough to pierce through your thoughts as the words of the stranger seem to reverberate in your head.

Anyone would cheat if they had to deal with someone like you

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zeep-xanflorp · 1 year

Text

so at this point everyone is accepting that rick and diane never had a healthy marriage right??

like i think what everyone assumed (including me) is that they retconned all the things about rick not believing in love in the first two seasons when they revealed rick's revenge quest in season 6. like i thought that because rick was doing all of that for diane and beth, that it was indicative of a healthy relationship. but i don't think that's the case anymore after looking into some old episodes. i truly believe it was the intentions of the writers to make him have a bad relationship w diane since the beginning.

so here's what i've been thinking right.

"listen morty, what people call love is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. it hits hard, morty, and then it slowly fades, leaving you stranded in a failing marriage. i did it. your parents are gonna do it. break the cycle, morty. rise above. focus on science." (rick potion #9, ep 106)

the situation he describes is so specific. he describes "failing marriages" and compared his marriage to that of beth and jerry's which is infamously codependent and toxic.

"i couldn't make [marriage] work and i can turn a black hole into a sun, so..." (the wedding squanchers, ep 210)

he talks about how little he trusts in marriage. because despite his intelligence, he couldn't be happy in his own.

so these are the two hints we get about rick's marriage before diane even actually shows onscreen. both of these quotes demonstrate rather clearly that their relationship was dysfunctional in some capacity. that it was "failing".

so if we're call caught up let's move onto the season 3 premiere.

"why don't i go grab beth and we can go out for ice cream?" (the rickshank redemption, 301)

that's all she has to say after rick says he's giving up on science - his passion. which is rather odd because it was clearly something he was working on for some time and he just says he's giving it all up immediately. which is odd, right? this well seeming remark could be far more insidious than it seems.

i'm not the only one to point this out but that's it. she dismisses his feelings. she invites him out to a place with their daughter (where, with her present, they would be incapable of having an adult conversation which would put more distance between them) and in this regard, beth acts as a physical barrier between them both.

i'm not saying that diane is in the wrong here. i'm not saying rick is perfect. but that's one instance of their relationship where something pretty major had just happened. and it's immediately brushed off.

(abcs of beth, 309)

there are plenty of hints that rick was indeed an absentee father, even when he was still living with his daughter. take the abcs of beth, where rick talks about all the toys that child beth had to play with. beth insists that she asked him to make those because she wanted to spend time with him. let me repeat, beth explains that she wanted to spend time with her father so bad that she asked him to make lethal weapons for her to play with. plus the whole froopyland thing - an environment designed to be safe so he wouldn't have to keep an eye on her. it's obvious she channeled her neglect in a destructive way - aka in a way that she got from her father. but i digress.

the point is, rick has always been absent from his family in some capacity. whether it was emotionally as we see with diane or physically as we see with beth.

there are also some hints at infidelity on rick's end. take mr nimbus, who is confirmed to have known diane.

then when diane and beth die, he absolutely crumbled. and this scene does break my heart watching it bc we know it's not just a part of a fake memory now. it was all real. the pain he experienced in that moment - the hope he had of living a normal life and making everything up to his family - just got ripped away from him.

so even though on the surface, rick appears to have a healthy relationship w diane when she shows up in the show, that doesn't mean that's all there is. it's very unlikely based on all of the information presented in the earlier seasons that these two were stable together and i think that the presentation of diane as a perfect loving caring wife is intentional. it either represents how rick remembers her - as someone kind - or is only a small part of the equation.

oh and let's not forget the ghost ai that rick made for his dead wife. he designed her to berate him, to wear him down. to never let him move on from what happened. like that's something super messed up wow. maybe

in conclusion, rick has never had a stable family or home life. that thing didn't appeal or satisfy him. it caused him to neglect his daughter and continues to impact the relationship he has with his adult family members. by no means is this an excuse and that's hardly my point. i feel it's important that we know the reality of ricks marriage to understand how that impacts him in the show we're watching.

ofc this is just my take on what little we have seen from the two of them. i rlly want to see more so i can maybe make a better assessment. but yeah. whatever went on there? not healthy. no way in hell.

#i know i'm leaving stuff out but i'm tired n this is a rambling rant #rick and morty #rick sanchez #r&m #rick n morty #rnm #rick c 137 #rick c137 #rick #rick and morty season 6 #old man alert #beth sanchez #beth smith #diane sanchez #rick and morty theory #meta #idfk how to tag this #game theory ????

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hazelnut-u-out · 8 days

Text

If God Exists, It's Fucking Me!

(Post 2/2)

A lot of this is a follow-up to Post 1, but I broke it up because I'm rambly.

Sidenote: I didn't realize how much Rick and Morty tries to confront the viewer with the question of what makes a god a god. Take from that what you will, lol.

Having a god complex is an essential component of Rick’s character. He can’t pull his sense of identity away from his relationship to God.

'If God exists, it's fucking me!'

Even though someone may no longer believe in their god, they were still raised or programmed to serve them before they serve themselves. It becomes instinct.

I would imagine a god-like intellect could blur the line between one’s own needs and those of their god even more. For example, if Rick can value himself above God, then who’s to say he can’t do all of the things God has done for his own purpose? If Rick can prove that he exists and not that God exists, then what morally stands in Rick’s way? This is what makes Rick a good representation of what religious trauma can look like in someone exceptional. Working on the basis of this assumption, his god complex would arguably be inevitable.

The final layer of tragedy is that C-137 isn’t all-powerful, is he? There’s one Rick that took something from him he can’t replace; one Rick– someone he can prove exists– is more powerful than him. How can C-137 argue that Prime isn’t in the right while still following the logic that his own power is what gives himself the right to ‘invent, transform, create, and destroy for a living’? Without being able to condemn Prime’s actions, what can C-137 do other than try to become him?

'You think it's cool being the smartest man on Earth, but once we give you this technology, you become the smartest thing in every conceivable universe -- the Infinite Rick, a god.'

All of this relates back to a take I have on Evil Morty’s character. I believe he’s a lot like C-137 in that way, but his god; the being he was ‘programmed’ to serve; the creator he had to ‘defy’ was… Rick.

Because Rick made himself a God.

Even though Evil Morty and Morty Prime don’t seem to have faith in Rick, they were still bred to serve him. Evil Morty justifies his behavior because it’s nothing Rick hasn’t done. If Ricks justify their behavior through their abilities, then there can’t be anything wrong with being Evil Morty… Can there?

Morty Prime, on the other hand, still serves Rick even though he doesn’t believe in him anymore.

‘That's something you can't have when Rick shows up. Everything real turns fake. Everything right is wrong. All you know is that you know nothing and he knows everything. And, well -- well, he's not a villain, Summer, but he shouldn't be your hero. He's more like a demon or a super fucked up god.’

Morty Prime, despite believing in Rick’s power, also believes in a set of moral rights and wrongs that’s unadulterated from those demonstrated by Rick. Evil Morty operates within the set of moral rights and wrongs defined by Ricks on the curve. In my opinion, our Morty shows more potential to end the cycle than any Rick or even Evil Morty.

Evil Morty didn’t break the cycle (though I 100% believe him breaking out of the curve was symbolic of that concept), he’s perpetuating it. He didn’t do what he did in the name of justice, he did it for himself and justified his actions with his ability. In the same way that Ricks had to create the curve to become a god, Evil Morty had to leave it. To become exceptional, Rick had to reject God’s exceptionality. Similarly, Evil Morty had to reject Rick’s.

There are some important distinctions I want to point out that differentiate Evil Morty and Morty Prime on a fundamental level.

- Selfish vs Selfless:

We can see a difference in the priorities of both Morty Prime and Evil Morty as early on as Season 1.

‘Hey man, you seem to know how this place works. Is there any way we can… shut down that grid and rescue all those Mortys outside?’

‘It would be pointless. Mortys have no chance of defeating a Rick.’

I would just like to point out that no Rick put those Mortys on that wall. No Rick designed that 'symphony.'

But a Morty sure as hell made this one!

‘Alright Mortys, listen up! My name is Morty Smith, from Earth dimension C-137! I know you’re scared, because I’m scared! But that’s no reason to accept our fate. We’re Mortys! We’re not defined by our relationships to Rick. Our destiny is our own!’

Morty Prime proves that it is possible for Mortys to band together to take down Ricks. Evil Morty’s plan didn’t have to be at the price of hundreds-of-thousands to millions of Mortys’ lives. Evil Morty was prioritizing himself, justifying his treatment of other Mortys through his power to extort them.

As a follow-up to this concept, Morty Prime tries to save as many Mortys as they can while Evil Morty finally escapes the curve.

- Rick Complex:

Evil Morty, right from the start, believes that his abilities are an exception. (One could call it a Rick Complex, in this case, lol.) I believe that it’s actually his confidence, not his ability, that differentiates him from other Mortys.

Morty Prime, on the other hand, believes that Mortys are not defined by their relationships to Rick. Just like Rick is obsessed with being defined by his relationship to God, Evil Morty is obsessed with his identity as it’s defined by his relationship to Rick. He has to be better than Rick. Morty Prime seems more than happy to be the ‘Mortyest Morty,’ but let’s remember who’s the Rickest Morty.

‘Because Ricks hate themselves the most. And our Rick is the most himself.’

I guess that means the Rickest Morty would hate himself, too, which checks out. Evil Morty, very intentionally, leaves no surviving Mortys on the Citadel. When Evil Morty is confronted with the result of abuse on another Morty, he never stops at hating Ricks. Instead, he opts for, ‘Pfft, you sell-out Mortys kill me. I'd hate you more than the Ricks you worship if there was any point.’

