#anyway I need to scream about how Morty deserves better | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eddiemunsxn · 2 years ago

Text

— road gate.

masterlist. / nav.

❰ about. the one where we get billy back bc screw the duffelbag bros

❰ warnings. fem!reader, mentions of smut, angst, fluff, grieving, mentions of blood

❰ word count. 4.1k

❰ note. reader doesn’t know much about the upside down, and didn’t get involved with the party until the events of season three. she’s known max and billy since they first came to hawkins! also, i may write more than one version of billy coming back inspired from some theories i’ve seen. this one just came to me randomly and might not make sense or could be messy, but i just want him back anyway, anyhow dammit 😭

His absence was like a gray sky, spread over everything, and as sad as the beginning of springtime. Few people cried for him.

You held your grief, two limp tulips in each hand, and one in your mouth. Your grip was tight, and your cries muffled by the stem. No one else cared to water these flowers, these memories of sacrifice, for Billy. Your tears were not enough to keep them alive. You nor Max, the only people he was rooted in.

So you ripped the flowers out like knives from a body, letting the arteries dry up—letting every emotion finally bleed out. It was too much to keep the tulips in the earth of your heart when they were already dying. You needed to move on, but not forget.

Shut away in your room, and sitting on your bed, you let yourself feel the hurt. The hurt was important to heal.

You went through all the shades of blood, from the brightest—the best memories of you and Billy, to the last degree of reds—black. Terrible anxiety. It seized you by the throat. Seized you by the need for Billy’s existence—the feeling that without him you were lost, or rather, that you preferred anything at all to having lost him.

Your anguish made you fold in on yourself, chest pressing to your knees. It made your hands form claws, fingers curling in like a dead spider’s legs. You froze in that position, rigid as if plagued by rigor-mortis. You trembled as your sobs forced your jaws apart in a silent scream. It pained your jaws to be open so wide, and caused a heavy headache.

Griefs and regrets came to you one by one, attracted to the smell of your emotions’ blood. They perched on your shoulders as crows, weighing you down even more, talons sinking into you.

You wished you looked at Billy longer. All those times he tried to invite reactions out of you by standing so close his scent filled your lungs—teakwood, leather, and cigarettes, and angling his head down to try and meet your eyes. You were too flustered to do more than glances, but he thought it was cute. It showed in the way he grinned—the type of smile he only ever had around you.

His happiness was as rare as a blue moon, and when it was there, it was like a chord from his favorite song—of such pure gravity. It saddened you to see how he normally felt; angry, and needing to lash out from pain, by inflicting it. But he didn’t deserve to suffer or die. He was not unforgivable. He just needed the chance to change, to do better.

You wished you could have given him more happiness. Something to ease his pain. He didn’t always let you in, even when his eyes gleamed like liquid mercury with tears. Neil always made him feel weak, so Billy strived to be strong however he could.

You wished you touched him more than you already had the chance to. More than playing with the prominent curl of hair at his forehead, drawing a hand up his chest, exposed even beneath two layers of clothing, or simply embracing him.

In public, you were shy, but he never was. He secured an arm around you whenever he could; across your shoulders, or around your waist and hooked a finger in your belt loop. Always, in some way, you were pulled closer to him. He needed the kind of touch that didn’t instill fear, but comforted him, and you gave that to him.

In the school parking lot, you vividly remembered the boldest thing you did. You weren’t one to show off, but you were overcome with such a need for Billy that you didn’t care who saw.

You sat on the hood of his Camaro, and he stood between your legs, squeezing your hips. Like an enthused cat, his pupils were swollen, limiting the blue of his rises to a thin ring.

He glanced down to your chest, fitted with a cami top, and detailed with lace. The material had the sheen of pearls, and hugged your shape; the swell of your braless breasts, and the curves of your torso.

Stop looking, you thought. And do something.

When he didn’t, you did. And it took him by surprise. Pleasantly.

You snatched his chain necklace, Mother Mary and Son pendant imprinting your palm, and pulled him down to capture his lips. You fit him tighter between your legs, your other hand grasping his denim jacket.

The kiss was hot enough to join metals, and branded your memory forever. But you wished you had more of those moments. Always more than what you already had.

You could have had more time with him; if you skipped classes like he asked, if you didn’t leave his bed before late morning, if you lingered by the pool a little longer. But you tried to cherish what time you did have with him. You didn’t know it would be all you’d have.

Your anguish soon calmed, loosening its grip on your body, but you wondered if you had any blood left in you. As though you were coming down from hot flashes, your body was chilled and shivering.

Lying down on your side and scrunching up in the fetal position, you looked at the empty space next to you.

It was strange how memories were all around you. Strange, uninvited, and painful, yet still warming.

School nights never mattered. Billy found ways to convince you of that. He only wanted you, not good grades.

You had tried to make an effort to be quiet when he knelt down and got his fingers full of you, his mouth on you. The splash of his tongue melted you like a sugar cube.

Then you were full of him, and every thrust took you and him together like a violin bow, drawing sweet noises from two separate strings.

But it was the aftermath, in the morning light, waking up to him after he undid you the night before. His breaths were cool and light on your skin. He touched your face, reading the structure of you like braille; tracing the curve of your jawline and cheekbones, feeling the softness of your plush lips, lightly admiring the hickey on the pulse point of your throat.

You and him were quiet the whole time, but didn’t need words to speak to one another. Touch was a language, too.

You drew your fingers up his forearm, over the bumps of tendons, to tangle your fingers with his. Hands held up between you, sunlight gilded yours and Billy’s skin as if something holy was emanating from both of you.

You felt his pulse in his hand, and you were sure that was it. The mingling of heartbeats—thumping that morse code only lover’s understood.

