#Black Hole Morty

[identityflawed]

i could talk for hours about the force bro. palpatine made some fire ass points in the wrath of darth maul by saying it was stupid to place morality on an energy field, but then there's also the mortis gods + abeloth. and then there are the ladies from the wellspring that taught yoda how to force ghostify himself.

and there's also that whole thing about how the jedi serve the force, but sith make the force serve them. the force is often portrayed as a mystical entity, a mistress or a commander, but it's also seen as a current. like a river that force-sensitives tap into when they find it necessary.

and then there's people like kreia who believe the force is pretty shitty in general (i'm not well-versed on her beliefs tbh) and i think she's real for that. if the force is an entity with goals and good and evil, then who is to say that the force does not dictate everything within the galaxy? is there free will, or is everything the will of the force.

then there's the whole plagueis novel karmic repercussion thing. plagueis actively seeks immortality through the most twisted avenues, and when he and sidious finally manage some iota of success, anakin skywalker is born across the galaxy as some sort of equalizing force. boo. chosen one.

i think the force is probably the MOST interesting and accurate representation of a religious deity. and star wars is dead-on when it comes to having so many people differentiate on the same thing, when in reality, NOBODY (not even the audience) knows exactly what the force is in its entirety. and everyone's fuckin starting wars over it LOL

[sobselpop]

The hell happened in there ?

Same old story, Ricks killing Mortys.

(Inspired by Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581 by Ilya Repin)

[pgswrld]

just saying that no one prepares you for the goddamn goop when you get a tattoo like oh my god today was my first morning after getting my tattoo and there was just so much goop over it i felt sick washing it all off oh man i feel like a snake now

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 4)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 3, Part 5

summary: You get your laptop fixed... eventually.

warnings: smut!! (finally lmfao) masturbation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of voyeurism, recreational drug use, dry humping, etc 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: caught up to where the og oneshot ends so i wanted to switch it up!!

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: 6.8k (still in shock i wrote all this lmfao, i'm strictly a <4k words kinda gal)

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

lips black and blue and gold.

You're frustrated. Bouncing off the walls, head spinning; and it's for a couple of reasons. 

First off: you haven't managed to find a laptop. Money you've worked damn hard for, and you can't really afford a new one. With moving around, you've burnt through quite a bit of your emergency fund. Enough to convince yourself you'll be just fine with a pen and paper in class, and the Google docs on your phone when desperate. It might actually force you to go to the library instead of half assing assignments the night before, you think. 

And there's your lab book, which you were smart enough to back up on your computer, but guess what? That's fucked; probably taken apart and sold for scraps by Miguel's mysterious friend , who you've conveniently never even heard of and–

"Just ask for an extension." He says, feet up on the sofa. Oddly enough, you've been doing that more often; spending time together. He's not holed up in his room as much, and spends time studying on the dining table, or pretending not to watch the soaps you've got on TV. 

"You're overthinking it. Explain the situation, chula, and it'll be fine." He doesn't even look up, just throws the statement in your direction like the lazy pass of a ball. 

You scoff, because he's right, and go back to overthinking. You think you can copy out the ruined half of your labbook by hand, and if you beg your OChem teacher for an extra credit project then–

"If I let you use my laptop, will you stop doing that?" 

"Doing what?" You frown as he walks over, and reaches to gently pull your hands apart. He turns your palms over, pointing at the raw edges of your fingernails. 

" That. " Mindlessly, you'd been picking at your fingernails, without even noticing. Looking up at him, he rolls his eyes. 

"...is that a yes?" You nod, hesitant, and catch the hint of a smile as he pads off to his room. 

When he returns, open laptop in hand, he thrusts it into your arms - and sits himself back onto the sofa. This time, he splays out facing you, avocado socks resting on your knee. You fight the urge to push him off, a small price to pay in return for his moment of kindness. He's been doing that more often now, slightly more touchy and maybe even… comfortable around you. Eyes flickering up towards him, you catch his. His brows knead together, and you return your attention to the screen just as quickly. 

You're going through the motions, more or less, logging into your college's portal and drafting up quick emails to send to your lecturers. But it's when you open up a new tab, that you see something at the top of the screen and pause. Mouse hovering over an incognito tab, hidden in a nest of referencing websites and scientific journals; it's there. Bold letters, in all caps: WOMAN POUNDED BY BIG BEEFY–

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Once again, you look up at Miguel, and he couldn't care less; tapping away at his phone, only stopping to look at the TV. Nevertheless, you shift to hide the laptop screen from him. But you're not going to look, or anything. You know better than to take a look at your roommates porn habits, the stuff he drools over whilst he fucks his fist; a big, dextrous palm wrapped around his shaft. 

You've done it. Clicked on the tab and nothing's exploded, as of yet. You turn down the brightness, with some shame, as if to make the paused video less explicit. But the image stays, a woman folded under the weight of the man above – in the middle of bullying his fat cock into her pussy. It's amateur; hot and sweaty and sticky, with only the woman fully visible. You suppose your curiosity's been sated, but you can't help but think…

…the woman. She looks like you. 

Tilting your head, you can't help but see the resemblance. Not the exact same of course - but her hair is similar, body type, skin tone, eyes. It's not close enough to be weird, you guess, but it's enough that that thought stays - burrows into you like an earthworm into an apple. Scrolling down, you see other videos, with the same woman, other women that look like you - the telltale red bar of watched videos. Evidence, but not really, and it makes you heat up. Your mouth goes dry, and you look over to him: only able to concentrate on the hand he's got spread out at his belly, the brown flesh peeking out - and how it looks just like the one on the base of the woman's stomach in the video. 

"...everything ok?" He's looking at you, suddenly; and you attempt to click over to your original tab, discreetly. 

He doesn't seem to notice, padding over to your side and leaning into your shoulder. 

"Yeah, no, I just…" All you can manage is a nervous smile. "The screen froze, so…"

"Oh." He gives the track pad a swipe. "Seems fine to m–" 

He freezes up slightly, and you watch as his eyes flick up the screen. The laptop is eased out of your hands, and he gives a few quick clicks. By the time it's back in your lap, the offending tab is gone. Imperceptible, his jaw shifts. 

"...Should be okay now."

You hum, a little amused at the display. He's seemingly unfazed, his little slip up notwithstanding, and leans back to lie up against you. Obnoxious, he splays onto the sofa cushions, his weight practically smothering you as you fight to push him off. You think he likes it – it's the only possible explanation – and gets off from watching you squirm. He seems desperate for a reaction, a child pushing boundaries and pressing buttons to see what exactly makes you tick. 

And that's the second thing: it works . He's  more touchy, and just as insufferable – jumping at any excuse to be near you, it seems. Miguel has a tendency to hover, follow you around the apartment as you talk aimlessly, and you do the same. You sit by against the doorway to the kitchen whilst he makes dinner; he floats around the door to your room when you try to study. In fact, you've spoken to your roommate more in the past week than you have in the past month; about anything and everything. Sometimes, he actually tells you where he goes during the day; off to lectures of his own, another tutoring session or his basically-an-unpaid-job of an internship. In your words, it seems like with the shit they make him do at Alchemex, he may as well be a full employee: with way fewer perks and a distinct paycut. It's almost as if they're paying for my degree, he says with an eye roll, practically hanging off your door frame. 

He does that a lot, now: arms drawn upwards to lean from the oak trim. Especially during lazy mornings in - he'll hang on the frame, and move to tug at your heel, waking you up despite fervent protest. Ultimately, it's a kindness and you don't know how to tell him how much you appreciate it; as he wakes you up on time to get to the library in good stead. You're still waiting on that laptop, debating whether or not to bite the bullet; but for now Miguel obliges, letting you borrow his now and then. 

He's not nice, you think his tongue is much too sharp for that; but he is kind, giving you some grace you're not too sure you deserve. It's more than what you've been given in a relationship of 4 years, and you don't know how to feel about it. 

Well, you do. Your talk on the living room floor not so long ago flipped a switch and all of a sudden you're paying attention to your roommate; really, really looking at him. He is very, very pretty; with a tendency for lingering touches disguised as something else. And you're out of practice: horny, frustrated, stressed. With the way he touches you; a hand on your back to greet you, a squeeze of your shoulder to tease, bare legs across yours on the sofa; it's a lethal combo. 

And here you are, headphones on, prepping to take a dildo. Incredibly self-indulgent, but you need it . You don't quite have the emotional stability for a one night stand (you think if someone touches you just right, you'll fall in love), but this dry spell has taken its toll. 

It wasn't just after the break up, either. Mismatched libidos had felt like a steady death knoll. Realistically, you knew Jaime was always too tired after a placement, but it didn't make you feel wanted. You just want to be desirable and fucked within an inch of your life – was that too much to ask? 

As a result, your toy drawer had grown: vibrators and dildos, clit-suckers and g-spot strokers; crude once said aloud, but all in search of something. With the stress of school and Miguel, Schrodinger's slut ; it's a wonder you haven't cracked it open earlier. 

You're on the floor, its purple base suctioned to the hardwood and towels to cushion your knees. Lower half completely exposed, it's an art , porn on your phone to complete the visage. The screen is smaller than that of the laptop you're used to, only providing some stimulation. And so, as you sink down on its silicone length, you can't help but think back to the sofa - and the videos squirrelled away on an incognito tab. Miguel, hunched over and fisting his cock to someone that looks like you; maybe even thinking of you – although the jury's still out, on that one. 

But you keep it close to your chest, rub your clit to the thought of it: you're his type, and maybe he'd fuck into you like the man on your screen. Broad, gorgeous shoulders and you wonder how pretty he'd look with scratches littered down his back, or hickeys sucked into skin: lips plump and messy and swollen. 

"Oh, fuck," You say it under your breath, knowing that whilst Miguel is out of the house, it still feels odd to put your lips around the pleasure that thinking of him gives. 

You speed up, the slap of thighs ringing out into your bedroom. The dildo is around 6 inches, sizeable; but you can't help but wonder how it compares to Miguel's. He might even be bigger; thicker, most definitely; and you bet his cock is just as pretty as he is. Oh fuck, and he'd tease; press into your hole just to snatch it away at the last second, rubbing persistent circles at your clit. You hear his voice in your head, the low grunts and groans you've memorised from all those nights he's spent with other girls. 

"Miguel,"  You're moaning shamelessly now. "...f-fuck, please–" 

There must be something electric in the way he fucks: with the litany of girls in and out of his bedroom, what keeps them coming back? He must talk them through it, whispering filth with his plush lips against their ear, and you wonder what he'd say to you. God , you'd give anything to hear it him say, just once, how beautiful he thinks you are; for him to wrap his hand around your neck and pull you close. You want him to fuck you; hard and deep and desperate. 

With that, your pace quickens and you gush around the toy. A spasm of limbs, and you're clamping down on the silicone – an orgasm that leaves you breathless and heaving. You convince yourself it's the taboo of it: fucking yourself to the thought of your roommate, after listening to his grunts and groans for the past couple weeks. He started it … thin walls, and all that. 