In conclusion of this pretty pointless blurb, I think Morty Prime is closer than anyone else to escaping the cycle, and I’m so proud of him. I hope it’s not too little too late.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #evil morty #morty prime #rick prime

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bouncybongfairy · 4 months

Note

I love your evil morty fics so much! Not alot of people write for him so I was really happy when I found your account haha

I was wondering if I could request an evil morty x reader fic where it takes place in s7 ep 5 (unmortricken)

reader and morty both work to make the planet their "home," killing aliens, taking crystals, bulding their house, etc (morty is mostly the brains though, we're just there as a sort of bodygaurd/we watch his back so he doesn't get surprise attacked by some alien)

and if possible could you add some smut before his force field gets compromised? preferably where he starts rough due to all the stress from fighting aliens all day then when he finishes its softer and fluffier

hope my request made sense haha, thank you so much! 💖

Hard Feelings

Evil Morty x Fem Reader

Summary: After breaking through the central finite curve, Morty and you have been having some tension building up because of the stress. Things come to a head during a mission which leads rough words and hands exchange between the two of you.

Word Count: 3.0k+

(!Spoilers from Rick and Morty Season 7 EP 5!)

(!This fanfic contains rough and dark depictions of sexual content!)

Shout out to @kaionyx whose account I used as a reference. Not super familiar with.. all that kinda stuff, his blog really helped so, I'll give credit where it is due.

Shout out to the person who sent the request. Hope I did you concept justice.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Morty’s plans to break through the central finite curve were completed. Finally able to be in a dimension where Rick isn’t the smartest asshole in the galaxy. Even though he was free from the shackles of being at Rick’s disposal, he still seemed to try filling some unknown void. It was never your place to say but there were times where Morty’s morals were becoming less and less clear. You were still grateful that he brought you along. He could have left you in your original universe but he saw something in you that couldn’t be replaced. Right now you guys were in the middle of an adventure, trying to find a certain rare type of crystal that Morty wanted to try using to power the planet's force field. He still hasn’t been able to find a crystal that can sustain his tech longer than a couple hours. The mixture of stress of constantly crystal searching and the insecurity that was caused by not figuring out exactly how to fix the problem was eating away at him. If that wasn’t enough fuel to the fire, he also was dealing with his feelings of arrival fallacy. Despite your warnings that getting away from Rick wouldn’t just magically take away the trauma, he chose to die on that hill. At times you thought it caused him to resent you when he was in a grumpy or insecure mood.

Right now the both of you were in the ship; following the target of a crystal score Morty was pursuing. The ride was silent, it was 29 hours into the mission and the both of you were sleep deprived. As you dissociated, your mind wandered to the events that occurred two days before. Morty was working on the plans for the current mission, sitting at their kitchen table. He’s built the bunker to look like an average home on earth in order to make you feel more comfortable. You were in the kitchen making dinner for the both of you. It may seem like stereotypical domestic bliss but you didn’t cook for Morty because you had to. Simple things like cooking or reading a book in the lazy boy that helped block out the horrors from adventures and missions. Everything was ready and you were making his plate when you heard him let out a deep breath from frustration. His face was bright red and was letting his head hang off the back of the chair. You set his plate on the table and came around and stood behind him. While you kissing the top of his head in order to comfort him, you noticed that he missed a step in the formula of an equation,

“Look, you were supposed to subtract 0.836 before multiplying by the distance and speed,” you said. He pushed back his chair and led you into the living room before going back into the kitchen and started smashing his chair against the floor.

You immediately ran back into the kitchen and asked him what the fuck he was doing. He completely ignored you and continued his rampage. It was pointless trying to stop him, he was too far gone in his frustration. Grabbing his blueprints to make sure they didn’t get ruined, in case he wanted them when he sobered up from his anger. By the time he was done, he was practically panting. He’d smashed all four chairs that had previously surrounded the dining room table. He pulled his shirt off and wiped the sweat off his face. Throwing his shirt over his shoulder, he ran his fingers through his hair to keep the damp strands off his face. He pulled the portal gun out of his waistband and opened a portal underneath the pile of broken wood and cushions. Letting it drop into an unknown location, so he didn’t have to clean it up. He grabbed the plate and kissed you before walking into the living room to watch tv on the couch while he ate. For a while you stood there, feeling confused and frozen. You’d seen Morty go crazy while hunting and stuff but never inside at home.

“Come eat with me!” he called out, not in an aggressive way but that just made you even more confused. The fact that he was acting like nothing happened. You made yourself a plate and joined him on the couch, trying your best to appear unaffected by the event.

“Were here,” Morty said, breaking you out of the dissociation.

Following Morty as you exited the ship, carrying a gun in each hand. Looking out for any monsters and he was collecting crystals. It could be the lack of sleep but you could not stop thinking about his freak out. It bothered you that he wasn’t communicating his feelings to you. It also made you insecure about how he felt about you. Painfully obvious that he wasn’t happy with himself and as his girlfriend that has to be partly your fault right? Not to mention you were tired, running on literal injections of adrenaline. The fact that you both hadn’t had sex in a while like literally since he broke through the central finite curve. It just made you feel like he didn’t care anymore or that he had much more important things to do other than well… you. Bringing this up to Morty made you insecure, he rarely showed emotion even before all this shit. So it just felt like you’d be bothering him with something that is so juvenile compared to what he’s dealing with.

“If you have something to say you should just say it.” Morty stated, as if he was in your mind as you were overthinking.

“What are you talking about?” you asked flatly.

“Do you think I can’t tell when you’re bothered by something?” he asked as they walked through the dense foliage.

“Oh that’s rich,” you practically laughed.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Are you on fucking crack? You literally went completely feral when you were making the plans for today. Then acted like nothing happened at all, so it’s weird as hell that you’re projecting that shit on to me,” you said, shooting at a large cat-like species that was running towards the two of you.

“All I said was that I could tell something is bothering you,” he said.

“No you also said that if I had something to say then I should just say it. Just in actuality I can communicate my feelings in a mature way without smashing shit like a child,” you said.

“Oh yeah great notes, i’m glad you have so much free time on your hands that you can categorize what icks I give you,” he said flatly.

“Please, do me a favor and get your ego in check. We both know if you didn’t need me I wouldn’t be here. I have free time the same way you have your mental health under control and we both know neither of those things are true,” you said, now not masking the irritation in your tone.

“For sure let me just check that out, last time I checked my ego is backed up by the fact that I can do anything. Should I dull down my ego and aww jeez myself asleep every night? My ego is the reason why we're here,” he said, you could tell he was getting more irritated.

“Fuck you! Ugh you’re such a fucking dick some times, what the fuck is your problem?!” you screamed, stopping dead in your tracks.

“I'm sure you would love that but still have work to do,” he grumbled.

“Careful their buddy, the God complex you got from your fucking grandaddy is showing!” you said, throwing one of your guns at his back. He stood still for a while, rubbing the back of his neck. Even though he wasn’t facing you it was obvious that his anger was through the roof. He turned around and walked towards you in an aggressive manner. Due to your sleep deprivation and frustration you didn’t let your body language show any weakness like you normally would have. You had your arms crossed over your chest and a wide foot stance. The other gun still in your hand, he was now as close as he could be without being pressed against you. His eyebrows were furrowed and sweat dripped down his forehead. Red in the face and breathing heavily.

“Am I supposed to be intimidated? Cower down? Beg and plead to stop fighting? You’re fucking crazy if you think I’d beg for shit! Fuck you for real like fuck you.” you hissed.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked as he backed you against a tree. You didn’t know what to say, you were mad but at the same time you’d be lying if you didn’t feel the sexual tension. When you didn’t respond he continued,

“You said you wanted me to be more open about my feelings right? So let me take my feelings out on you right now, I'll show you exactly how I feel,” he said.

You knew a deep red blush was painted over your cheeks. His eyes were glazed over and every time his breath hit your face, you could feel your cheeks prickle and tingle. He looked feral and had the same look in his eye from when he smashed the furniture. Part of you felt like this was a Catch 22; on one had been in a dry spell for two months and you were just about as sexually frustrated as someone could be. On the other hand, it kinda felt like giving into his advances would be a sign of you admitting defeat. Morty could tell you were weighing out the pros and cons of the situation. His hands began to wonder, running up and down your back. Goosebumps covered your skin as he did, you could control your facial expressions but couldn’t help how your body reacted to his touch. You managed to keep the same unaffected facial expression as he pushed his limits. Somehow he manages to take a step closer, pressing his groin against your crotch. Feeling how hard he was made your core burn and throb. He moved your hair and moved his lips so they were hovering over your ear before whispering,

“I want to build and destroy you over and over again,” he growled in ear.

You were losing the mental battle of maintaining your stubbornness. Giving into him would be admitting weakness and defeat in the mind games you were playing. There wasn’t anywhere to go, you were completely smashed against his body and the tree. He moved his mouth from the ear to your neck. He was breathing against your skin, rubbing his nose up and down. You held back a shiver, leaning over to the side in hope to give your skin a break from the sensitivity. Running his hand up your back, he gently tangles his hands in your hair. Slowly tightening his grip on the soft strands. Grabbing your gun he kills another animal that was running to attack. The loud crack of the weapon was similar to when the gun goes off in a race. You smash your lips against his, fully letting your body melt into his arms. He pulled away from your lips and sunk his teeth into your neck, hard enough to break skin. Squirming away from the burning and stinging but every time you did, he got more aggressive. Every once in a while you’d hear a couple of strands popping.

“Is that why you’re being so difficult today? You wanted my attention, hmm?” he asked, his tone was ragged and low.

“Holy fuck.. okay,” you half mumble half moan.

“Can’t even hold a conversation because the only thing on your mind is being pounded, such a dumb little whore,” he said, pushing you down to the ground.