You ignore the want that lays stubborn at the pit of your stomach, riding through stuttering spasms as your orgasm winds down. You're touch starved, that's all, and Miguel's the closest warm body to latch onto. Nothing more, nothing less. Groaning, you shift, picking up your hips to gear up for another round. Just once more, so you know for sure. 

Thin walls. The sound leaks into your roommate's bedroom. But with your headphones on, you can't hear the sounds that echo back: Miguel O'Hara, back home early, with an ear pressed to the wall and desperately pumping his cock. 

~~~

"I'm not completely convinced, to be honest." You're in Miguel's car, tongue sticking out as you fiddle around with the dials. 

His gaze flicks over, and bats your paws off the dashboard. Flopping into your seat, you watch as he turns up the AC and switches the radio, as if reading your mind. 

"You really think I'd go through all this trouble?" He scoffs. "Bundle your ass out of the house and drive all the way here to…. do what exactly?" 

"Assert dominance in our shared ecosystem." You say it with finality, and he scrunches up his face in confusion. 

"...what does that even mean?" 

"Like in that nature doc you were watching the other day." 

"Well, the point was that spiders aren't hierarchical in the traditional sense. They form colonies that are… quasi-social, if anything, and–" He pauses. "Wait. You were paying attention?" 

You shrug. "I thought it was interesting." 

"Seriously?" 

"...no, not really."

You laugh as he pulls over to park, in a space next to what looks like an apartment complex. It looks way nicer than your place, with sandy brick and hedges that look well kept. Your laughter peters off. Miguel looks decidedly not amused. 

He opens the car door and clambers out as you scramble for the seatbelt. To your surprise, he opens the door for you; stretching out a hand for stability as you get out. When you both walk over to the intercom, your palm burns with his touch, and flexes with the memory of it. It's becoming a problem, his hands. You push down the beginnings of a hazy daydream. He presses a panel, waiting for the buzz. 

"Lyla? Could you let us up?" 

He waves demurely to the camera, and the receiver clicks. A cheery voice rings back. 

"...Us? Who's us, Miggy? Did you finally find a girl that puts up with your shit?" Her voice is singsong, teasing. With a smile, you watch as Miguel bristles, speaking into the slick panel. 

"My roommate, Jesus, Ly–" He says the next bit a little rushed, turning away slightly as if you still can't hear her loud and clear. "I thought we went through this, you can't keep trying to embarassmeeverytimeI–" 

She talks over him towards the end, rapid-fire banter that you can barely make out. 

"You never come and visit, except when it's 2am and you need to break into–" 

"Once! It was one time! Déjate, ya está bueno ya–" 

[Let it go, that's enough now–] 

"Let it go? No, no, absolutely not… what is it that you always say? It's the principle –" 

"Can you just fucking open the–" 

"What's the magic word?" 

He sighs, mouthing an apology to you. "Lyla–" 

"Magic. Word."

He mumbles. "Please." 

"Please what?" 

"Please could you open the fucking door."

There's a pause, and rustling over the intercom. The door buzzes open. 

In the elevator up, you keep quiet, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing. Miguel is visibly brooding; arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

"Don't." He says, with a pout you almost think is cute. Almost. 

"I'm trying really, really hard not to." You put your hands up, as if to surrender. "... Miggy."

"Fuck off." And then, a little softer. 

"...I told you I have friends."

~~~

You leave it at that until you're in Lyla'a apartment, when she opens and ushers you in. She looks exactly the way she sounds: pretty, mousy features, with her hair in short, choppy layers. She's bundled up into a plush white robe; heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down the tip of her nose. 

Miguel breezes past her, towards the murmuring voices you can just about make out in the front room. 

"Lovely to see you too, Miguel." It's under her breath, but when she turns towards you there's a twinkle in her eye. 

You introduce yourself, and she pulls you into a tight hug. 

"I know," She says. It's ominous, but her voice is light and airy. When you separate, she flashes a wide smile. "Lyla. It's nice to put a face to a name."

"Uhh, sorry. What?" She ushers you further into her apartment as you speak, confused. 

"Oh, Miggy talks about you all the time. Complaining , mostly, but in that way he gets when he's trying really, really hard to pretend he doesn't care. Like, he texted me yesterday and–" 

"Thaaat's enough." You feel hands on your shoulders, and all of a sudden, Miguel is steering you away from her grip. You stumble into her living room, so bright and airy your eyes have to adjust to the light that floods in. Looking around, her apartment is gorgeous; a spacious open plan, floor-to-ceiling windows with a prime view, and lush furniture. Everything about it screams expensive – especially in comparison to your paltry place. Maybe the shock is visible on your face, but you're in awe. She can't be much older than Miguel, right? She looks about the same age, mid-twenties, not too far-removed from college… and it isn't quite adding up. 

"How can she afford this? That's what you're thinking." There's a voice on the sofa that makes you blink. A young man with messy brown hair, a set jaw and 5 o'clock shadow calls out to you in between mouthfuls of pizza. "Lyla's… mmhgh… suuper fuckin' rich… mmfgh… that's how." 

It's then that you notice there are other people here, sprawled out on the sofa set; boxes of takeout on the side tables next to them. Of course Lyla's rich: only 20-somethings with money to spare have matching sofas. 

She's like Beetlejuice, or the Candyman, and pops up next to you when her name's said. 

"I work in tech! With a cute little job on Wall Street, and a part-time one white hat hacking." She clarifies. " Ethical hacking." 

She giggles like she's told a joke somewhere, and you nod – still not quite understanding. 

"...and some side gigs that aren't as ethical." A blond haired man next to Mouthful-Of-Pizza pipes up. "When are you going to introduce us, Miguel?" 

He's grumbling in the kitchen area, digging through the shelves for something. He returns with a bag of chips and dip in a container, flopping onto the zebra print throw pillows. Distracted, he waves a hand around the group noncommittally. 

"Uhh, Peter, Ben, Lyla." He gestures to you, saying your name, and then to himself; tearing open the bag at the same time. "-and Miguel. All done"

"My turn for questions, now," Miguel says, pointing at Lyla, looking at the boys to his side. "Is she…?"

"...super high? Most definitely." Lyla giggles at Ben's words, for good measure. 

"...right. Peter Parker, nice to meet you." He throws a thumb to the back of the sofa, where you notice a little mop of red curls peeking out. "And this is my little Mayday."

Peals of laughter erupt from behind him, and you notice grubby hands with a death grip to the cushion rest. Miguel leaps up, rushing to her side to help her up its back. 

"Ayyy dios mio." He scoops her up carefully, "Buenas, Arañita." 

Mayday is on his lap now, a little toddler of about 1 or 2, snaking herself around to hug Miguel's chest. She is certifiably the cutest thing you've ever seen: gap-toothed and giggly, with a smatter of freckles like someone's flicked a paintbrush across her nose. And with the way Miguel melts, you can die happy, knowing that you've seen the impossible: Miguel O'Hara, cooing and fussing over the little girl. 

"Arañita?" You ask, to no one in particular. 

"Itsy-bitsy spider." . ..is the sing-song, choral response from everyone but Miguel. They're mimicking his tone of voice, and he raises his head from May, looking around. 

"I don't sound- " 

"You do, dude." Peter sighs, tickling the little red head on the tummy; smiling as she collapses into bright laughter. "I don't have a nickname, and I've known you waaay longer than she has."

Miguel covers her tiny little ears, and says, "Eres un pendejo, Parker . "

[you're a dipshit, Parker] 

The scraggly man sticks his tongue out in response, and May pulls at his hair for good measure. He yelps, and Miguel passes her over to her Dad. The scene is funny, for sure, but you feel it's warmth more than anything. God, you can tell they've loved and laughed with each other for years; the kind of friendship you'd kill to have. 

"We just need whatever's left of her laptop, Lyla," He's blunt, batting away long forgotten chips and dip. "...and then we'll get going. Wish I could stay longer, Arañita, but I've got some work to finish off."

May makes grabby hands at him, and you melt. Who knows how Miguel can stay strong in the face of her big, round eyes. 

He gets up to stand next to you, arms crossed. The height difference is stark: his tall, solid frame towering over everyone else. It seems like an intimidation tactic, but you know him just well enough to tell: he's trying not to be swayed by puppy eyes and promises of food. 

"You just got here, Miggy." Lyla sighs. "We're going over prep for Jess', and we'll be two minutes, I swear."

"Oh?" His eyebrows light up. "I knew it! You were being evasive on the group chat, and Pete wasn't returning my calls…"

Huffing, he clasps his hand around yours, ready to storm out. "This is an ambush. A goddamn setup!" 

"Wait, Miguel, I need my-" 

"I'll pick it up later for you, okay?" It's said like an aside, so soft only you can hear it. With his hand around yours, it certainly feels more intimate than it should. And it seems like he realises a little too late, dropping your hand as your faces are mere inches away. 

"Um, we should… we should go." 

You look past him to the faces blinking at you guys, on the sofa. A pause, and then you're gulping down stubborn feelings to ask a question. 

"Jess' ? Is there a party, or something?" 

Lyla nods. "Yeah, and Miguel's meant to be picking up cake."

The man in question pinches his nose. "I can pick up the cake just fine. It's the whole… going to a party bit I'm not too keen on."

"Come onnn, you know Jess would love it."

"She'd love to blackmail me with some dumb shit I did drunk, that's for sure."

"It's her birthday, hardass ." Peter whispers that last bit, covering little May's ears like before. "She can have a little blackmail, as a treat."

"You're gonna say no to a surprise party ?" Ben echoes, shaking his head dramatically. 

"A surprise birthday?" You light up. "Miguel, you have to go."

His stony demeanor cracks, for a moment. You latch onto it, hellbent on wearing him down. He's always got his laptop out doing work, or cracking open a little notebook to prep a lab. When he's not at home, he's at that internship, or tutoring, or planning a tutoring session. Work, work, work; and you'll be dammed if you let him rot away in a little cage of his own machinations. 

"Come on, Miggy." You watch him bristle, prying at that little crack in the surface. This has to be done with finesse: present a challenge, and watch him scramble to prove you wrong. "You're telling me a couple of hours at a party's too much for you? That's it? " 

"That's not–" 

"S'what it sounds like to me." You shrug, a little smile on your face. The aim is to look as smug as possible; and it seems to be working. 

His jaw shifts, annoyed. Lyla catches on, giving you a crazed smile. 

"Even your roommate's gonna come." She says, an arm linked in yours. 

"I am?" She gives you a little dig, and you're spluttering. "Y-Yeah, I am!" 

You can see him fight with his own ego; but it's a one-sided affair. 

"Fine. " He strains. "Two hours, max. And then I'm gone."

Lyla gives you a squeeze, and then wraps you both up in a hug he desperately tries to fight off. Ben slots around you guys, and Peter's last to join, with Mayday squealing on his shoulders. 

Eventually, you get what's left of your laptop: a little thumb drive with as much as Lyla could save. You'd thanked her profusely, of course; trying to slither out of her vice grip of a hug, as best you could. She's absolutely batshit, the good kind; cryptic, and strange, but with a lot of heart. She makes you wonder, and they all do; just how did they become friends with Miguel? How do they fit? 