It was a lot more aggressive than normal, ripping your shirt exposing your tits. His eyes were wide yet he still kept his eyebrows furrowed and angry. You went to reach for his belt but before you could reach it, he slapped your tit so hard it made you gasp. It’s not necessarily that you weren’t into how dominant he was being. It was making you nervous because this was the first time he wasn’t holding back. You could feel your body shivering in excitement and anticipation. Again you reach for his belt again and in return his palm and fingers smacked against your face. Whipping your body to the side due to the force and the fact that it was completely unexpected. You were laying on your back and before you could finish reacting to the slap, he was on top of you. Using his knees to pin down your things, his legs digging painfully into the muscles of your thigh. Pulling out a dagger from his waistband, it was long and curved kinda like a claw. Using it to cut a hole into your cargo pants, ripping at the fabric. The tip of the knife nicked you, taking in a sharp breath mixed with a gasp. Instinctually you got to sit up and investigate the wound. He pushed you back down into the dirt, a couple of sharp rocks digging into your back. Looking up and staring at him; the sun was beginning to set creating a glow of burnt orange and red illuminating his figure from behind. Now that it was starting to get dark, more creatures from the dense forest were waking up and getting hungry. Every once in a while using his laser gun to kill anything that gets too close. Eventually growing tired of the constant monitoring he puts up a force field.

“Now: you can take my belt off,” he said, still gripping the blade menacingly.

At first, you were nervous to make any sudden movements. You sat back on your knees, the dirt and gravel on the ground was becoming increasingly bothersome. Slowly you reach up and start to undo his belt, he raises the knife up and starts gently grazing the sharp tip against your jaw. Your hands were shaking from adrenaline, excitement and a little fear. The belt was now fully undone, he was still looking down at you. His silence was making you nervous, you didn’t want to provoke him by doing or saying the wrong thing. After a couple moments of waiting for instruction, you become impatient and reach up again pulling his boxers down. He lets you expose him but then uses his other hand to grab you tightly by the jaw.

“How dumb are you? What is it going to take for you to learn to do as you're told?” he spat, creating a small scratch on your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, becoming mentally exhausted. This was your 31st hour without sleep and it was starting to affect your patients.

“Not yet,” he laughed.

He flipped you over and immediately crawled on top of you. His exposed member pressing against you from behind. Your thoughts were becoming foggy, like you were intoxicated by your arousal and desire. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he pinned your head to the dirt. Every time you exhaled the dirt would fly up a little, like a plume of smoke. You were bucking your behind against him, trying to initiate some type of contact with your sexes. He took this as a sign of defiance, almost humoured that you thought you’d deserve his cock yet.

“Did you really think you’d get your cunt touched without begging?” he growled. As soon as the words fell from his lips, fire and ice began running through your veins. You were accepting your fate, he was right and you were wrong. He was relishing in the fact that he was breaking you down piece by piece. After you had played a big game about essentially being immune to his mind games.

“I’m sorry, okay. Please!” you cried out, trying to press your ass against him but couldn’t. He adjusted his position, his tip now pressed against your entrance. Using his head to spread your moisture around your lips and clit.

“Being treated like this gets you off? Having to beg for it makes you this wet? I thought begging was beneath you, say it, that you’re too good to beg,” you were panting and drooling, part of you wanted to hang on to that stubbornness. That maybe your dignity could be somewhat salvaged, you stayed silent trying to figure out what to say; whether to give in or keep fighting back. He was getting irritated waiting for a response and began slapping his dick against your pussy.

“Say. It.” He ordered with a low yet strong voice.

“I’m not t-too good to b-beg,” you whimper out, a tear of humility streamed down your face.

“What? You sounded so sure earlier though.. Say it again, just so I know you’re serious,” he growled, running the blade down your back. As bruised as your ego was, you couldn't lie and say you weren’t equality as turned on. Part of you felt a little ashamed that you’re enjoying this level of domination and humiliation.

“I’m not too good to beg you! J-just please I can’t-!” you practically shrieked, not being able to take the anticipation and teasing anymore.

He then lined himself up and slid into you. You tighten yourself around him, fully enjoying the feeling of his throbbing member filling your needy hole. You’d learned your lesson and let him take the lead, using your body however he wanted. His hip bones were stabbing into your ass but you didn’t care. Being sexually frustrated for weeks mixed with being teased mentally and physically made you overly sensitive. Your walls were burning but from a mix of immense pleasure and slight pain from how fast the friction was. His body was fully pressed against yours, fucking you into the ground. Your head was between his elbows and forearms. The side of your head was fully pressed against the dirt, tears turning into mud and sticking to your face. His lips were pressed against your ear, groaning and whispering vulgar nothings.

“I- can’t, please, it h-hurts,” your words came out garbled and hoarse.

“You want me to stop? Can’t take it? That’s okay, just say so,” he groaned into your ear. It wasn’t like you were lying, you didn’t think you could take much more. You wanted more though, so you shut your mouth and continued enjoying being stretched.

“That’s what I fucking thought, silly little cumslut,” he growled, pounding into you harder than you thought possible.

The force field was beginning to fail, getting smaller and less protective. He pulls you up, putting you in doggie position. Your knees were being scrapped by the rocks and gravel. He spit on his dick as he continued pounding into you. Using the gun to kill creatures trying to break through the force field. Both of you were getting close, his thrusts were becoming more erratic. Feeling you pulse and tighten around you. The gun was getting hot due to rapid use, noticing this: he remembers when you threw it at him. So he pressed the hot barrel against your lower back, right where a tramp stamp normally would be placed. This intense pain combined with the pleasure and overstimulation was enough to send you into climax. Even though you were nearly passed out, you could tell he was cumming into you. It was like he cock pressed deep enough into your spasming cunt. As soon as you were done riding out the high, you passed out.

#rick and morty fanfiction #evil morty x you #evil morty season 7 #evil morty x reader #evil morty imagine #evil morty fanfiction #rick and morty season 7 #fanfic request #fanfiction requests #x reader requests #sadist k!nk #knife k!nk #rough smut #dark smut

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yamada-ryo · 2 months

Text

Thoughts on Disco Elysium:

Went into the game completely blind other than the obvious "inner speech characterisation" thing and the following

The game calls you a centerist if you don't pick a political stance

Our lucky racist will grant you 3 wishes

Lamby

There's something with this Cuno kid

Drove his own car into the sea

Kim Kimball Kitsuragi

And that's it

Thoughts:

Grabbed the horrific necktie so quick I didn't even do the skill check and was wondering why the tie wasn't speaking to me

I thought the inner monolouge voice was his actual voice. Until the karaoke part.

Loved how the game lets you call yourself Raphael as an option at every point in the game despite multiple characters calling him Harry. I never once made him call himself Harry.

I didn't believe the ex wife thing one bit. Still don't. Genuinely think it's just part of his mind acting up. After all if he forgot everything how can I trust that this one supposed memory of his is real

Didn't drink or use speed at all. Bought one pack of smokes just to set the paint on fire.

Didn't go after any women because I thought he was homosexual by default and was wondering when I could romance Kim (didn't know homosexuality had to be unlocked first)

^also why I didn't buy the ex wife thing one bit. That and half light insisting that I don't pursue the thought

"A major part of being a communist is arguing with other communists"

The part about the game developer being fired from his own company

Died in the chair about 5 times because I didn't know the number above the health bars was the number of heals I had at the time (2) and not an indicator of my maximum health (also 2). Also didn't know how to heal

Bought about 20-25 health pills just to tank the ruby encounter only for her to run away before I used most of it

Lady who bought the pawned gun straight up didn't spawn. Like I could hear the police sirens at the spot where she was supposed to be but there was no one there

I thought Kim would get shot no matter what but apparently not. Raphael got shot in the leg and Kim was hit on the head

Softlocked myself from the ice cream maker machine and had to forget a skill to retry it

Didn't buy any dice or sneakers or speakers

Didn't know it at the time but I learnt indirect modes of taxation and had the +1 shoes on so I was getting 2 real every time I talked to someone and had more money than I ever needed

Gym guy (sunday friend's friend) actually noticed I was wearing the hat I knicked from his room which was cool

There is no way Cunoesse's last name is actually "vittu"

Royalty free alternate universe Karl Marx

Measurehead finally got off the gangway and it turns out you can't even press the button. And the box behind him there all this time only had 1.10 real in it. SAD!

The fact that there even is an option to shoot Cunoesse

Was hoping Kim would wear the matching PISSFAGGOT jacket (he didn't)

Ran about shoeless on the first day. Found the balcony shoe just before debreifing with Kim. Then found the shoe in the starting room.

Thought there would be more to Contact Mike but no Raphael just confuses one poor girl about it

Didn't buy the map until day 3 and didn't figure out how fast travel worked until day 5

Is the expression rigor mortis? Did he have The Expression during all that? Even the gunfight?

The pawn shop owner is the only character that responds to you having a torch in your hand. Also cool detail where if the cursor is in front of Raphael the torch will shine in the direction of the cursor

Paid 20 real for the motel room first thing in the morning before I realised I had free accomodation for the night at the pier

Not much to say about the harbour since my screen fucking died

#test

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thesoftboiledegg · 10 months

Text

I think people dismiss Rick and Morty's voices as pointless 2010s anti-humor ("haha let's make these cartoons sound like bored real people to show that we give no fucks!") but Rick's voice is actually perfect for him. Bluntness, flat effect, talking super fast, making oddly specific references, stuttering because he thinks faster than he can speak: yeah, that all tracks for an autistic genius.

Morty's voice is a little more cartoony but still grounded, making emotional moments even more impactful when you remember that despite everything, he really is just a 14-year-old kid caught in an intergalactic whirlwind. Rick having a more humanlike voice makes HIM more humanlike, too.

Korvo's new voice is great, but I hope Adult Swim keeps Rick and Morty's voices as close to the original as possible because they add so much to their characters. They're not just a placeholder that anybody could improve on.

#I'm not trying to praise JR here because he's terrible #I just think the voice acting is yet another overlooked aspect of this series #rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #autism

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pianokantzart · 3 months

Note

🍽️ and 🎶 with morty x luigi

🍽️ Dinner date 🎶 Dancing

Luigi never before envisioned himself as the one to make the first move in any romantic scenario, but after starring in so many films, scripts, and photoshoots, he felt as though he and Morty had already been dating for some time now. Then again, there was a large difference between being someone's boyfriend and being someone's muse. Being a muse meant being put on a pedestal for the sake of the arts, playing on the outskirts of reality to feed into whatever new creation was being forged. Dating? That meant a return to earth, being mundane and flawed. Being a human. Luigi felt somewhat awkward as a muse... like he was lying, somehow, despite the slew of creations he inspired... but he also couldn't deny the warm feeling he got when seen as something so rare and beautiful in the eyes of someone so passionate.