The man himself seems a little different, as if reinvigorated by being around friends. In fact, you catch him smiling to himself on the drive home. It's sweet; to see a different side of him around people he's clearly comfortable with. If only for a little while, he sheds the heavy weight he seems to carry around. 

Around the house, you notice he seems lighter – humming to himself whilst cooking dinner. That very day, you watch the little sway of hips as he stirs a pot; headphones in, singing under his breath. He can't sing for shit, of course, and he'd kill you if you ever uttered a word; but it's a sight you commit to memory, not knowing when next he'll be in such a good mood. 

There's still the question of a new laptop in the air, but you feel more settled by the events of the day. You're a little less fucked school-wise, you've got a party to look forward to, and potentially a drunk Miguel to make fun of. He goes to bed early; and you can hear the quiet drone of a podcast from the other side of the wall. He drifts off to the sweet, dulcet tones of Top Ten Genetic Precursors for Early Onset Dementia; one of his favourites, you've determined. 

All is well, for now. A tentative truce, and maybe, just maybe: you're finally friends with your roommate. 

~~~

There's something about dramatic irony that seems to smack you across the face, every time. 

You've come to somewhat of a understanding with your prickly roommate, and the stream of women in his bed seem to slow down, for a bit. He's hot, he's a whore; but he's sweet, with an eye for detail. He can read you with a scary amount of accuracy. Antsy and hungry from a long day? He leaves you scratching your head at his clairvoyance when you come home, chucking you a hot water bottle and a warm meal. You go to bed with a full belly, cramps abated. 

He's still a prick, of course. Sarcastic comments, and a massive grump – but you've learnt to deal with that. Just a couple of days after a seemingly settled week; what you can't wrap your head around is the pounding music from next door, at fuck-off-o'clock . He shouldn't be awake, let alone interrupting your late night study session. 

You're pissed, leaping from your desk to pound at his door. You're thudding towards his room, ready to deliver a well-deserved verbal lashing, and the door just… swings open. Empty; there's a window ajar and music pumping from speakers. Bachata and cheesy 90s R&B; which sounds suspiciously like his sex playlist. 

Yes, he has a sex playlist. And it really has no business to sound as good as it does. 

Nevertheless, you're resolute. If he's managed to sneak someone, at this hour, you decide he's going to get more than a stern talking to. 

There's clattering in the kitchen, and you whip around; half-expecting the giggle of another girl. When you walk in, it's just Miguel, rummaging through cupboards: a half-naked thief in the night. 

"Miguel?" 

He pops his head up from a cabinet, with a half-eaten piece of bread in his mouth. Caught red-handed, you suppose; and he gives you a little smile. 

"S'everyfin' – mmmfggh –" He scarfs the rest of it down. "Everything okay?" 

You squint. "No. Not really."

He chuckles, a slight rasp at the edges of his voice. Dickhead – what exactly is so funny? 

"You can't have your music so fucking loud, not when I'm studying. It's the middle of the night and–" 

Dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, he's busying himself with a sandwich on the counter; clattering around noisily like he doesn't have full control of his limbs. Which is…. weird, admittedly. You'd trust Miguel to slice a grape with a machete – his dexterity is usually unmatched. Not that you'd made a habit of staring at his hands, or anything. 

"Are you even listening to me?" 

He nods, attempting to keep a straight face, but the faux solemnity does nothing to hide that droop of eyelids and slump of his shoulders. You get closer, pushing him to face you properly. 

"Oh, fuck," His eyes are a little red, hair messy and windswept. "Are you… high? " 

Miguel O'Hara? High? You'd never thought you'd live to see the day, honestly. His eyes go wide, dropping his sandwich dramatically. And then he's got a big hand at your shoulder, pulling you closer with a finger pressed to his lips. 

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

With the way he says your name it makes you light-headed. It's slow and careful, as if he's testing the way it feels spilling from his lips. And maybe, with the way he smiles, it feels good; tastes sweet wrapped around his tongue. 

"I won't." You breathe, and then you're both giggling.

There's something about the way he looks at you, peering under heavy lashes; basically eye-fucking you in the space of your tiny kitchen. You feel bare in a little t-shirt and sleep shorts; suddenly exposed. 

"You should…" He starts, cocking his head ever so slightly. "Join me, chula. "

It's soft; sinful, even; said as he coaxes you between his body and the kitchen counter. 

You don't trust your voice enough to answer, legs already shaky, so you nod. Slight, at first; and then with a little more gusto as the idea of him and you on his sheets – intimate, alone – creeps in. He stretches out a hand, and you take it; led to his bedroom like a scene you've seen before. All those girls before you; led to the dragon's lair like damsels in a fairytale. Except in this one, you suppose, you're not waiting for a knight in shining armour to save you. 

He sits you down on the bed, passing you a freshly rolled blunt. Passing it to your lips , more specifically; hand on your chin as he brings the lighter up to its end. Even prettier up close, all you can do is watch the press of plump lips, and pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates. As he leans in, there's a hand on your bare thigh. You inhale, deeply, and he hums with content.

"Good girl," He purrs, prying it from your lips to take a slow drag. 

"You're a bad influence." You murmur, watching as his eyes flutter shut. 

"You need to relax," He leans back, arm drawn lazily upwards. "This is helping."

"That's not–" Oh. You feel it now, a steady haze rolling over limbs. 

Miguel quirks up an eyebrow, amused. 

You repeat, slowly, "You're a bad influence ."

"Does it feel good?" You pause, trying to ignore his low tone; and the steady blaze that it ignites within you. Dragging your eyes to meet his, you see it: want, lust, something heavy that swirls behind them. 

You nod, itching for another pull. As if psychic, he gestures for you to come closer; and your lips almost slot against his. He exhales, and you inhale; in the closest thing you've come to a kiss in months. It makes you ache for just a little more contact, for those pretty hands to slot between your thighs and–

"Is this all I need to do for some quiet around here?" He asks, lilting. If only he'd stop talking; interrupting your fantasy with that stupid grin of his. 

You're shaking your head, laughing at the sheer gall . 

"You're fucking someone new every week, O'Hara. Loud. Who was it the other day? Cathy, Kayla –" 

"Sita, actually." He has a strange expression on his face. "And we didn't fuck. Just going over lecture notes."

"Sorry . Must have gotten mixed up with the half-dozen other girls in and out of here. Our apartment's not a brothel , Miggy."

He rolls his eyes, handing you the remnants of the blunt. 

"...s'not my fault there isn't anyone fucking you right."

You scoff. "How would you know?" 

"Thin walls. " It's cryptic. What the fuck does that mean?

You take a careful drag, and hand the blunt back – trying your hardest not to strangle him. It must show on your face as you tussle with the thought, because Miguel is staring; unabashedly, unashamedly. When you notice, it throws you off. 

"... what?" Ready to defend yourself, you huff. 

He shrugs. His expression is soft, reminding you of that night, not long ago. 

"You look like a painting."

You practically short circuit. You've been complimented before, of course. Hot, by men trying to get into your pants. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, the other times. Whether it's been sincere, you don't know – but you're smart enough to not overthink it. It's hard enough to live a life, as it is; and you'd rather not be bogged down by what others think, how you look whilst doing it. And yet, you feel your body betray you; a steady bloom of heat at your heart, like you've been stabbed. So deep, it spreads like blood on the front of a blouse. Like a painting, he says. And you like the way he says it; how it sounds spilling from his lips. 

Its implication sits heavy. Like a painting : hand-crafted, silken, soft –

He blinks, the crack of a smile on his face. And it ends in a fit of giggling, if you can even call it that. 

"Stop fucking with me." You grumble, and he thinks the way your face scrunches up with disdain is cute. There's probably an implication there he should unpack in therapy – how he likes it when you shout and put him in his place – but he's much too high to care. 

"M'not-" He quiets down, flattens his face into something resembling sobriety and gravitas. He gets a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body and flutter of lashes. With wide, dilated pupils, he stills - and it really doesn't help that he looks so pretty. 

"Can't stop thinking about you, hermosa." His voice is low, slurred with the weight of the blunt he's taken careful drags of. Every word makes you feel hazy, drawn in by his lips. " Fuck, all the time."

"Hear your laugh in my dreams, sometimes." He circles your bare thigh carefully, without breaking eye contact. With a thumb on your chin, he brings you closer, and closer still. Gently, you close your eyes, expecting the press of his lips against yours… 

…instead, you get a puff of smoke for your troubles. Reeling, you push him away. He collapses on the bed in a laughing fit. 

"... now I'm fucking with you." Rumbling laughter, and you've got the wherewithal to be embarrassed – hand still resting on his bare chest. 

A little cruelly, you push down, giving him an elbow to the ribs for good measure and he splutters with surprise – laughing all the same. 

"Asshole." You slur, and he grabs your arm to pull you onto the covers with him. You paw at him wildly, wrestling amongst the table of sheets. It's not a fair fight, not really; the wide expanse of his bare chest feels solid, and he's probably got more muscle in his pinky toe than you do in your whole body. Miguel is strong , but plays along regardless, pinning you to the bed with his hands around your wrists - but lets you turn him over just as quick. You're both laughing, the blunt long forgotten but its haze blurring the lines. You straddle his middle, hips flush against his and he keens; head back and cheeks flushed.

"Fuck," It's quiet, said as he writhes below you and you try to pin his hands above his head. Maybe it's the weed, but he lets you: eyes low, breath steady. And you stay like that, for a moment; bodies laid against one another. 

You don't know who starts it: the slow roll of hips, the swell of his cock bucking up against your heat. Regardless, you welcome it, letting the heat build up with the pressure at your clit. Your hips sway and all Miguel can do is watch. 

Lips parted, head back; and you set a steady rhythm that washes over you both.

Humping against one another, you get more desperate and drag your hands to his chest for purchase. Underneath you, Miguel practically purrs – one hand on your waist and the other clutching yours at his chest. 

"So, so pretty…" He sighs into it, wide palm pawing at your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls. By now, he's rock hard; and you feel him throb through the thin material of his sweats. 

"Fuck, I can't–" You moan, ragged, the roll of your hips gaining speed. 

Miguel coos, bringing a hand to your chin to pull you closer to the crook of his neck. 

"Too fast, hermosa. S-Slow it down for me." He grips your waist, forcing the pace to slow. Your hips stutter against his, delicious pressure making you cry out. And, God, you're close; pleasure building up at your gut. 

"Ohhh, fuck. Just like that, just like–" It's soft, whispered between the press of bodies like a prayer: reverent, intimate, a slew of garbled English and Spanish into the shell of your ear that goes straight to your pussy. 

"A-Ahi, ahi–"

[t-there, there–] 

Plush lips brush against your cheek, and you try so hard to not float away - with only his words to keep you tethered.  

"... no pares lo que sea que estes haciendo–ohh-fuck–" 

[don't stop what you're doing, oh fuck–] 

The coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you arch into his touch as he does the same. Miguel spills into his sweats, heaving with the effort. He can feel the clench of your pussy above, and he chases it in the aftermath; craning his neck to finally get a kiss. Limbs heavy, you still manage to swerve so his kisses land at your jaw. He's grateful for the contact anyway it comes and sucks careful hickies into the skin: at your neck, your collarbone, and anywhere else he can reach. 

You sink into it, curl up on his chest like a housecat; his hands wandering the gentle slope of your back under your shirt. 

Limbs heavy, you pry yourself from his hands ever so slightly. He strains to follow you up, snapping back into the sheets like an elastic band. Still, he kneads at your flesh - bare thighs spilling from your shorts. 

" Miguel," You whisper, hand travelling past his neck to cradle his jaw. "Need more…"

You punctuate that last word with a roll of your hips. Wanton, conflicted; he groans . 

"It's late, chula. " He says it slowly, hesitant – like he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's still high, lost in the whispy remnants of that blunt. You've never known weed to make someone more responsible, and you flop to his side, a little childishly. 

Miguel makes sure to keep a hand wrapped around your waist, dragging his other knuckles up your exposed tummy so that it rides up to the swell of your tits. 

"And you've got that 9am."

You cover your face with the span of your hands, grumbling. From between the gaps in your fingers, you repeat, 

" ...and I've got that 9am ."

He traces lazy circles in your flesh. Maybe it's the blunt, or the afterglow of an orgasm; but you make him laugh, a gentle ache replacing the creak and shudder of gears. 

"Idiot." He says, kissing it into your skin. And he burns from the touch, fleeting; like the warm flame from paper lanterns, or the flicker of a lighter against cool night air. 

_

_

_

Miguel taglist (1): @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @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

[kelsh]

A (somewhat) accurate process of Mike rotting after he got scooped because I'm literally obsessed with the stages of decomposition and I've been curious about it since seeing that cutscene in SL.

disclaimer!!! I did not use gore photos or non-con photos of the deceased, my references were pigs or medical literature

Close-ups below + decomp timeline:

Stage 1 - Immediately after to a couple hours since death, Pallor Mortis (paling of skin) and Algor Mortis (gradual loss of body heat) occurs. Livor Mortis (pooling of blood to extremities) begins to set in.

Stage 2 - A couple hours to a couple days after Michael's death, Livor Mortis has become fixed, giving the lowest extremities on his body (hands, feet) a purplish hue. Rigor Mortis (stiffening of muscles) occurs and fades after a few days. Autolysis (destruction of cells by the self) causes loosening of skin, fluids released gives it a sheen. Eyes start to cloud.

Stage 3 - A couple days to almost a week since his death. He should be bloating like a balloon but the giant fucking hole in his stomach from the scooper releases all gases (he stinks.) Ennard puppeting his body made it hard for flies to land but they eventually got there and the maggots have hatched. Continued decay of his flesh turns him greenish and makes his skin slough off. Liquefied meat seeps from his orifices. Eyes are fully clouded.

Stage 4 - A week to a couple weeks since the scooper. Bro is experiencing premature male pattern baldness. He's all squishy and slimy from the body fluid and rotting. Exposed parts become a purplish-black colour and the maggots are graduating to further life stages. Eyeballs cave in, get eaten, or in Michael's case, pop out.

Stage 5 - A couple weeks to a month since bro's death. The last chunks of his hair are holding on by a miracle. Most of his outer flesh is eaten away and is almost entirely a purplish-black. Maggots have mostly turned into flies and left for college.

Stage 6 - Ennard realizes they can't stay in a zombie anymore and decides to dip. Leaves Michael a fresh set of eyes as a "sorry" gift. His rotting has thankfully stopped but it'll take a while for him to regenerate. Or not. I have no idea how remnant works. For now, he's basically a sack of rotted flesh and exposed bone. Bald.

This entire post is essentially-

[hiskillingjar]

tbh I need more fanfics of laws necrophilia... there's too few.

your wish is my command you fucking sicko

1500+ words, first person, law's pov. cw for necrophilia (duh), mentions of rape and murder, and gross bodily functions

crossposted on ao3. give me attention i have huge boobs

You were dead.

It had happened recently, maybe two hours ago, three hours at most.

Your nose was broken, bones and flesh smashed like a hole, caked with near-black blood, with the same trickling (lighter, ruby red) from a hollow gash on your forehead where your skull had caved in.

You put up a fight, evident from the bruises on your bare shoulders and chest, but blunt force trauma always won out, no matter how strong the person receiving it was.

It only takes four minutes from the moment a person has died (or, was killed in your case) before their body enters the decomposition process, beginning with the "self-digestion" stage, causing what most people know as rigor mortis, as the body begins to eat itself from the inside out.

All the tiny bacteria living in our bodies digest the small intestine first, which causes the cells in the body to lose their structural integrity and start dying and collapsing. Blisters will then appear on internal organs and the skin's surface (purple and yellow, like bruises, like pus), which is also when flies and maggots will become interested and begin to eat and reproduce too, playing nature’s role in the decomposition process.

Decomposition scares most people. I know that, which is why I don’t talk about it.

The idea that the body of someone they care about can begin deteriorating in front of their eyes (within minutes, even) upsets them.

It scares them. 

They don't like thinking about how weak we, as human beings, really are, and how willing our bodies are to turn on us when we no longer belong there.

It doesn't scare me, though. 

Which was why I wasn't scared when I saw you.

I had been in the forest that night, checking on the mastication process of the newest project until it had gotten dark, and was heading back to my car when I found you, lit by a single moonbeam on the clearing closest to the road.

Whoever killed you hadn’t done a good job of hiding it, but I was grateful for that.

You were a willowy beauty in a skimpy, white night dress (dotted with blood and dirt and other fluids), hands taped together at the wrist, dead, empty eyes staring up at the starry night sky as the holes in your skull continued to bleed.

What a beautiful night to die.

I'd never seen a dead body in real life. 

Plenty online, plenty in the fucked up videos I used to watch when I was a teenager, before I knew what death felt like, really felt like, and knew I could never see it kept to a video again, but never in the flesh.

I felt a wave of initial nausea take over me, a predisposed reaction to death that the human body must have had, because I was far from disgusted when I saw you.

I set my bag down and approached you, a hand over my mouth to stop any instinct to vomit.

I couldn’t ruin you any more than you had already been ruined.

You almost looked like a doll, lying in the grass, your skin paling and purpling as the initial stages of 'self-digestion' occurred underneath it, and a loud part of me ached to tear into you and see it happen myself. 

Yes. That’s what you were.

A broken doll played with and thrown away when she was no longer fun to play with.

"How awful," I murmured to myself, stopping my idle pacing at your blackened feet and setting myself down into a comfortable squat, tilting my head to examine you more closely. "Who did this to you? A boyfriend? Husband?"

Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I reached forward and gently nudged your legs apart, not surprised when I saw purpled bruises between your legs, reaching up to your equally bruised vagina that appeared wet and slick (and not just with the piss and shit leaving your body, another part of the self-digestion process that people didn’t like).

"I'm sorry," I then said to you, because it felt like you could hear me, looking at your bloody face. "You didn't deserve that."

I settled down onto my knees, dirt and mud soaking in, and crawled a little closer to you, kneeling between your spread legs and pressing my body down against yours. 

Your warmth was dying, as all warmth always did, but it was still there, barely alive, in your chest and your inner thighs.

I could feel my core begin to tighten and throb, despite the awful smell of death beneath me

I didn’t mind. I was used to the smell of rot.

"I mean, not like anyone deserves it," I whispered with an awkward chuckle, reaching up and stroking your pale cheek, smearing blood as I pushed dark hair out of your pretty face. You made a broken nose look beautiful, I thought. "Just you especially didn't deserve it. I'm sorry."

I pressed my face into your matted hair, smelling the scent of freshly washed hair and sweet blood over the smell of shit, and my core tightened even more.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I repeated, rubbing my face against your clean hair, my trembling hands going to your thighs and parting them even further. "The world is so cruel, isn't it? So cruel to people like you."

The white lace, the freshly washed hair, the cum lingering on your skin after your death, maybe this boyfriend or husband had even killed you on an anniversary or something. 

The world could be cruel, but people could be so much crueller.

"I promise I won't be cruel," I whispered, slowly reaching down to the front of my sweat pants and squeezing my- "It'll be quick. I'll make it as easy as I can." I tucked them down and freed myself, lowering myself between your warm thighs, stiff with rigour mortis but open and willing for someone (someone kind and good like me) to take care of you. "I wish I could ask properly. I'm sorry I can't."

I gradually pressed inside you, the seed of your killer making the entrance easy and slick, even if self-digestion had made you tighten up, like you were trying to ward off anybody else who wanted to do this to you, even in death.

I was patient though. 

I was happy to slowly work you open, slowly lower your defences and make you feel safe with me.

I had never done this before, either, although I had often fantasised about it, masturbated about it, and wrote about it in journals and concerning blog posts. 

None of that compared to the real thing, naturally.

I couldn’t help a slight grimace, though, feeling the wet slide of shit against my groin and upper thighs as I pressed closer to you, seeking your tightness, but I knew that you couldn't help it. 

If you could help it, this wouldn't have felt nearly as good. 

"I'm sorry," I said again through grit teeth and wheezing hisses, taking each of your slim hips in my hands and starting up a series of thrusts, first shallow and then deep, as you opened up more and accepted me. "I haven't done this before. I'm probably going to be quicker than I thought...hah."

I slid deeper, forcing a gas pocket inside you to open softly, demure and quiet, like you were hiding it from me (too shy to be a human), and it sent an electric spike of arousal through my body, tingling up my spine and to the stem of my brain.

Fuck.

"Fuck," I breathed out, lowering my head down to your chest and reaching up to the strap of your night dress, pulling it aside and exposing your perfect breasts, mottled purple with bruises and decomposition, your nipples hard and oozing with fluid. "I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you."

I spilt my seed inside of you and almost instantly pulled away, embarrassed, tucking away my softening flesh and dismissing myself from your body, like this had been a particularly humiliating brothel encounter.

I probably hadn’t been your worst encounter that night, but still.

I let out a long sigh, pushing a hand into my hair as I wet my lips nervously, and picked up my bag, starting the walk back to my car.

I felt bad that I couldn't give you a burial, some dignity in death after what your killer (after what I) had done to you. 

I felt worse leaving you there to degrade, and not bundling you up in my trunk and taking you home with me, to take care of and love through each lovely stage of decomposition, but...no, leaving you out in the open would be better.

That way, the police would find you in the morning, identify you from dental records or a fingerprint (or something), and you might get something close to justice.

I just hoped any tests they did wouldn't spot two different sources of semen inside of you.

[plainandgeneric]

Tis the season of the spooky! I recently delved into a rabbit hole about the 僵尸 (Jiangshi) and 湘西赶尸人 (Xiangxi necromancer), both Chinese folklores regarding the undead. These are very underrated topics so I’ve found some fun info to share under the cut!

僵尸 (Jiangshi) directly translates to ‘rigid corpse’ (corpse with rigor mortis), but it’s better known as the Chinese vampire in pop culture. 

Jiangshi is an undead that sustains itself by consuming the energy of the living, and moves about by hopping (cause rigor mortis).

湘西赶尸人 translates directly to the corpse herder of Xiangxi. It is considered as a traditional witchcraft practice of the Xiangxi area, and thought of as ‘good magic’. According to traditional lore, families hire these necromancers so that their loved ones (usually people who died in war) could be returned and buried in their homeland, so to encourage the spirit to pass on properly. 

The stereotype of the undead in Qing dynasty officials garb was made popular by horror films and pop culture of the 80s. In traditional folklore, the dead are often clothed in black death shrouds or otherwise have their face covered by large hats. The yellow talisman in movies are depicted to render the undead docile. Here, it is said to be used to keep the spirit within the vessel of the body during transport (I read cinnabar is also used for this purpose).

The necromancer guides the dead with a bell. They would rest during daylight in lodgings specifically made to accommodate this, and only travel at night. This is to avoid frightening the living during day time. 

Of course, there is no verifiable proof for this profession, though it is speculated that some sort of performative corpse transportation existed in history that helped to generate this fascinating legend. The usual portrayal of raising the dead in pop culture is often seen as evil and malicious, so it’s a lovely change of pace to see necromancy depicted in a positive manner. 

[xflixer7]

all of my yellowjacket headcannons (so far)

word count is like a trillion ok i’m not counting all of this

hi it’s been 8 months i finally counted (1865 words)

lottie

she/her transfem! lesbian bottom (i wanna eat her whole)

-schizophrenic

-definitely has some type of ocd

-ptsd

-autistic because i say so

started playing soccer when she was little

will actually go insane is you steal any of her clothes if you look at her she will actually be drooling with heart eyes

plays piano

also knows violin because her parents made her take it doesn’t play is anymore though

lottie isn’t jealous but very protective

her favorite (modern!) singers are

-phoebe bridgers

-clairo

-#1 laufey fan on the world

-fiona apple

unironically knows every katy perry song by heart because she used to be her favorite when she was little

her room is huge

likes putting her hair in pigtails