Morty agreed to a date. The agreement was casual, lacking that shining thrill of true inspiration, but his excitement grew when Luigi suggested something properly cinematic: dinner and dancing.

Luigi still wasn't sure how it was ghosts ate or danced without corporeal bodies, but a long list of experiences had proven that such things didn't matter. So long as the right sort of energy was abundant in the air, ghosts ate, drank and danced the same way they had in life, and enjoyed it with almost more gusto than those weighed down by flesh. Morty was no different. Luigi asked the ghost to pick an outfit for him. Morty obliged without a second thought, and Luigi was overjoyed to find himself handed a forest-green evening gown that looked straight out of the wardrobe of Rita Hayworth. Morty always appreciated a chance to alter aesthetics to his liking. He was a director after all, and Luigi liked receiving direction– so long, of course, as it came from someone he trusted. They understood each other's tastes... had a shared interest in making each other happy... and making each other happy was so ridiculously easy. Over dinner they talked about everything they loved, barely understanding one another when they broached niche topics, but looking on in adoration as the other unraveled the different corners of the world they never even knew to be so beautiful– cinematography, photography, architecture, gardening, interior design, cooking... Then came the dancing. Four ghosts struck up a string quartet, and as Luigi moved to the ballroom where phantoms spun about in each other's arms, he was surprised to find Morty trying to stay at the dinner table. "I love the aesthetics of it, but I must admit I never learned!" he explained with a tiniest hint of regret in his voice. "Here... you dance, and I'll watch you!" Morty shut one eye and framed up a shot with his hands, like he was already envisioning a film based on the scene. Luigi would have none of it. With a smile and a shake of his head he took the director by the hand and gently guided him to the dance floor. Though Luigi didn't consider himself any sort of expert, knew enough to help a novice along in a simple waltz.

"It doesn't have to be perfect. Doesn't even have to look good at all!" He placed one of the ghost's chilly blue hands on his shoulder while taking the other hand in his own. "Just... move with me. We'll figure it out."

Morty looked uncomfortable only for a second, but his expression quickly blossomed into a playful smile. "Oh-ho! Looks someone's taking charge!" "Well, I do like to be number one, sometimes," Luigi retorted with equal playfulness, punctuating the comment by dipping Morty so low to the ground, they both couldn't help but laugh. "Forget the angle and the lighting for a moment, okey dokey?" Luigi continued, speaking much softer now as– in a moment of boldness– he tugged Morty back up into a close embrace, swaying with him to the music as a calvary of colorful ghosts whirled above and around them. "Just dance."

#askbox prompts #Morty x Luigi #moruigi #they're cute and they love the arts and are wholesome alright that's all I have to say #ain't no way E-gadd is keeping that friendly little director locked in a tube

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selfshippinglover · 5 months

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Here's a pic of my Sona for reference and I'll try to draw up a Marty(my Morty OC) one soon: (commission by: (sorrel paws)

i am scared but i am desperate! Time to punch my anxiety into outer space! Fuck it I wanna rp! Rick and Mortty time! Any characters! I don't have a Rick OC but I have a Morty one I'd love to develop :D Love to use my insert! Every Rick ever my beloved! Oc's and other self inserts very welcome! Let's explore the multiverse together :)

i'd prefer to use pm/dms since it's all in one spot and easier to keep track of. Can rp on here or Discord.

Know that I'm working part time so answer times will vary but I have the next two days off so I'm very avaliable rn!

Feel free to just dm/pm if you're interested!

Morty Oc details below:

~Marty

~ Pronouns: He/ They Xe/Xem

Sexuality: Pansexual demiboy with more of an attraction to men

~Age: 20(present)

Family: Rick(dead) Summer(dead) Beth, Space Beth, Jerry, Uncle BirdPerson

Dimension: RK-977

Backstory: A normal Morty all things considered. Has a space grandpa that drives him nuts, goes on adventures, and ends up in a big stand off with the Intergalactic Feds. Things go wrong and people get hurt leaving him and the survivors of his family running throughout multiverse as wanted fugitives.

Family relationships:

Rick: There were ups and downs, bad nights because of alcohol and drugs, and some fucked up things here and there but Rick always put Marty first and has "died" numerous times for his sake. They didn't always see eye to eye on things but his love for Marty was never in doubt. Believes there's no one that can replace his Grandpa Rick.

Summer: A bitch of a sister but one hell of a partner. Marty and Summer were often tasked with taking care of one another on adventures as well as tag teaming. They fought on and off and generally kept a distance at school, Summer did her best to raise Marty despite the circumstances.

Jerry: He and Marty are talking and seeing one another occasionally. He got a divorce with Beth and has been living on his own sense. Stays in that shitty apartment taking odd jobs here and there while trying to make time for his kids. He still has some feelings for Beth but doesn't do anything about it since Beth seems to have moved on. He hopes that he can be a better father to his kids, and maybe even a friend to Beth.

Beth: Divorced Jerry awhile back and went to work taking care of the kids herself, Beth has been doing the best she can do. Jerry can't usually pay the child support so she's stuck working full time at the horse hospital. Tired, hurt, starting to get a drinking habit, and in fear of losing her kids love, she spends as much time with them as she can and leaves Rick to care for them when she can't. She's still processing the divorce and trying to figure out what she wants amidst the war.

Space Beth: A Beth that has been with the Resistance for years before meeting Marty, she ends up on the Smith families doorstep while laying low. despite being there for a short time, she quickly takes a liking to Beth and her family. She is the reason that they end up being pulled into the Feds line of sight in the first place. She's spent most of her life fighting and she continues you to with the addition of the Smiths.

Uncle BirdPerson/BP: Another Resistance member and one of the first to join in the efforts, Marty met BP through Space Beth. They started out on uneasy terms since they just crashed on some strangers couch for awhile to hide from the FEDs. Come to find out, he knew Marty's grandfather and was friends with him when they were younger. Deciding he's trustworthy, he adopts BP as an Uncle figure and frequents his house. BP ends up telling Marty everything he went through with his grandfather and grows close to him.

#IMMA KICK MY OWN ASS INTO GEAR #CAUSE I NEED TO FEED THE OBESSESION #BITES MY OWN ARM #rick and morty #rick and morty rp #oc x canon #morty x canon #morty x oc #oc x oc #looking for rp partner #looking for rick and morty rp partner #any rick and morty character #Marty #Marty oc

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dirty-bear-rick-sanchez · 1 year

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Double Dessert

Trans Morty oneshot! I was thinking of my own grandad while writing this, because he was very supportive of me when I came out but also worried about me getting discriminated against.

Also there are two very subtle Red Dwarf references in this. If anyone catches them please let me know as I will be so happy you have no idea. There’s no clear timeframe for when this is set apart from the fact the Citadel still exists but it’s not really really early on in the show.

Summary: while visiting the Citadel, Morty makes friends with another Morty whose Rick seems to be unusually overprotective. ~3.9k words. Warnings for mention of sexual assault (the Mr Jellybean scene) and its aftereffects, stressful coming out, discussion of trans stuff in terms that might not be everyone’s preference (e.g. a trans guy saying he used to be a girl), some ignorance of trans stuff (nothing hateful, just a lack of understanding), eating insects (I know a centipede is not technically an insect but you get the idea). There’s also a brief joke about Mortycest, but nothing like that actually happens and I don’t think it’s anything out of the ordinary for the show.

Disclaimer before we go in that I’m a trans guy.

Despite Morty’s much shorter strides, he keeps pace with Rick easily in his excitement to be on the Citadel. True, his grandpa might hate it, and he has his own fair share of bad memories of the place, but there’s something about the hustle and bustle that appeals to him. Maybe it’s the benefits of getting to go somewhere that clearly isn’t Earth without the risks that are usually present in the places he goes with Rick. After all, everything in this place is designed for at least one of the two of them, unlike the alien planets they visit, where even the most innocuous-seeming things could be deadly.

Rick pulls him into some sort of shop and instantly makes for a particular section. It’s clear he knows what he’s looking for, and Morty can identify the look in his eye that means he’s about to spend 45 minutes deliberating between two practically identical products. Not wanting to get involved, he wanders off alone to check out what the store has to offer. The best possible description he can find for it is ‘electronics store’, but there are plenty of items that don’t fit this category. Although the bulk of the shop is clearly intended for Ricks, he notices a small section at the back that seems to be aimed at Mortys, and wanders over, curious.

He’s looking around in interest when his eyes land on another Morty with the unmistakable expression of shock that indicates he’s never been here before. The Morty looks fairly typical, with no clear modifications or mutations of any sort. Even so, there’s something about him that looks subtly different in a way Morty can’t quite place.

“Hey, man.” he greets the other Morty, who starts at his voice, as if being startled out of a trance.

“Oh! H-hey.” the other Morty responds, his voice slightly high, like he’s scared.

“I-is this your first time on the Citadel?” Morty asks, trying to make the other Morty feel better, but also genuinely interested in having an actual conversation with another version of himself. Rick’s disdain for the Citadel means that Morty has spent fairly little time in the presence of his other selves.

The other Morty nods. “Y-yeah. Rick told me about this place, but he doesn’t really like to come here. This is the first time he’s let me come with him.”

“Yeah, my Rick’s kind of the same way. He doesn’t really like the Citadel. I-I think it’s kind of cool, though!”

“Me too! Check out this thing!”

The other Morty indicates a machine that reminds Morty of the stands at theme parks that sell photos taken on rollercoasters. On the screen are many pictures of Morty posing with various girls. Some might be real, taken in other dimensions, and some are clearly edited, but both Mortys amuse themselves by looking through the options, especially when they discover there’s a whole folder for Jessica. The machine has prices listed in a currency Morty doesn’t recognise for printed copies of the photos.