golden retriever girlfriend she’s so sweet ugh and loves to spend time and money on her person you always staying at her house would literally kiss the ground the person she is dating walker on if they asked her too:((

also the worst cooker you ever met like how did you fuck up toast why is the smoke alarm going off??

favorite color is blue

lottie definitely has a hairstylist she goes too every month to get permed and there really close i can see her telling them about ALL the school drama

lottie wants write story’s when she’s older maybe romance or mystery idk but i can just imagine her having a typewriter and writing you story’s she has wanted to do it since she was a kid and is very passionate about it:((

what i think her favorite shows are:desperate housewives,american horror story,sailer moon

so scared of horror movie like she will start crying

her favorite characters are:

-emily (corpse bride)

-bree (desperate housewives)

-starfire (teen titans)

always goes on and on about how she’s bubblegum and your marceline she LOVES adventure time

her favorite movie is bridge to terabithia

lotties favorite animal is a bunny and she really wants a pet bunny

BEGS you to give her your bra and your confused but you give it too her and she makes a bracelet out of it and wears it practically every day proudly

also think that lottie is a great artist? like sketching and painting wise

nat

SAY IT WITH ME transmasc! (he/they) definitely bi because i say so

-depressed

-dyslexic

-ptsd

started playing soccer in middle school

LOVES christmas like has an unhealthy obsession with it (tries to act like he doesn’t)

northern italian knows the language pretty well also a great cook

wants to play electric guitar

his favorite (modern!) singers are

-tyler the creator

-radiohead

-alex g

-hole

-is so obsessed with mistki don’t even get me started

randomly painted his room black one day when he was bored

usually prefers his hair down

you give him haircuts he doesn’t trust anyone else someone definitely fucked up his hair once and he never went back

his favorite color is black or gray

just wants to be famous tbh but he wants to be in a band

what i think his favorite shows are:rick and morty,bojack horseman,shameless

LOVES horror movies and reality tv like 90 day fiancé and the kardashions (his guilty pleasure)

also likes claymation

his favorite characters are

-ash (fantastic mr fox)

-alyssa (the end of the fucking world)

-coraline (coraline)

his favorite movie is little miss sunshine

nat’s favorite animal is a panther he saw one in the jungle book when he was little and just thought it looked cool

always headcannoing characters as trans like finn from adventure time or jeff from clarence he’s so cute:((

nat skateboards too definitely not great at it but does it when he’s bored

jackie

(she/her) jackie is just a bratty pillow princess lesbian you can’t fool me

-adhd asf

-neurodivergent for sure

-ptsd

started playing soccer because she was bored eighth grade tbh i don’t think she likes it as much as the others but she thinks it’s fun

chronic hoodie stealer

this girl is a vegetarian for sure

jackie is jealous always period

her gay ass button ups bro

her favorite (modern!) singers are

-ariana grande her fav

-rihanna

-billie eilish

-harry styles

-lana del ray

pretty mainstream music taste

all pink room it’s very like coquette?

ponytail girl but also enjoys her hair down

favorite color is light pink duh

wants to be a makeup guru or just stay at home honestly she hates working

what i think her favorite shows are:euphoria, grays anatomy,glee,vampire diaries

i think she likes very drama files shows and will rant about tv show characters and there dynamics and why she think that there like that and etc for HOURS

ughhh jackie is such a girls girl like she is the friend who always has your back and has gum or a tampon for you she is the friend who would check you on your period

her favorite characters are:

-maddy (euphoria)

-regina (mean girls)

-winnie the pooh (she thinks he’s cute)

her favorite movie is DEFINITELY jennifer’s body

jackie is a cat lover and has 2 i can see her with a orange and a gray cat and they always fight

shauna

DEFINITELY bi (she/her)

-bipolar

-ptsd

joined soccer with jackie in eighth grade

has like thousands of boxers

russian

knows how to play saxophone (she doesn’t even know how she learned she just did) she doesn’t own one though

so jealous but never says anything (this girl cannot communicate to save her life)

her favorite (modern!) singers are

-the cranberries

was so mad when they got popular on tiktok and had to let everyone know they where her fav since day 1 (everyone knew)

-suki waterhouse

-cigarettes after sex

-never got over halsey since 2017

-the smiths

(a TRUE music lover over here)

she honestly doesn’t care how her room looks but it’s never clean

doesn’t do anything with her hair really

dark green is her favorite color

shauna’s hair may seem simple but she’s VERY picky about how it’s cut and is always worried there gonna cut it bad so she gets it cut like twice a year(she always ends up hating it)

she wants to be some sort of doctorate she’s fascinated by the human body so i can see her wanting to be a surgeon

what i think her favorite shows are:good girls, queens gambit,13 reasons why

her favorite characters are:

-velma (chicago)

-cassie (euphoria)oh the parallels…

-amy (gone girl)

her favorite movie is chicago (loves musicals)

a simple gal she really likes dogs

taissa

she/her lesbian

-anxiety

-ptsd

joined soccer in fifth grade

mixed (duh)

used to be in the marching band

her favorite (modern!) singers are

-frank ocean

-post malone

-has a soft spot for shawn mendas has all of his albums

-really enjoys 60’s music so she really likes the beetles

her room is pretty big too not huge on decorating

doesn’t care about hair like at all will wear a headband sometimes

a good girlfriend like if your cold she will give you her jacket type she has a temper never jealous either girlfriend material she’s the type you would want your kid to date y’know?

respectful to adults gets good grades and stuff

her favorite color is like a pearlescent white and everyone is like what the hell is that (she is trying to be different this is one of my favorite colors😿)

cuts her own hair thinks it’s overpriced and dumb to have someone professionally do it

tai wants to be something important like president or some shit i can see her being a lawyer

what i think her favorite shows are:the umbrella academy,big mouth,skins

tai only watches skins and euphoria type shows because she loves the drama

her favorite characters:

-hermoine (harry potter)

-patrick (perks of being a wallflower)

-nadine (edge of seventeen)

her favorite movie is the 6th harry potter movie she also thinks it’s the most underrated

she likes tigers

van

she/her and lesbian duh

-ptsd

joined soccer kinda randomly in seventh grade

irish

plays the trumpet but is kinda embarrassed by it

her favorite (modern!) singers are

-bruno mars

-tori amos

-girl in red duh

-david bowie

-was ziggy stardust for halloween when she was 8

can’t convince me her room is not painted red

doesn’t care about hair either puts in a ponytail to keep it out of her face

is a great girlfriend all the same traits as taissa except not the best at school she’s honestly surprised she graduated

favorite color is red

her uncle cuts her hair for like five bucks out of his garage also i definitely think she used to have a bowl cut when she was little

doesn’t really care about money she just wants to be happy wants to own a record store or be a professional soccer player

speaking of records she definitely has a lot of collections like lowkey a hoarder…but her stuff is cool though! like funky pops hot wheels cd’s records etc

what i think her favorite shows are:beavis and butthead, avatar, south park

mostly likes adult animation

her favorite characters are:-harley (suicide squad)-ron (harry potter)-beast boy (teen titans)

her favorite movie is the bee movie or lego batman there cinematic masterpieces

van likes pigeons for not particular reason she just thinks there funny looking

i can see van as a surfer too like her dad definitely is one also i can imagine her being really close with her dad and they have a local family business bakery:((

misty

she/her and idk her sexually like i genuinely have no idea

-autistic

-ptsd

always wanted to be on the team but knew she was bad at sports

german definitely

her favorite (modern!) singers are

-any female kpop band

-justin bieber

-pink-

melanie martenz is her favorite forever

light purple room has justin bieber posters everywhere

lowkey forgets she has hair whenever people comment on it she’s like “oh yeah!”

very obsessive of you and loves you almost too much sometimes you think it’s creepy but than your like “awww she’s so cute”

likes the color yellow

her favorite colors are brown and orange (there her favorite because she feels bad everyone calls them ugly)

i can see her being a k-pop stan too

(her bias in bts is j-hope)

also is a famous editer on tiktok and no one knows😭her username is like “gxxbflix” or some shit

literally has had one haircut in her life like it never grows?

i see her as a pharmacist

what i think her favorite shows are:walking dead,mlp,monster high

has SO many online friends

definitely loves romance anime

she’s in like every fandom ever because she wants to have online friends and be included on discord😭

plays clarinet

is in band

favorite characters:

-cruella (cruella)-alice (alice in wonderland)-edward (edward sciccor hands)

and mistys favorite movie is alice through the looking glass (because it shows the queen of hearts back story and misty loves her)

and misty likes birds duh

those are my headcannons for them i know it’s a lot but i’m obsessed ok send requests if you have any please

-🙈

[ajax-and-ye-skittoe]

Rick and Morty villains will turn the oceans to acid and turn the sun into a supermassive black hole and then be named some shit like Snoopelnort of the species Gleebendorp

[glitteringcrab]

So I've been wondering who the Rick and Morty final villain/antagonist will be...

There are a few options:

1. Evil Morty

(NOOOOOOOOOOO I don't want it to be him T__T)

2. Rick Prime, revived/possessing Rick C-137/possessing Evil Morty

(I also don't like this option, I want him to be dead and gone, he's impressive but he's a jerk and deserves as little screentime as possible)

3. Puppetmaster Rick

(again, NOPE. He may be horribly dangerous but he doesn't deserve the screentime nor the importance of being the final, ultra villain)

4. One interesting option is Morty Prime and Rick C-137 having a falling out and e.g. Morty turning "evil" (but you know, not really, just in hurt teenager fashion) and trying to attack Rick, with Rick trying not to hurt him back...

(but honestly? I think Rick would just let himself get killed in this scenario)

(or maybe he'd desperately try to comfort Morty while Morty is trying to kill him)

(it would be so bittersweet)

5. The Galactic Federation, or its version outside the Central Finite Curve. We already know there is at least one tripping civilization outside the Curve:

And we know that, without Ricks' influence, technology has been advancing like crazy, everyone inventing portal travel and stuff.

The Galactic Federation could be A LOT more advanced and dangerous outside the Curve. They certainly have the manpower and resources to be the final antagonist... although I wouldn't really say they have the "villain" part nailed down. The Gromflomites aren't worse than any expanding civilization. As Rick said:

(plus their economy collapsed by changing a one to a zero lol)

Do they really deserve the honor of being the final boss?

7. There could be a completely new character. We know Rick Prime was outside the Curve...

...which means that the universes he was in had someone MORE INTELLIGENT than him. It could be more than one people (or not the same person in each universe) and I doubt all of them are nice and kind. So there could be a super-intelligent, power-hungry and bloodthirsty creature looming outside the Curve, and Rick Prime might have had a hard (but fun) time toying with them...

(Foreshadowing? Was said looming villain trying to catch Rick Prime to seize the Omega Device schematics for themselves? Did Rick Prime know that Eyepatch Morty having those schematics would turn him into a target?)

This option is very very cool, but I am slightly miffed that said supervillain would come out of the blue. I think it would be cool if we've had a taste of said supervillain beforehand.

8. With this line of thought, it could technically be either any introduced character who is already erring on the side of villainy (Churry? Mr Nimbus? Those are jokes...) or whose Out-Of-Curve version could be a lot more lethal (evil Mr. Poopybutthole? That's also a joke)

All these options, however, lack a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. They're small potatoes. I feel like we need something GRAND.

9. ...There is one option that fits the above criteria...

A character introduced early on and then forgotten, although I'm sure they were never truly gone from our memory due to the sheer impact they had.

Unique. Getting close and personal with the protagonists. Lethal.

A kind of creature never mentioned again, passing into obscurity, but still out there, waiting:

Does the wormhole it entered our universe through remind you of anything?

(Fart's wormhole is not exactly like the Central Finite Curve rift... No black hole in the centre. But it is kinda rift-like, ain't it?)

Rick was unfamiliar with this being:

Why had he never heard of it before? You'd think he knows everything worth knowing by now, and these creatures are definitely important for several reasons.

...Did it come from the other side?

Mind you, Rick never saw Fart's wormhole, and Morty never said anything about the creature's intentions...

...and said intentions certainly have the "villainy" part nailed down:

These beings been cleansing the multiverse of organic life this whole time.

And as we've seen, they're very effective:

(poor guy didn't even know these weren't his thoughts...!)

Wouldn't a collection of such beings be very, VERY interested in getting the Omega Device schematics... to aid with their cleansing?

(although would it really aid with the cleansing if they can only throw one person at a time)

And if they can construct materials out of thin air...

...would they also be able to construct complicated objects out of thin air? Like... screws? Knives? Guns? Circuits? Robots...? Weaponized robots?

I'm a bit skeptical about this, because if it was something Fart could easily do, he'd construct the necessary machinery for his survival himself. However, I wouldn't be surprised if a larger numbers of farts (lol), cooperating with each other, were able to do it.

(Or maybe Fart was just manipulative and laying low so the carbon lifeforms could do all the hard work for its sake)

Wouldn't these creatures' headquarters be particularly... alien to us, due to their gaseous nature?

And dangerous, if they can indeed materialize weapons, robots, shields, walls out of thin air? Imagine trying to escape or rescue someone from such a place, where the existing air can turn into something else, an open corridor can turn into a dead end, your weapon can run out of bullets without ever being fired.

(Ain't that a cool fighting location for a finale.)

And even if their ability doesn't extend to such extreme lengths, it's not unlikely that they can still build whatever they want, by a combination of endlessly creating their own raw materials and telepathically tricking other lifeforms into doing the menial work for them (wow, they really have good reason to think of themselves as the highest lifeform).

Wouldn't the creatures themselves be particularly formidable opponents, able to read your plans, predict your next moves, and project your own insecurities back to you, in such an insidious manner that you can't tell their thoughts from your own?

(Morty had to distract Fart by asking it to sing in order to kill it. He also took advantage of his wanting to protect other lifeforms to trick Fart into thinking he agreed with it. Pretty impressive, Morty. That's Eyepatch Morty level of cunning.)

Would these creatures essentially be able to build the whole Omega Device on the spot out of nothing... if they telepathically get the schematics from a certain someone's mind?

(Keep those creatures away from Eyepatch Morty)

(or not)

(Do you think they'd need Space Beth's rebel army as backup to defeat those creatures terrorizing the multiverse?)

(and then she can adopt Eyepatch Morty)

(ASFGFDSAFIFEIFOEWNOF)

(and then I will be happy forever)

(In theory, farts can also function as judges. Will anything change their minds about slaying organic life forms?)

Edit: I just remembered that these creatures can't go through a portal, so it should be hilariously easy to escape them. There goes my dramatic headcanon lol

[tozettastone]

I think you can sidestep most — not all, but like a lot? — of the absolutely bonkers biological implications in your Naruto worldbuilding if you couch whatever "biology" is happening in terms of yin or yang chakra releases instead.

I say this because it's pretty common for fics to discuss the biology of magical ninjas, and I appreciate their efforts, but I think most of the time, writers write themselves into a worldbuilding black hole pretty fast. It's a rare fic that attempts this without running into some kind of... fairly evident problem with how it maps ninja shit to real world biology.

I am someone who last did biology when I was 16, so I don't really want to spend an hour on a search engine, trying to remember what the heck ATP does normally and how its absence REALLY causes rigor mortis.

My take is: it's ninja magic. Sure, it's meant to be validated by cognitive logic congruent with our understanding of the setting, but it's not required to make strict biological sense.

Of course, if a fic writer wants to make it make strict biological sense then that's the challenge they've taken up and that's not my business. I just don't think getting into the woods of ninja biology is as necessary as its frequency of occurrence in transformative fandom suggests.

Sometimes the answer can just be: "It's magic because of the magic. Discussing the specific mechanism is not the point of my fanfic. Godspeed."

[papasmoke]

it's always been obvious that elon was a world historic moron and fraud, he's been a resource black hole his entire life and has spent the past 10-12 years during an era of exceptionally low interest rates shoveling hundreds of billions of basically free government money into worthless destructive ideas that even on their own merits could have been accomplished by someone less fatally moronic for pennies on the dollar, but reading that email ultimatum he sent out to twitter's remaining employees talking about 'turning twitter into a hardcore to the mega company' made me realize he might really be THE dumbest guy in the united states, someone so catastrophically stupid that the diffused consciousness of capitalism had no choice but to thrust it's cock directly into his soul to imbue him enough power to single-handedly burn enough cash to drive the global economy right into the shitter.

and the entire time all that oaf can do is post 🤣 emojis while his army of rick and morty graphic tee fans do virtual deepthroat in his replies

[zeep-xanflorp]

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.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 2)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 1, Part 3

summary: Your new roommate has... interesting habits.

warnings: sexually suggestive, nothing explicit.

a/n: i think i've realised miggy in this fic is a combo of his movie and comic counterpart. Miguel O'Hara: part-time whore lmfaooo

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: 4.2k

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

lady death, at the cradle of a babe.

You've decided: if Miguel's the Sun, then you're a black hole. Cold and dark where he was warm, to seemingly everyone else but you. Even then, the metaphor didn't carry, and O'Hara wasn't quite the shining centre of the universe you had first thought him to be.  

In the dim gloom of a little lamp on your bedside table, you’re left squinting at a crisp white document. Blank; save for a thousand tabs open, and the blue links of a half-hearted bibliography. You’ve got the bare bones of an assignment; left too late, as usual. The rest lies at the tip of your tongue; nips at the ends of your fingers like the heat of cigarette butts, and as fleeting as wispy smoke in an ashtray. To get yourself through it, you’ve resorted to romanticising it all, pretending you're a wistful poet dipping the feathered end of a quill into ink. Writing something… revolutionary; as opposed to the mish-mash of articles and studies you’ve crammed within the last hour and a half. There’s a pounding at your skull: the dull beginnings of a migraine, most likely. You squeeze at your temples, eyes shut – and the thrum matches the thud at your thin walls. Rhythmic, obscene, and it creates a cruel staccato; shaking the flimsy plasterboard that separates your room from your roommate’s. 

He’s fucking someone. Loud, like it can’t be heard by half the complex. It's the third girl he’s had over in as many weeks. Not that you were keeping count. For a supposed tutor, you hadn’t seen much studying - despite the bright eyed young women that seemed to be at your doorstep most days. Perhaps you're being dramatic, but you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the kind of pupils Miguel had had the privilege to “teach”.

You remember the first time the true weight of Jia’s words became clear: whilst banging on the front door after a draining day of lectures. 

You’d forgotten your keys after rushing out the morning of, and arrived to a locked door in the afternoon. You had been starving, insides churning with the thought of takeout you’d saved the night before; a greasy bag nestled in the corner of your shelf in the fridge. So maybe you'd been antsy, irritable at a stretch; fist on the door like a divorce lawyer, hungry in more ways than one. 

Wasn’t Miguel already home? He had to be, you can hear the low tones of his voice leaking from the gaps at the sides of the door. And.. rustling, the shift of fabric tousled and pillows hitting the floor. It’s then that you hear another voice, higher pitched; gentle and soft where his is baritone. If you’re not mistaken; and something at the pit of your stomach hopes you are, for some reason; he’s laughing, speaking in hushed tones, whilst she giggles at something he said. You bang at the door even harder, hoping the sharp rap-rap-rap interrupts him. It feels like you’ve had half of your college’s senior cohort in the city in and out of your apartment - or, at the very least, the pretty ones. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; and your knuckles sting against the lacquered wood. You’ve half a mind to shout into the keyhole, to tell him to hurry the fuck up, or else–

Miguel opens, brow tight, and wiping something from his lips with the back of his hand. It’s suspicious; he looks carefully flushed, lips plump and cheeks slightly ruddy. You notice the way his head flops onto the lip of the open door; slightly out of breath like he’s done a dozen push ups. And with the way his biceps flex and tense under his open button up; paired with some slacks in a pitiful attempt to look less slutty; he might have. The image makes you purse your lips to stop inappropriate laughter: Miguel on the floor, brows kneaded in concentration as the woman in your apartment looks on, entranced. It feels more plausible than the reality; making out on your couch, whilst her hands travel to undo the button at his waistband.

What doesn’t help, is the look he gives you; like you’ve interrupted something important.

“Oh.” He says, clearly deflated. “It’s… you.”

You flash him a sarcastic smile and push past into the front room. You’ve seen her before: the girl on your couch. Sarah, a pretty thing in Miguel’s advanced Math class, you’d learned from the last few weeks. It’s not the first time she’d been over, but she doesn’t usually stay; rather, she’d drop something off at the door and twirl her hair whilst she waited. You’d answer, because of course he was never home at the right times, and she’d crane her head in for a glimpse of him. The first time; you were struck by the effortlessness of her beauty. And on your sofa, she seemed hardly fazed; the gentle curve of her stomach and thighs spilling onto the tattered cushions, donned in a patterned sundress. Her lips are pert, curved into a knowing smile as she giggles at the scene you and Miguel make at the door. 

“Hey, Sarah.” You give her a small wave as you make your way into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. However, you don’t have the energy to dignify Miguel with a response – so you stay silent. He bristles.

“You don’t have a key, or something?” You’re digging through the shelves as he calls out to you, hands on his hips like you’re in the wrong. You can’t help but hiss under your breath. He’s got an attitude, when only one of you had been left outside the door; starved and exhausted. And the other: getting off on your sofa. Poor Miguel, left with a limp dick and full balls.

 "Forgot." Your answer is curt, and you don't even bother to look up. You can hear him scoff, incredulous - as if the mere idea was so offensive. It makes anger bubble up at your gut, head still buried behind the fridge door. 

"That's convenient." You can't hear the words that come out after, but you're sure it's not exactly glowing praise. You lob a hypothetical grenade over the lip of the fridge door: a middle finger, crisp and clear. 

Takeout in hand, and a bag over your shoulder that feels like a concrete block; you drag yourself to your room, without giving Miguel so much as a second glance. When the door slams, you're hit with the full weight of Jia's words; a moment that seems so long ago. Miguel's probably picky about who he tutors for the same reason people swipe left and right on dating apps: he's an unrepentant whore. 

The thought had seemed somewhat premature, at the time. You had had little to no evidence: a string of pretty women in your apartment did not a slut make, after all. It wasn't quite enough, just a knee-jerk reaction after a bad day. The most charitable interpretations tell you that by all means, your roommate is an upstanding guy. A model student; who left his undergrad with honours and a disgustingly high GPA, head of half a dozen clubs and societies, and currently getting his masters sponsored by a prestigious biotech company in the city. He’s a chronic overachiever, more or less.  All things you've learnt from the people he’s tutored, small talk in between sessions (and they’ve all been nice enough). It seems a little more than convenient that the prettiest ones end up in your apartment - in his bed. And yet, you can’t get a straight answer from the man himself. Favours for a couple of friends, he says every time you complain. 

With the noises you hear from the room over, you wonder how he treats the friends he really likes. 

You think he’s doing it on purpose. That’s the only explanation you’re left with as you massage your temples in desperation. A steady pounding, that makes the shared wall shudder. Interspersed with graphic moans, the higher pitched panting of his partner; Yes Miguel and Just like that; seems to blend with his groans. Sleep pulls at your eyes, and you want to scream into the pillows. It’s muffled, but you can make out his voice beyond the wall; low, hushed tones that makes desire pool at the base of your stomach. And you’d rather die than admit it; but you zone out for a moment, a little lost in the haze of a daydream. God, his stamina. It feels like they’ve been going for hours, obscene grunts and groans spilling into your room. The wide span of his shoulders, the way light is cut at his jawline - and you wonder what he’d look like on top, or the sounds he’d make underneath.

Shaking your head, you try to convince yourself: it's the lack of sleep that makes you think of the way his hands would feel on your waist.