“Why would we pay when we could just take a picture on our phone?” Morty asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket and snapping a photo. When he opens it, instead of the picture he’d been expecting to see of himself with Belle Delphine, the screen shows Rick’s laughing face, flipping him off, with text reading ‘LICK LICK LICK MY BALLS’. The two Mortys spend a couple of minutes tilting their heads at the screen, trying to figure out how it works, even though they both know neither of them has a hope of understanding.

Eventually, the two get bored and turn their attention to a selection of stim toys in various shapes and colours instead. The Mortys are joking around and laughing together when they hear heavy footsteps and a Rick calling out for his Morty, slightly frantically.

“Geez, I wouldn’t want to be that Morty, am I right?” Morty quips, before noticing his counterpart’s guilty expression.

“Aw, geez, that’s my Rick. He’s gonna be mad that I wandered off.”

Morty opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the other Rick as he spots them.

“Morty! I-I told you not to wander off like that!”

The other Rick crouches down and takes his Morty by the shoulders in a manner that’s uncharacteristically affectionate for a Rick. His eyes shift to the side and he notices Morty. “Wh-wh-who’s this? What’ve you been doing?”

“I-I’m Morty C-137. I, uh, I actually didn’t ask your dimension, did I?”

“A-70.” replies the other Morty, at exactly the same time as his Rick snaps “None of your business.”

“Rick!” protests the other Morty. “Can you not be rude to my friend?”

“Oh, your friend? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was in the presence of your esteemed friend. How could I be so selfish as to worry about my only grandson, wh-when he’s busy hanging out with his friend?”

Again, while the sarcasm is very Rick-like, there’s an air of over-protectiveness beneath it that Morty finds unusual for a Rick or, at least, unusual in that it’s expressed so openly.

“Rick, come on. This is the first time I get to meet other Mortys!” the other Morty whines, and something about it seems to wear the other Rick down.

“Fine.”

“H-hey, Rick, do you think Morty could come over sometime? To our dimension, I mean.” the other Morty asks excitedly.

Rick A-70 eyes Morty suspiciously. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“Morty, remember what we talked about? Before I agreed to let you come with me here?”

Morty’s emotions shoot between indignation and confusion and concern. He really doesn’t understand whatever is going on here. However, it’s clear that the other Morty does, as he looks down and sighs.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now, come on, we’ve gotta get home so I can stabilise these cadmium-II coils.”

“Aw, but Rick!” the other Morty protests.

“But nothing! This is very sensitive machinery, Morty! Do you know what happens if I don’t get it home where I can store it properly in the next 10 minutes? Do you? It’ll be useless, Morty, and I’ve just paid 200 blemflarcks for it, so say goodbye to your friend.”

“Aw man.” sighs Morty A-70. “I-it was really nice to meet you. I wish we could’ve hung out some more.”

“Hey, why don’t you stay here with me and my Rick for a bit? Th-that way your Rick can go back and, and sort his stuff out, and we can keep hanging out!” Morty suggests.

“Can I, Rick?” the other Morty pleads.

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon, please, Grandpa?”

Even Morty can see the other Rick’s face soften slightly at the word ‘Grandpa’ for the briefest of moments before he scrunches it up in annoyance.

“Who did you say your Rick was again?” Rick A-70 asks, turning to Morty.

“C-C-C… C-137.” Morty stammers, something about this Rick’s harsh tone making him nervous. Recognition flashes across the other Rick’s face, and Morty worries that he might say no. But, to Morty’s surprise, he sighs and gives in.

“Fine. Where’s your Rick?”

“Th-this way.” Morty heads in what he hopes is the correct direction, the Rick and Morty of dimension A-70 following behind him. Finally, he rounds a corner and finds his Rick, exactly as he knew he would be, poring over two identical-looking products.

“Hey Rick, can my new friend hang out with us for a bit?”

“Sure, whatever, Morty.” Rick responds, clearly not paying attention. The other Rick taps him on the shoulder. “Morty, I’m trying to - oh.” he cuts himself off as he sees Rick A-70.

“Look, pal, I’ve gotta get back to my dimension and deal with these coils before they go critical. My Morty has decided he can’t bear to be apart from his new friend, so will you look after him while I jump back home?”

“Please, Rick?” Morty begs.

“Eh, sure, why not.” Rick responds with a shrug and turns to go back to his items but the other Rick catches his shoulder and stops him. Morty can see him squeezing hard enough to cause pain.

“You better not let anything happen to him, got it? I’m trusting you because you don’t trust other Ricks either, but if anything happens I will know and I will fuck you up.” Rick A-70 hisses, staring intently at Rick for a few moments before pulling out his portal gun and pressing a button. Rick’s own portal gun glows in his pocket and Rick A-70 portals away.

Rick rubs his shoulder irritably and turns to Morty A-70.

“Geez, kid, your grandpa’s a real bag of laughs, huh?” Rick snarks.

The other Morty chuckles nervously. “Yeah, sorry, h-he’s kinda protective.”

Talk about understatement, Morty thinks. It’s unusual to see a Rick act like that towards anyone, let alone a Morty, but part of him is almost jealous that his new friend’s grandpa actually displays affection for him. Morty snaps out of his reverie to see A-70’s nervous expression and quickly pushes away the thoughts to deal with later, smiling at his counterpart.

The two Mortys start to kid around again while Rick picks up and pays for what he wants. Once he’s done, Rick turns to his two grandsons.

“You kids wanna get some lunch?” he asks. Both Mortys agree enthusiastically and Rick portals them home to drop off his purchases before they get into the ship. Surprisingly, Rick remains on Earth, flying to a relatively local restaurant. Morty wonders if he took the other Rick’s threat to keep his Morty safe more seriously than he let on.

The restaurant is fairly quiet, so they don’t have to wait long to be seated or served. Rick is quieter than usual, content to scribble what appears to be blueprints on a napkin until the food comes and then wolfing it down, leaving the Mortys to their bonding. Morty is fascinated to learn what the two of them have in common and what they don’t, amazed that another version of him can be so different and yet so similar at the same time.

At first, the other Morty seems to be enjoying himself too, since it’s quite a novel experience for both of them to actually interact with a kid their own age, even if it is just another Morty. As the meal goes on, however, Morty notices A-70 start to get more uncomfortable, eyes flicking around uncertainly, squirming in his seat.

“H-hey, man, you OK?” he asks his other self. A-70 starts slightly at his question.

“Y-y-yeah, I just, I, um… I need to pee.”

Morty is surprised. “Oh, well, I-I think I saw the bathrooms just over there.”

His other self shakes his head. “Yeah, I just, I, um, I, my Rick, um, my Rick normally comes with me.”

Morty feels his eyebrows raise. “Your Rick won’t even let you go to the bathroom alone?” Rick A-70 had seemed unusually overprotective, but that seems too far for any Rick.

“N-no, it’s not that, it’s, um, I… I don’t like going alone. He comes with me… to make sure nothing happens.”

Ah. That makes more sense. Morty remembers all too well what had happened to him in that tavern in the giant courthouse steps. It had taken him a while to be able to go into public bathrooms after that, too. In fact, he clearly remembers a time when he’d wet himself in Rick’s ship because he hadn’t been able to bring himself to even enter a bathroom on one of their adventures, much less use it. He knows Rick must have known the reason because, for once, Rick hadn’t snapped at him or made fun of him for it, which, in a way, had been even worse. Still, that had been a long time ago, long enough that Morty is now usually able to use public bathrooms without too much of a problem. However, it makes sense that something like this could have also happened to this Morty, and that he’s still affected by it. That would explain why his Rick seems so overprotective, too.

“H-hey, man, it’s OK, I get it. I’ll come with you.”

A-70 seems to brighten at that. “R-really?”

“Sure!”

The two Mortys head for the bathroom. When they get there, A-70 heads for the stall, which surprises Morty slightly, given his own history, but he concludes that maybe this Morty had something happen to him at a urinal instead, or that the lock makes him feel safer, or maybe he just has to take a dump. However, A-70 comes back out almost immediately after entering.

“I-it’s out of order.” He says, wringing his hands nervously.

“W-well, hey, we’re the only ones in here. If you want me to guard the door while you use the urinal-”

“I can’t.”

“I-it’s OK, I can even wait outside if you want-”

“I can’t!” the other Morty cries. His response surprises Morty, and he flinches slightly.

“W-why?”

“Because I don’t have a penis!”

“Wha-I… d-did something… happen to it?”

“No, I never had one!” A-70 is getting increasingly frustrated and Morty doesn’t understand. “I-I’m transgender.”

“You’re a girl?”

“I was a girl. Not anymore.” A-70 responds, looking at the floor, one arm wrapped across his chest, clutching his opposite arm. “I-I thought you knew.”

“N-no, I-I didn’t realise. Sorry, man.”

A-70 doesn’t respond, and Morty feels himself talking nervously to try and make the situation better. “Can’t you, like, use the women’s?”

A-70 grimaces at that, and Morty knows he’s said the wrong thing. He panics more and keeps talking.

“O-or, hey, I think my Rick has a centipede you can swallow that eats your pee! D-do you want me to ask him?”

The other Morty nods, and Morty thinks that he must really not want to use the women’s if he’d rather swallow the centipede. He doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t want to make things worse for his other self. He places a hand on A-70’s shoulder.

“C-come on, let’s go ask him.”

A-70 seems hesitant. “W-w-what are you going to tell him?”

This stuns Morty. “Uh, that you need to pee but you can’t because the bathroom is out of order?”

“You won’t tell him that I’m… trans, will you?”

Morty blinks. “Why not?”

“My Rick said I shouldn’t tell people. He says they might try and hurt me.”

“What? Come on, it’s Rick. You’re his grandson. He doesn’t care if you’re different to the other Mortys. There’s Mortys that are cowboys a-and hammers and all sorts of things.”

A-70 seems a bit more willing but still worried. “OK. B-but can we at least ask him in private?”

Morty smiles reassuringly at his other self. “Sure thing, man!” A-70 smiles back at him, weakly, and he feels a slight sense of relief.