~~~

The honeymoon stage, if there ever was one, was well and truly over. 

In the morning, you’re woken up by the thud of the front door. Laptop cracked open on the covers, you shift to wipe the drool crusted on the side of your mouth. The good news: you remember getting down a couple thousand words before fitful sleep. Not to a great standard, of course, but as your deadline approaches, you’re grateful for whatever you can scrape together. Stretching, your back creaks with the memory of last night: hunched over your laptop, barely able to concentrate. Still in pyjamas from last night, you pad into the front room, looking for water to satisfy your dry mouth. 

The bad news: you’re met with Miguel on the sofa, splayed out on the cushions lazily. There’s a mug of something on a side table, which he’s clearly neglected; eyes closed, and an arm drawn upwards to expose the tan skin of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but loose plaid pants, hair a mess and frustratingly peaceful. For once, he’s not wearing the perpetual frown you’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks, and he looks five years younger as a result. You tilt your head to the side – like a mere 90 degrees would make him look any different – and you can’t believe this was the man who was terrorising you the night before. He looks… cute. Innocent, almost.

The sight makes you scoff. You snatch a glass from the cupboard with a clink-clink, and he stirs. You watch him stretch as you fill it; a mop of brown peeking over the back of the couch. He peers over, groggy and seemingly confused. 

"....When did you get back?" His voice is gravelly, heavy with last night's sleep – or lack thereof. You ignore the feelings it stirs up; pleasant and comfortable and domestic. 

"Good morning to you too, " You say it under your breath but he hears; catches it and holds it at his chest like a songbird. One hand over his heart, he smiles, wide; a lazy, sarcastic grin, but it still makes your face heat up. It's too damn early for this, you think. "I wasn't… for fuck's sake… I came back last night."

"Oh." He frowns, sweeping into the kitchen, and opening up the cupboard. 

"I couldn't sleep." Miguel's not stupid, and you wait for him to take the hint. "There was… too much noise last night."

"So that's why you're up early." He clicks his tongue. "You don't have a lecture to be late for?"

"You don't have another girl to fuck and ignore?" Without missing a beat, you snap at him – too tired and annoyed to entertain it. 

"Ouch." It's blaise, thrown over his shoulder without a second thought. He doesn't even look at you, head buried and eyes scanning the shelves – looking for his morning coffee, no doubt. He finds it, opening the packet and elbowing you in the process, and you give him a glare. Did he have to do that right next to you? 

You catch the ghost of a smile on his face. 

"...Miguel?" You say; quietly, because you can't quite find your next words. 

"Hmm?" He hums, fiddling around with the machine; a ritual you've only caught glimpses of. 

How do you tell your roommate you can hear him have obnoxious sex through thin walls? Well, probably by opening your mouth and saying it, but anything resembling your true feelings dies in your throat. 

He doesn't prompt you to finish the question, choosing to let the silence wash over you both. The clattering of a spoon against ceramic is the only noise in the little kitchen. It's not something you hear too often - never waking up at the same time as Miguel through a combination of coincidence and sheer willpower. Naturally, your routines are asynchronous - a half step, half-hearted jig to crashing music. That is to say: if you and your roommate were partners in a… ballroom, perhaps: you’d be stepped-on-toes and two-left-feet on the dancefloor. Disastrous, to say the least.

And yet, half-asleep, you watch as he pads around the kitchen; poking into cupboards and bringing out the ingredients to a hearty breakfast. Eggs and chorizo and tortillas; your stomach rumbles at the thought of a proper cooked meal. Ever the stereotypical college student, your usual food has mostly been instant noodles and leftovers. Maybe you’re just tired, but he makes the drawers and fridge shelves seem bottomless. It’s clear Miguel eats and he eats well – because of course he does.

“Could you…” You jump a bit when he places a gentle hand at your waist, moving you to the side as he reaches for a chopping board on the counter. “Sorry. Do you mind?”

It’s brief, but the fleeting touch fucks with your head as he cooks. Flashes of the night before run up your spine, electric. You watch his deft fingers fly on the chopping board; slender, a wide palm covering the span of a large pepper. How would they feel on your waist – properly – at the crook of your back, or at your thighs? Sighing, you chew the inside of your cheek and lean your head back against the wall. You feel the whispers of another headache. It's much too early for this.

He puts a pan on the stove. Shirtless, despite the heat of the spitting oil, and he pops a piece of a bell pepper in his mouth with a little smile that makes you roll your eyes. It's smug, somehow, like he knows something you don't – like he knows exactly what he did yesterday (or rather, who) and he’s enjoying your reaction.

Except: you’re exhausted, and he’s giggling like you’ve caught a kid with cookie crumbs on their face, empty jar in hand. 

It’s a quiet he sits with, comfortable; moving around the space with the kind of familiarity that comes with time. It makes you wonder just how long he's been here, which other roommates he’s terrorised over the years. Maybe, Miguel’s got a reputation, and there’s a Yelp review sitting somewhere you’ve neglected to read.

“Did you see her leave?” He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes are trained at the eggs on the pan, onions and veg making a lopsided smile in the runny yolk. Even his food seems smug.

“Her?” You frown, not quite following. 

“...Katie?” He says it like it’s obvious, as if her name alone should set off half a dozen bells in your head. It’s Katie, this time - not Jia, or Sita, or the slew of other girls he’s been fucking in the past few weeks alone.

Your eye twitches. Involuntarily, of course, but it feels like your body is physically rejecting his bullshit.

“I didn’t know she stayed the night.” A lie, obviously. You heard her well enough through the walls, not even a couple of hours ago.

“S’okay,” He shakes his head, nonchalant. You trace the curve of his shoulders and gentle slope of his plump lips. “I would’ve called her an Uber, or something.”

“You’re a gentleman, Miguel.”

And he laughs, a deep rumble that rings off the tiles. Admittedly, you like the way it sounds, and the way his eyes crinkle up into crows feet. He’s pretty, you think. In an annoying kind of way.

Oh, fuck him. You get closer, and stick a fingertip into the rich red of the pan. Wrapping your lips around it, with the heat of Miguel at your back, and yes, it's fine. Okay, fucking incredible – you know, nothing you haven’t tasted before.

Making eye contact, you watch him blink in surprise. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of himself; not dripping with the arrogance of a few minutes ago. Not wanting to give anything away, you keep your face steady.

"Needs salt, I think."

The spell is broken and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've seen the crap you shovel into that big mouth of yours… ¿mi mamá no me enseñó a cocinar para que vengas a decirme que sabe mal…?"

[My mom didn't teach me how to cook so you can come here and tell me it tastes bad…?]

It's your turn to smile at the sweet taste of revenge. Not enough to fuel the next couple hours of essay writing, but a small victory nonetheless. You flash him pink tongue, and watch as his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second. 

"More salt?" He scoffs. "You wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the ass."

It's childish, but he chucks a tea towel at your head; and you narrowly miss it. 

"Asshole." You spit out, frustrated. Your stomach grumbles, loud, and you watch his face crack, amused. 

His lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Idiot." 

Face tight, you storm out of the kitchen. 

You're holed up in your room for the rest of the day; only leaving for snack and toilet breaks. Luckily, Miguel doesn't disturb you, except for a full plate left outside your doorstep in the morning. It tastes delicious; warm and homely, but you'd rather pull your teeth out than see that stupid fucking grin on his face. Instead, you give him a grudging thanks, shrugging as if to say: it was somewhat edible. 

And when you hit send on your essay, with a whole 11 minutes to spare, you sigh in relief. You got through it, eventually; even though your roommate is trying to kill you, your new apartment is falling apart and you're failing half your classes already. But you're through the day, and approaching the end of the week with minimal emotional damage. Key word: minimal. 

In the warmth under the covers of your bed, it makes you think. It can't get any worse, right? It won't – it can't. 

Something shifts. Like a rip in the space time continuum or a malevolent god, the universe snatches up that thought; ripe and ready to spit you back out onto the fire. 

~~~

You wake up and something feels off, already. For one, light streams in through the blinds, a slight chill from the open window. It’s peaceful, and the first thing you hear is the song of morning birds just beyond the glass, instead of cars and clattering garbage trucks. 

But it’s a Friday, and you’ve got that 9:00am; the one you were insane enough to sign up for at the beginning of the semester. What you should be hearing is the call-for-war of your alarm; the one that slaps you square across the face and wakes you the fuck up. On time, of course, but still the kind of sound that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men. Groggy, you wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then you frown. The lilting chirp of songbirds (well-fed pigeons that shit all over your windowsill, large enough to be classed as biological weapons), instead of your alarm…?

Your hands go cold, and dread creeps in. Reaching for your phone, you click it on and it shuts off just as quickly. You’re met with the red icon of a dead battery. Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, you rush into the hallway. From there, you see Miguel; out of his workout clothes and flitting in and out the kitchen. Except usually, at this time he’s just coming back from his run and banging at the door to hurry you out of the shower. He spots you and furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t you meant to be…?”

You don't let him finish, and call out. “–What’s the time?” 

He looks at his watch. “Uhhh… quarter past 8?”

“Fuck!”  It erupts out of you, and you bite down the rest; opting to dart back into your room.

Miguel gets closer, pops his head towards your door; in the careful kind of way someone might approach a sleeping bear.

“Are you–”

When you open it in a robe and toiletries bag in hand, he’s there; tentative, and slow, and in your way. A beat passes and your eyes widen, incredulous. Like a fucking lump of coal, he’s slow on the uptake.

“...Move.” 

You push past him into the bathroom and he throws his hand up to surrender. You’re the oddest person he’s had the pleasure (?) of sharing an apartment with, he thinks. Mostly harmless, but hard to read.

The shower sputters to life, changing from hot to ice cold in a second. You grit down a scream, powering through it until the suds wash off. Sheer resolve makes you towel off and change in record time. 

You’re grabbing your bag and chucking whatever you can find in the fridge onto bread. Whilst making a crude sandwich, you’re distracted – going through the calculations in your head. You’ve got a train to catch in about 20 minutes, and if you keep a brisk pace you can make the walk in 15. When you switch subway lines to get across town, it’ll be tight, but you can make it up by cutting across the barriers and keeping those elbows sharp on the stairs. God forbid you miss the transfer, because you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes for the next one and–

Miguel watches by the doorway, a little amused. So caught up in your own world, you don’t notice. He takes a sip of a mug of hot coffee, and you look up. Your face, cute and all scrunched up as you concentrate; but he can’t help but enjoy the flash of displeasure on your face.

“Don’t want to hear it.” You’re spreading butter aggressively, if there was ever such a thing.

He shrugs. “...I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear it, Miguel. You’re thinking out loud, and…” Wrapping up your meal in tinfoil, you stuff it into your bag. “...I don’t have the time to tell you to fuck off.”

With a little gasp, he clutches at hypothetical pearls. He gives you a sarcastic grin before you’re off – slamming the front door in your wake.

_

_

_

[driftingvoid-155]

Tell me more about zombie Jeremy :3

He's sort of really fucked up.

(warnings for decomp details and just gross zombie stuff)

Mike had the hole in his stomach sure but Jeremy basically had his entire skull ripped apart. Most the damage is one the right side of his face and he thankfully still can see out of his left eye. Something that worries him a bit as it eventually rots out but to his relief he can still see due to the small glowing dot there in it's place. The right eye socket though is too damaged. The doctors tried to fix him up best they could at the hospital but even they had no clue how he was still up and walking with half his brain exposed and no heart beat. They try do to some stitching and skin grafts but those are some of the first things to rot away and re- expose the brain there leaving him sort of horrifying to look at. (Jeremy sort of does thinks its neat when looking at it in the mirror but gets filled with dread when he reminds himself that it's on his body so least to say he tries to avoid mirrors/ looking in them for too long or just thinking about the zombie thing too long in general).

His body held out for a while but evenutally he starts to throw up black sludge from his internal organs decomposing and his skin starts to look very ashy. He never gets to quite the purple Mike does, instead staying more of a grey tone. Overtime the decomp does slow down a bit but not before a few of his bones are exposed and he had to cut his stomach open himself in order to scrape the organs out as they were causing him to smell horribly. From there, he did some diy taxidermy on himself and basically bleached his insides out and did the best he can to just preserve what he could. The local morgue and taxidermist got quite a few concerning calls in the time he was working to fix himself up.

The most terrified he was though was when rigor mortis set in for a brief amount of time. He was stuck and couldnt move and thought he would have to spend the rest of his days like that, trapped and undying but eventually his muscles relaxed and joints loosened and he was able to move again.

He had to deal with bugs briefly but after scooping out his organs and keeping an outrageous amount of buy spray around him at all time, he's mostly combated that problem. His one blessing is that he got to keep his hair (at least the stuff not ripped out by the mangle) and he keeps very good care of it. Especailly as he gave up with trying to subtlely hide and instead just wears a full mask over his face at all times. It's sort of like Mike's white one in fnaf 6 but instead of a bear it's just a simple smiley face. He uses bandages on the rest of his exposed skin and the people around town have just sort of grown used to seeing him around as he's still super friendly and cheerful most the time.

Mentally, he's doing a lot better than Mike is, especailly as Mike had to deal with the funtimes and the trauma of getting body snatched. There are a few times he starts to panic, espcially when he starts thinking about the future so he tries to just take it a day at a time. It helps a lot when he finds Mike and realizes he isnt alone in this and whatever happens, happens but at least they will have each other.

[localplaguenurse]

Modern Dottolone Headcanons

Behold, a long ass list of headcanons. In case you’re wondering why like most of these are horror movie centric, I kinda fell down a weird rabbit hole of people reacting to extreme horror novels. There are. There are some books out there. No actual content warnings though except like mentions of gory gross movies like Human Centipede, and a couple swears here and there.

The two have a shared interest in horror, however their tastes are on completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Pantalone is more interested in psychological horror/thrillers, stories that centre around the human mind and inner toil, making you question what is real and what is right. Dottore likes body horror and gore, basically anything that will fuck up the human body.

The two usually compromise on slasher films but they take turns watching each other’s preferred films. 

Oh and Rocky Horror Picture Show. You’ll catch them at their respective jobs humming along to Time Warp or Sweet Transvestite.

Pantalone had a little home theatre room built for movie nights but is fine watching them in say the living room or the bedroom. Dottore will only watch his gory movies on the big screen to gross Pantalone out.

Dottore has been trying to get Pantalone to watch more of the Saw movies, but Pantalone won’t watch anything other than the first movie because it’s all just violence for the sake of violence with no deeper meaning. He likes the discussion around the first film of how far would you be willing to go in order to save your own life, or even the lives of others? Dottore just wants to see a guy cut his leg off on the big screen. Half of the entertainment comes from Pantalone cringing.

Human Centipede was banned from movie night the moment it was suggested. Pantalone doesn’t know or care if Dottore was joking, he’s not entertaining the thought of watching people get sewn ass to mouth in any capacity.

Pantalone has been trying to find a psychological horror film that will get under Dottore’s skin ever since they started doing movie nights, because Dottore just has an entire fuckin archive of gory horror movies that get grosser and bloodier each time. He’s yet to find anything, but Dottore encourages him.

The two usually have another more lighthearted movie planned for after the horror marathon to lighten the mood. Dottore doesn’t need it, you give that man a soft surface and he’s good. Pantalone needs something nice before bed, though he’d never admit it except for after Dottore’s movie nights. It’s not like anyone is gonna disagree that you won’t need eye bleach after all of that.

Dottore sleeps like he has rigor mortis. He’ll get into bed and whatever position he happens to be in is how he’s going to sleep for the rest of the night. Most of the time it’s very inconvenient for touch starved Pantalone unless he wants to be big spoon. Even then he has to kinda maneuver both their bodies into a more comfortable position.

You can also tell who sleeps on which side of the bed. Pantalone has more pillows on his side, as well as extra blankets because he constantly hogs their shared blanket.

Surprisingly, Dottore is the nicest of the two when it comes to waking the other person up. Gentle shaking and cooing. Not to say Pantalone isn’t nice, but he’s firmer and more insistent when it comes to getting up on time.

On days off, though, whoever wakes up first will usually tuck the other person in. Pantalone moves Dottore’s body so he’s more easily covered, and Dottore will swap himself out of Pantalone’s grasp with one of his pillows.

Dottore gets the small black coffee where Pantalone has the very specific and complicated Starbucks order. Dottore has his order memorized so he can surprise Pantalone at the bank.

Dottore’s love language to me is acts of service but he’s kinda tsundere about it. He usually hides it behind the excuse of not wanting to hear Pantalone complain about a chore, or he was doing this one thing and figured he may as well do the other thing since he has time to kill. Will not admit it’s because he loves his husband, and Pantalone finds him floundering for an excuse to be really funny.

Pantalone is gift giving obviously, he loves getting Dottore strange and expensive things, most notably he buys Dottore licorice. He has no idea why Dottore enjoys it, but hey, who is Pantalone to deny him? 

Actually, food is a sort of love language on its own for Pantalone. He likes sharing meals with Dottore, making old recipes with him, slipping him a little snack when no one sees them

He also really likes physical touch and quality time. Put him in a room with Dottore and he will be very happy.

Pantalone has like thirty different products he uses on just his face alone in order to maintain a perfect complexion. Dottore washes his face with regular ass tap water and he’s good. It frustrates Pantalone to no end.

Pantalone is iffy about who touches his hair, you gotta build up his trust before you can do that, but he’ll let Dottore brush/play with it whenever he wants to (within reason and with permission). Pantalone likes the intimacy, Dottore likes having something to do with his hands.

They are the absolute worst to play board/card games with in like every way. They find loopholes and abuse them, they psyche you out, we don’t talk about monopoly night, or they’re just wayyyyyy too good at the game in general. If you get roped into playing chess or monopoly with them, you should just give up. 

Cards Against Humanity is a wild ride because they both have really fucked up senses of humour. You will come out of it a worse person in one way or another.