As they walk back to the table, Morty sees A-70 holding his hands together at his solar plexus, exactly the way he does when he’s nervous. No matter how many other versions of himself he sees, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being amazed at the similarities.

They reach the table and Rick looks up at them.

“R-rick, can we talk to you outside?”

Rick’s eyes flick between the two Mortys, trying to work out what’s going on.

“Fine.” he gives in after a few seconds, standing up. The three of them walk outside to where the ship is parked.

“Wh-what is it, Morty? I-if you’re about to ask if you guys can go somewhere private so you can masturbate with twice as many hands, fine, but at least wait until I’ve had dessert.”

“What? No!” Morty exclaims, shocked by the suggestion. “No, Rick, I… do you have the centipede?”

This seems to throw Rick off his rhythm. “The… centipede?”

“The pee centipede. The one that you swallow it and it makes you not have to pee.”

“Oh, that. I-I mean, sure, but didn’t you just go to the bathroom? What do you need the centipede for?”

“It was out of order.”

“What? No it’s not. I used it earlier.”

“The stall is.”

Rick’s expression is a mixture of confused and exasperated. “It only eats pee, Morty. If you have to take a dump, y-you’ll just have to go in the bushes or something.” he waves vaguely in the direction of some nearby bushes.

“No, Rick, it’s not for me. It’s for A-70. He can’t use the urinals.”

Rick eyes A-70 questioningly. “Why not?”

Morty pauses, looking at A-70, not sure whether he should tell Rick or not.

“I-I don’t have the… equipment.” A-70 mumbles, gesturing vaguely towards his crotch.

Rick shrugs and tosses the centipede to A-70, who catches it and chokes it down in a way that tells Morty this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Poor guy must really not want to use the women’s if he’s voluntarily choosing this option instead.

“So, you have an accident, or you just never had one?” Rick asks, casual as ever, pulling his flask out from his lab coat and sipping from it. Despite having already swallowed the centipede, A-70 chokes again.

“Rick!” admonishes Morty. “Y-you can’t just ask that!”

He regrets his outburst immediately, worried that it makes the answer obvious. He’s never had a Morty friend before, and he doesn’t want to lose this one.

Rick shrugs. “Why? I-it’s not a big deal, Morty. You think I’ve never met a trans version of you before?”

“There’s more like me?” A-70 exclaims.

“Sure, there’s loads, in both directions. Plenty of Ricks who thought they only had granddaughters just to learn they actually had a grandson, or vice versa.”

“Why did you - why did my Rick never tell me?” A-70 seems shaken.

“I-I dunno, kiddo. Maybe he never met any. N-no offense, but your Rick, I don’t get the impression he gets out a lot.”

“Will you take me to meet them?” A-70 asks.

“Oh. I mean, I-I guess I could. I don’t exactly know their dimensions offhand.”

“Hey, yeah, y-you could like, form a club, o-or a support group, or something!” Morty suggests excitedly.

“Psh. La-ame!” Rick snorts. Morty shoots him a disapproving look, and he quickly backpedals. “What? Everything you’re into is lame, Morty. A-anyway, I want my dessert, c’mon.”

Rick ushers them back into the restaurant and Morty notices his other self seems much happier and more animated. He decides not to comment on the fact that Rick lets A-70 order first, or the fact that he lets him get both options when he can’t decide between two. The rest of the time passes pleasantly, much more so than usual, and Morty can’t help but feel a tiny prickle of jealousy at the fact that Rick is rarely so nice to him. At the same time, he’s enjoying having a good time with his grandpa, enjoying actually having a friend.

A few times, he catches Rick staring in the way he recognises to mean that Rick is doing something inside his own head. Once they finish, Rick pays, and they walk out of the restaurant before portalling back to A-70.

That dimension’s Rick is sitting on the couch, idly channel-hopping through interdimensional cable. However, his expression and the speed with which he gets up when he sees them betrays his nervousness.

“H-hey, buddy. Did you have a good time?” he asks his Morty, ruffling a hand through his hair as Morty A-70 runs into his arms for a hug. Again, Morty feels a familiar pang of envy at their easy affection. He wonders if this Rick was more affectionate with Morty when he thought he was a girl, and the habit never broke, or if they’re simply closer than he and his Rick are. He thinks again of the way his Rick treated this Morty earlier, but quickly pushes the thoughts away to deal with later.

“Rick! A-apparently there’s other trans Mortys! Can we go and see them sometime?” Morty A-70 asks, and his Rick visibly stiffens.

“What did-” he begins, but Rick cuts him off, pressing a spot in his temple where Morty assumes an implant is hidden.

“I’ve sent a list of coordinates to your portal gun, if you want to check ‘em out. T-they’re split by gender, depending if your Morty wants to just meet other guys or not.”

The other Rick doesn’t look pleased, but his Morty grins massively.

“Thank you, Rick!” he exclaims, and his Rick’s expression softens as he sees his Morty’s happiness.

“C-come on, Morty, we’d better go.” Rick turns to him, waving off the other Morty’s gratitude.

“O-OK, Rick.” Morty turns to his other self. “I-I had a lot of fun today! We should do this again sometime! I’ve never been friends with another Morty before!”

“Yeah!” the other Morty replies enthusiastically, grinning at being called a friend. He turns to his Rick. “Can I, Rick?”

Rick A-70 looks at his Morty’s pleading eyes, then at their counterparts. “I guess so.”

“Yes!” the other Morty punches the air.

The two Mortys wave at each other as Morty steps through the portal with Rick. They emerge next to the ship and both get in.

They fly in silence for a few minutes while Morty tries to decide if it’s worth spoiling the happiness with his question.

“What is it, Morty?” Rick sighs.

“Wh-what?”

“I can tell you’re building yourself up to say something. Just spit it out.”

“W-well, I, um… you were really nice to that other Morty.”

“Weird way to thank me for paying for a meal for you and your friend.”

“I just mean… why do you never do that for me? You’d never let me get two desserts.”

“How else should a grandpa react to his grandson’s coming out?”

“C-coming out?”

“Coming out, like out of the closet? C’mon, Morty, you must’ve heard that one before.”

“I-I have, I just… would you do that, for me, if I came out?”

“If you came out, sure. Why, you got something you want to tell me? Or you just want double dessert?” Rick looks at him expectantly, and Morty isn’t sure how to respond.

“D-did you say there’s girl Mortys? Like Mortys like me who… became girls?”

“Sure, Morty. I-i-is that really such a shock to you? Ah, what am I saying, you had your mind blown by a cowboy version of yourself.”

Morty takes a moment to think. “So… it would be OK if I was one of them? If I wanted to be a girl?”

“Boy, girl, anything else you can think of, whatever you want. Y-you’ll still be the same pain in my ass either way.”

Morty feels a small smile spreading across his face. He knows what that means in Rick-speak. And though he’s never given much thought to his gender identity before, it’s nice to know that he’ll be accepted whatever happens.

The jealousy he feels at the thought of Rick A-70 openly worrying about his Morty, hugging him casually, treating him like a grandson instead of a problem still needles at him, but it’s easier to ignore in the warm glow of acceptance. He knows it’s something that will come back to haunt him at the worst moments, usually when he’s trying to sleep or shower or when he and Rick have an argument, but he hopes that thinking about gender will occupy his mind enough to keep his thoughts from drifting too far towards the negatives for a while.

#rick and morty #rnm #rick sanchez #morty smith #trans morty #trans morty smith #trans #transgender #rick and morty fanfic #rnm fanfic #my fic #my writing

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zeep-xanflorp · 1 year

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a hill i'll die on: rick and morty is NOT about nihilism.

okay well it is, but not in the way most people think.

i was in the fandom in the height of the 'to be fair you need to have a very high IQ' era, but before it became ironic. i watched so many youtube video essays on how r+m was an enlightened commentary on the absence of meaning in life, and how finding any sort of purpose was a lie we tell ourselves so we don't give up.

people at this time loved to latch onto rick as an example of what they strive to be, but they failed to realise that the show is NOT praising rick. it's making fun of him, and people like him. it's pointing out his flaws.

at this point, i don't think this is news to anyone but, rick is a massive hypocrite. if he doesn't care about anything, then his actions would make no sense. he would find no value in his connection to morty, he wouldn't deal with the family treating him as they do. but despite his assertions and his best efforts, he is a sentimental old man. he is still ruled by his emotions even though he knows that they 'don't matter.'

he's an addict; someone so tortured by his past that he must numb himself. someone with incredibly low self-esteem (disguised by his artificial narcissism), someone who sees no value in his life and only persists out of spite. does that sound like the state of someone who is comfortable with the idea that nothing matters?

nihilism is a trap that so many people fall into. there is a lot of comfort you can get out of the idea that nothing matters. because yes, that means that you will be forgotten and that your life has no intrinsic value, but that also means your problems are not as big as they might seem. it gives you a certain freedom to live the way you choose and an excuse to not focus on the negatives.

rick is such a good example of where this worldview can lead. in a character like this, who should theoretically be free of any attachment, we can see that he is still miserable. and maybe the worst part is that he views any attachment as negative and irrational. he thinks it's holding him back from being the 'rickest rick' as he describes in s6's premiere. he both yearns for connection and rejects it, which leads to a vicious cycle of self destruction. ultimately, he feels that he doesn't deserve to find meaning in a universe stripped of purpose.

so what am i trying to say here? the show does not promote nihilism, but instead offers a solution: existentialism. the difference lies in the details. while nihilism rejects any sort of meaning, existentialism says that everything matters on a relative scale. that we create our own meaning in life. that if something matters to you, you should not reject that because the universe 'doesn't care' about humanity. instead, you latch onto it because the value you find in anything is real entirely because it's important to you. you have the authority to create your own purpose and there's nothing wrong with that.

it's an individual's responsibility to find purpose. and yes, that is terrifying, but it's doable. don't torture yourself for existing. hold on to what matters to you, and don't let go. regardless of how small it seems. if it works, then it works.

--if nothing matters, why would you help me? [...] --okay... you matter. to me.

#rick n morty #rick and morty #r&m #rnm #rick sanchez #rick c137 #nihilism #existentialism #i could go on about how this looks in s6 but i think i'll save it #rick

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spopsalt · 19 days

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Honestly while Rick and Morty has a million flaws (I enjoy it despite the flaws) at least they know that one big gesture doesn't make up for consistent abuse. An example I would like to use is when Rick sacifrices himself for Morty in "A Rickle In Time" You may know about this if you are or were in the Rick and Morty fandom, but if you do not know, I'll tell you. So to make a long story short, Rick, Morty, and Summer's time was messing up, everytime they were uncertain about something, they would create a feedback loop, making their time more unstable and therefore more dangerous. They had to put time collars on so their time will be stable again. Rick broke them so Rick had to fix the collars. He suceeds in him and Summer's collar, Summer puts hers on and therefore she is safe. She goes back to stable time so now it's just Rick and Morty. Morty tells Rick that his collar is broken, Rick originally brushes it off saying he fixed it and to just put it on, but Morty insists that it's broken.

Rick told Morty to bring it here so he can fix it but then Morty fell down a hole created by the unstablity of the time. Rick screamed Morty's name and just looked down the hole. He looks around and jumps in the hole to get Morty. If those of you that don't know, there's infinite Ricks and Mortys, so Rick could've just gotten another Morty, but chose not to. He grabs onto Morty and tells Morty to give him his collar, Morty said that he dropped it. Rick looked worried, looked around, then, gave Morty his collar, saving Morty's life over his. And his choosen last words were "I'm ok with this, be good Morty. Be better than me." Now of course he sees the collar Morty dropped and turned out to be fine, but for the moment he was 100% willing to save Morty's life over his.

Now was this a selfless act? Yes, absolutely. Should he have done it? Yes. Does this scene makes me cry? .....Admittidly yes. Does it make up for the consistent emotional abuse Rick inflicts on Morty? No. Now if this was another show *cough* spop *cough* This would mean that everything Rick did to Morty is ok! But no, he's still called out mutiple times and his behavior doesn't change after this, (I mean it does but not for a few seasons) I like that it actually shows that one big grand gesture does not make consistent abuse ok, that should be obvious, butttt a certain show *cough* spop *cough* seems to not get that.

Another show I'd like to praise for this is Bojack Horseman. Bojack does do big gestures, and while these are sweet, none of them solve the root of his problems, the root of his toxicity. He saves Todd from an improv group (Long story makes sense in context) and gives a legitmentally heartwarming speech about how when Todd first moved in with Bojack and thanked him for letting him stay with him, Bojack didn't hate himself, which is not something he feels often. Now while this was sweet, he doesn't bother to try and solve the root of his toxicity with Todd, and is still consistently horrible towards him, and Bojack says it perfectly "The big gesture isn't enough, you have to be consistent and that is so hard"

Now with that, all I want to say is that I love how those two shows acknowledge that big gestures don't make up for consistent abuse, we can find them sweet, but we must notice that unless the behavior changes, these big gestures really don't mean much. It's a really mature perspective for these shows to take, unlike another certain show *cough* spop *cough*

With that, how does spop handle big gestures? Well Catra saves Glimmer, now the best friend squad goes over to save Catra because she saved Glimmer, now when they get Catra she imminetally regresses and yells at Adora for insulting her, and calls her an idiot which Adora again interenlizes, yippe! Now do they regonize that while her saving Glimmer was sweet, that doesn't mean that they have to put up with her? Nope! Adora vents to Glimmer about it as she should, but Glimmer just brushes it off saying that Catra wasn't going to instantly become a different person, but Adora said she thought Catra would at least try, and Catra doesn't, she never thanks Adora for risking her life to save her, she never stops her abuse of Adora, and she is still horrible to Adora. And they still put up with her again because she holds Adora's hand and asks her to stay.

I know I'm comparing a kid's show with 2 adult shows, but kid's show have the oppurtunity to be incredibly mature, and that's what the stans always call it. But it shouldn't be teaching kids that "If you're consistently horrible, it's ok as long as you do some big grand gesture to show how much you care!" It's just an incredibly harmful message to send to kids, and if you teach kids this I can imagine them very easily falling into a toxic relationship.

So my final point, while you can appreciate grand gestures and find them sweet, those gestures don't mean much if they do not put in the work to change, you can't just forgive someone just because they did some big grand gesture for you if they don't at least attempt to change the way they treat you.

#spop salt #anti spop #spop discourse #spop critical #spop crit #anti catra #spop criticism #anti c//a #anti catradora #antic//a

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 1 year

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Alternate AU: Awake

Mark is alive. Despite everything. So why does he feel...different?

TW: death, suicide themes/implications, blood, body horror

Notes: this is a little over 3000 words long. I wrote something about every other turned alt so. Why not the main man himself?

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September 16th, 1992. 3:33 AM

The silence was deafening.

The cold nipping at his fingers and face like a cold, dead winter night.

It was nothing but darkness for miles and miles.

Was he dead? Was this the Hell he had heard of from all the bible stories he read?

Was this purgatory? Nothing at all?

He hated it. The cold inside his bones.

He wanted to scream. His voice never reached his ears. Muted.

He wanted to cry. Tears never streamed down his face.

He wanted to feel the warmth of his families embrace, but no one came.

He didn’t want to be dead. He didn’t like the silence. The cold. The darkness. He hated it. He hated it more than he’s hated anything in life. He needed out. He needed to get out of this hell he found himself in. He needed out. He needed out. He needed out. HE NEEDED OUT. HE NEEDED—

Mark awoke to the sound of faint laughter and ringing in his ears. He couldn’t move, with even his eyelids feeling heavier than elephants. He couldn’t speak, his mind feeling blank aside from the unimaginable, throbbing pain reverberating in his skull. He could see the ceiling of his bedroom, with the faint moonlight pouring in through the second story window. His eyes twitched, Mark finally being able to process his position.

He was laid across the bed, with something in his right hand, feeling something warm spritzed on his hand. He was on top of a puddle of some sort of liquid, which stained his bed sheets. He was still wearing his light grey sweatshirt and pale pink sweatpants, along with the gold cross necklace lying against his chest. His chestnut brown hair was a mess, somewhat covering his left eye and forehead. He turned his head, slowly, towards his right arm, feeling dread building up in his gut when he saw what he was holding; a pistol. The liquid he felt running down his fingers was blood.

It wasn’t a nightmare.

He was supposed to be dead.

Mark watched as his stiff joints finally began to move, shaking off the rigor mortis and twitching to a sitting position, his head held low. He dropped the gun, it clattering against the floor as he rose to his feet, feeling his legs creak and wane as his weight was put on them. He felt so heavy, yet as light as a feather. He stumbled towards the door, his body moving like a porcelain doll with stiff joints trying to walk.

He reached for the doorknob, pausing when he finally processed that blood was streaming down his face from the hole in his head. He still felt the bitter cold within him, no longer able to feel the beating of his heart. He lifted his hand towards his face, lightly touching the right side of his face. His skin was as cold as ice, feeling as if he had slept in the snow. Where did his warmth go?

A sharp pain hit his face, causing him to snap out of his shock for a moment. A large “crack” stretched from the hole in his head towards his right eye, simultaneously causing the eye to go blind. Mark pressed his hand against his head, feeling more cracks forming from both sides of his head, seeing chips of his skin falling to the ground next to his feet. He used his other hand to grab the doorknob, throwing the door open despite his hesitation and sudden fear.

He stumbled around the hallway, slamming against the walls as he attempted to stand up straight, unable to do so. He watched as his right eye fell out of its now broken socket, falling to the wooden floor. He was falling apart, like a broken piece of ceramic. He walked towards the stairway, all while wanting to scream in fear and anguish, but being unable to find his voice. He tripped over his own feet, falling forward and tumbling down the stairs. His body cracked and broke, his top teeth falling out of his head like a strange dream he once had. He fell hard onto the carpeted floor, lying still as he felt the pain rushing over his now hollow body.

Was this the true Hell he was supposed to be in? Where was his friend? Where was his family? Was he all alone in this hellscape?

Mark slowly and shakily held himself up, looking down to see the new splotch of blood staining the carpet under his head. “…H…Hello?” Mark squeaked, looking around the living room and seeing no more than the furniture inside. Mark pushed himself to his feet, wincing when he once again felt his legs cry out. He wandered around the room, unable to see anything but darkness through his right eye, and feeling a burning, stabbing pain in his head.

He entered the bathroom, supporting himself on the sink. His fingers were turning purple and black, feeling as if he dipped them into ice water. Was he rotting? He wasn’t dead yet. He looked up through his messy bangs, staring into the mirror in front of him. If he could’ve felt his heart, he knew it would’ve felt like it was sinking through his torso. He stared through his tear filled, bloodshot left eye at what stared back at him.

He didn’t have a face anymore. A large hole consumed the right side of his face, breaking through his porcelain-like skin. He no longer had a mouth, or a nose, or even a right eye anymore. He could only see his bottom jaw and teeth through the cold, dark, endless void that was inside of his hollow body. Cracks spread out from the hole, seeping crimson from every crevice.

He backed away from his reflection, refusing to believe it was him he was looking at. He held his hand up to the hole in his head, seeing that even his arm had faint cracks in it from the fall down the stairs. He could feel it; the void inside his form. It wasn’t an illusion after all. He grabbed his head, feeling his headache slowly become unbearable. He shook his head, hitting his hands against it as he hunched over. The lights were flickering, the mirror cracking slightly as Mark felt as if his head would explode from the pain he was in. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He needed to scream.

He let out a loud, ear-splitting screech, hearing that his voice was split between multiple unrecognizable voices. The light bulbs exploded, and the mirror cracked, its shards falling from its base. Outside, even the bulbs from the streetlights began to flicker, shaking slightly. He continued to scream, feeling blood run down from his eye and pour from the holes in his head. He screamed until the lights all went out, the homes around his losing power and even the entire block being plunged into darkness. Mark abruptly stopped yelling, hunching over and holding his head low.

He slowly turned towards the doorway, shambling out of the room and into the living room once again. He felt something within him; a burning feeling that pierced through the pain and soreness his body was in. He felt immense hatred; the want to kill. But he never wanted to hurt anyone right? He didn’t need to hurt anyone, did he? No matter how much he didn’t want to kill, the feeling bubbled up inside like lava. He looked forward, his pitch black iris focusing on something in the darkness.

A tall figure stood in the corner, wearing a shirt and shorts. He was tall and thin, but vaguely recognizable, even despite the missing mouth and the shadow covering the right side of his face; Cesar. The alternate that trapped him in his room. The one that all but forced Mark to pull the trigger. The one that mocked him, laughing at his futile attempts at escape. However, something was different with it. Through its one visible eye, Mark sensed something emanating from it.

“Why...are...you...here?” It asked.

Mark continued to stare at it, his one eye wide and full of hatred. He didn’t even notice that he was slowly rising into the air, lifting the weight off of his fragile legs. That…thing was the reason he was like this. He hated it. He hated it more than the frigid cold inside of him. Forgive me, Lord, for I will do what I must.

Cesar’s alternate disappeared through the front door, running out into the night. However, as it moved on, it saw something pass its field of vision; a figure. It glanced to its side, seeing Mark hovering around ten feet in the air outside of his home, his harsh, piercing glare fixed on it. The alternate returned the glare, but couldn’t understand the feeling it felt deep inside. It shifted its face as Mark watched, seeing it turn into the real Cesar’s face. It smiled wide before speaking.

“I’m surprised I put up with you as long as I did.” It stated. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a scared boy with a gun. A coward.”

Mark didn’t give it a response, only inching closer, blood dripping onto the pavement and grass below. Cesar’s alternate felt its smile begin to fade when it felt itself slowly being pulled up into the air, all while Mark’s glare stared deep into its “soul”. Mark approached it, feeling only more rage when he saw it was the real Cesar’s face.

It went to speak before its smile was ripped from its face, feeling something deep inside of it; a sharp, burning pain. It looked into Mark’s eye as it fell to the ground, looking at its bony, misshapen hands to see that they were turning black and falling apart. It scrambled around, feeling its form breaking, his face shifting between Cesar, and its true alternate form without its input. It felt as if it was being torn apart from the inside out, thick, dark blood pouring out of its eyes, mouth, and nose. Its stolen voices echoed through the air, screaming in unison. Its body was turning into nothing but torn flesh, blood, and dust before its very eyes, its atoms and very being torn apart as if it was nothing. It looked at Mark as it finally realized what it was feeling; an emotion it never felt before that very moment:

Fear.

“Help! Please!” It called, as if it mattered. “I-I’m your friend! I’ve always be-en your friend! Mark please! I thought we were best friends!”

Mark only responded with distain-filled silence as he watched it writhe in pain and anguish, screaming discordantly and begging for mercy as if it didn’t ignore Mark’s similar pleas. Mark listened to its screams fade, its convulsing body growing still, leaving nothing but a half rotten flesh covered skeleton in its place, its distorted face stuck as a look of pure horror. Mark continued to stare at it, feeling nothing other than the pure hatred inside himself, realizing killing the alternate had done nothing to satiate it. He looked out into the night, raising himself into the air before looking out into town. He still felt he had unfinished business, unknowing of what it was before his eye widened.

Cesar.

The real Cesar was the one that brought him to his fate.

He knew there was an alternate in his home; the cameras were nothing but a ploy to get him there.

Cesar never really cared, did he? He only wanted Mark to die, alone, scared, and by a monster he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Cesar was still out there, living in blissful ignorance as Mark suffered. Cesar deserved to suffer, just like he did.

When Mark felt his headache spike once again, he grasped his skull, slowly falling to the ground before slamming against the pavement, lucky that his legs didn’t shatter from the impact. He hated Cesar; his only “friend” that decided he was too good for him. Decided Mark would be better off dead if it meant he didn’t have to deal with him. The alternate was the easiest way to do it, with no blood on Cesar’s hands. He was a traitor, and a coward. He abandoned Mark the second he was no longer useful, ignoring his cries for help. Cesar deserved to die, just like Mark did.

Mark looked up, lightly rubbing his cross necklace with his thumb. He wanted to feel warmth inside of him again. He wanted to feel his heartbeat, and wanted to feel whole again. If killing Cesar would bring him anything close to how he used to be, Mark was willing to take the chance.

Cesar would pay for what he did.

All of Mandela will know of Mark’s betrayal.

The officers who refused to answer his cries, his friends and family who decided he wasn’t worth saving; all of them will feel his pain and suffering.

He no longer cared if God would turn away from him, for Mark had turned from God already.

All that was left was him.

Mark hovered above the gravel road, almost dropping out of the air multiple times as he attempted to figure out how to properly move while midair. He continued moving until he saw something in the distance; a house, sitting in an opening in the trees. It was Cesar’s house, being the very same one Mark went to three days prior to turn on the useless cameras. His brow furrowed, his right hand curling into a fist as he approached the home.

Cesar sat on the couch, wearing a plain white shirt and red shorts as he stared at the TV in front of him, hearing his mother in the kitchen. He furrowed his brows before sighing deeply, getting the attention of Ms. Torres.

“I just…don’t get it.” He stated.

“Don’t get what?” His mother asked from the archway in between the living room and kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

“…I…I don’t know.” Cesar muttered as he rubbed his eyes with his hands.

“Do you need anything?” She offered, her brows tilting upwards as she watched Cesar sit up straight.

Cesar sighed slightly before crossing his arms. “…I…maybe I should go check on him.” Cesar muttered, standing up quickly before grabbing his car keys from the side table. “Something doesn’t seem right.”

“Check on who?”

“Mark.” Cesar responded. “He hasn’t called me in over three days. I…I’m afraid something might’ve happened.”

As Cesar stormed towards the door, his mother called from the living room. “But what about the curfew?”

“To hell with the curfew.” Cesar responded before slamming the front door shut behind him. Ms. Torres sighed deeply, crossing her arms as she heard Cesar’s car back out of the driveway. From the back hallway however, the noise of the glass doors in the guest room opening was heard.

Mark entered the room, his feet a few inches off the ground as he stared through the darkness, being silent before he heard Ms. Torres in the other room. “Hello?” She called, the fear in her voice evident. Mark froze for a second, realizing the car leaving wasn’t who he thought it was. He almost felt bad for what he was about to do, but his anger didn’t let him have any second thoughts.

Ms. Torres grabbed a knife from the block on the kitchen counter, inching towards the back hallway with it in hand, almost holding her breath as she did so. She continued to walk down the hallway before lightly pushing open the door to the guest bedroom, freezing when she saw Mark’s body, barely visible from the limited light coming into the room. “…Oh…Mark?” She asked, chuckling nervously. “You…could’ve just told me or Cesar you were coming. He’s…going to your house now, actually, he’s been…worried…about you.”

Mark didn’t respond, not even moving an inch. It was as if he was a statue. Ms. Torres swallowed hard, her eyes widening when she saw the blood on Mark’s right shoulder. “O-Oh, are…are you…alright?”

Mark took a step forward, causing Ms. Torres’s heart to drop before she held out her knife, realizing it wasn’t Mark she was looking at. “G-Get away from me!” She yelled as Mark continued to float towards her. “N-NO!”

She ran down the hall, back towards the kitchen before grasping the home phone on the wall, shakily dialing 911 before holding the phone up to her ear. She looked back down the hallway, seeing Mark barely peeking out from the darkness behind the doorway. Ms. Torres felt her blood run cold when the line didn’t connect, hanging up before dialing more numbers; Cesar had his cell phone on him, meaning he could still be warned about Mark.

Ms. Torres spoke a small Spanish prayer under her breath and through her tears as Mark continued to approach her from behind. She held the knife tight in her hand as she waited for the line to connect, but never heard anything before she felt a hand grab her knife wielding arm. She fought against it, feeling it push the knife towards her neck before she dropped it, shoving Mark away before stumbling into the living room. The phone fell, its cord letting it dangle from its base as the line finally connected. Ms. Torres watched as Mark looked at the knife, it floating into the air before being pointed towards her.

“H-llo?” The distorted voice of Cesar came from the phone, its reception being broken by Mark’s presence alone. He couldn’t hear anything from the other side, not even the screams of his mother as Mark slit her throat.

“-ell-o?”

The phone continued to dangle before Mark stiffly walked towards it, grasping it before holding it up to his ear. The phone reception glitched, screams being heard before disconnecting. Mark calmly placed the phone back onto the hook, blood being smeared on the cream colored plastic. He looked towards Ms. Torres’s body, which laid on the living room carpet, a look of familiar horror on her face. Mark used his newfound telekinetic abilities to drag her body away, a trail of blood from her torn throat following her.

Two bodies. Mark had the blood of both himself, and two other bodies staining his clothes and skin. Yet it still didn’t feel like it was enough. He still had one more he needed to add. Perhaps then he’d feel peace again.

Mark had everything in place. Cesar was almost home; he could feel it. He sat on Cesar’s roof, his eye watching as two headlights grew closer from the gravel street. He watched as Cesar hastily parked his car in the driveway, not noticing Mark at all as he ran into the home. Of course he didn’t. It turned out he never cared about Mark anyway, so why would he start now?

Mark sat still, hearing nothing but silence as Cesar walked around the home. His blank expression remained unmoving when he heard Cesar’s bloodcurdling scream.

#shmorp writes sometimes #mandela catalogue #tmc #tmc alternate au #alt mark #Cesar Torres (alt au)#blood #blood tw #body horror #tw suicide implied #tw suicide #tw death #So. alt mark huh?#I got a sudden burst of inspiration so. heres this #I love this au for real. I know its mine and all but. AUGH /lh #oh yeah. PLEASE listen to the warnings. just be safe

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