A telltale pinch behind your eyes stole you from the memory. A memory of past bliss that became the anguish of today; how it leapt and snapped. How it nipped at you, unexpectedly. Cradling your hand, sobs bubbled out from you. You closed your eyes, hot tears stinging like fresh wounds.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes snapped open, body shocked stiff.

The voice was faint, and echoey as if coming from the end of a chasm. Wavering as if underwater. It was Billy’s voice.

On your nightstand, the lamp’s light stuttered like a palpitating heart.

Hearing his voice, seeing lights tremble—it had been constant for almost a year. You had not only lost Billy, but maybe your mind as well.

You didn’t talk to anyone about it. Not your parents. They didn’t know how Billy really died, and would medicate you for your “hallucinations”, or put you up with a shrink.

You didn’t talk to Max about it, either. Not lately. She withdrew from everyone. You still took her to school some days, but she was never there in that passenger seat. Her headphones whisked her away from this world as much as a good book did.

Your escape was Billy’s Camaro. You had saved it from the scrapyard, using your college funds to buy it and fix it up yourself. You didn’t have much knowledge of cars, but made do with books and lessons from VHS tapes.

The Camaro wasn’t the only thing of Billy’s you managed to keep. You had his denim and leather jackets, his necklace, and his silver spike earring.

Having the things of a person was never as good as having who they belonged to, just as you couldn’t enjoy a flower with only one of its petals. Although, these belongings kept you as close as you could get to someone who was gone. The connection to Billy through his things was a thin, measly string, but it meant everything. Just as much as the memories did—good and bad.

As you kept turning him over in your mind and in your heart, you closed your eyes again, exhaustion weighing you down like overly damp clothes.

God help him. He had no one to guide him. He was in the dark, and the only light was red. It blinked and cracked the black sky. All around him, spores floated like marine snow in the oceans. Fleshy vines branched across everything—up walls, trees, across the ground. Creatures, some with faces that opened up as toothed petals, prowled and flew overhead.

Billy was sure it was hell, perhaps his personal hell. It mirrored Hawkins, yet there were no other people, and his house didn’t have his belongings—as though he never lived in it. But your house—it was where he went to and stayed. He always felt safest there, even in what he assumed to be hell, or purgatory.

Your home had your things, especially your mom’s, from her Eternal Beau and Hornsea Pottery collections in the kitchen, to the glass fish ornaments and L’Enfant Poster in the living room.

The name plaque on your bedroom door ensured that Billy, as well as your prying parents, knew exactly whose messy and poster adorned room lay within. Almost every girl had a door plaque, and if it helped you to assert your individuality, then why not?

But Billy didn’t recognize some things in your room. You had Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet posters (if you weren’t Duran Duran then you were all about Tony Hadley and the Kemp Brothers) when he remembered posters of Mötley Crüe, Twisted Sister, and AC/DC.

What he did recognize were your Pound Puppies—teddies based on sad-eyed, homeless dogs in the pound, snow globes, your lockable diary, Smash Hits magazines, and your boom box. Even if it was tacky, it was pink, and you probably played Wham and Duran Duran because, of course, before the hormones kicked in and you wanted posters of real rockstars on your walls, you were a lot more innocent.

Such as with your Care Bears. A sunshine bear, a lucky bear, and one of the love bears sat lined up against your pillows; neat as books on a library shelf.

Billy stood by your bed. It was tidy, like usual, but he had known it to be unmade most days because of him. He grabbed the coral pink Love-a-Lot Bear, remembering...

He snagged the bear and flopped onto your bed with a content sigh, crossing his legs. He held the pink plush on his bare chest, red button shirt as open as a sliced wound.

“Can you give me some privacy, please?” Girded with a towel, you moved to your dresser. “Like, just close your eyes or something.”

“Mmm.” Billy hummed, closing his eyes, and pressing his lips into a thin line. “No.” He opened his eyes, using the care bear’s paw to point at you.

You rolled your eyes and turned your back to him, digging around in your drawers.

“Why are you so shy all a sudden?”

“I’m not. I just don’t like being watched. It’s like when teachers are looking over your shoulder during a test.”

“I like looking at you.” He knew you by your sounds, your movements, so well. He always tried to listen and look at you like you were new to him. He didn’t want to get used to you, didn’t want to lose you to habit. He wanted to experience you every day like the first time he saw you, the first time he heard your voice, and the first time he felt you.

“For how much longer?” You spoke quietly, maybe not meaning for him to hear it, but he did.

“Hey.” His heavy tone made you turn to him, and he moved away from the bed to stand before you. He gripped the care bear at his side. “You think I’m gonna move on to the next girl after a few weeks? Think I’ll get bored?”

You looked up at him with eyes like your stuffed Pound Puppy’s, big and droopy. When he saw you looking up like that he knew that he loved you, and that it was for always. He knew it then and there. It was a strange feeling - when he knew quite certainly in himself that something was for always.

“Do I still find you sexy, and will I continue to? Hell. Yes.” He emphasized the two words by tapping the care bear’s nose against yours. It elicited a flustered smile from you, one that you tried to hide by dipping your head.

Warmth bloomed in Billy’s chest. “Look at me, princess.”

You did.

“I still try to get a peek at you when you get out of the shower, or when you get dressed in the morning. I want to look at you because I like you. Maybe more than I thought I would.”

“Then you’re an idiot, Billy Hargrove. You’re stuck with me.”

His smile pinched dimples in his cheeks. “Guess that means I’m your idiot.”

He heard you crying again. The sounds faded in and out like a tuning radio. He sank to his knees like a desperate man into prayer beside your bed, gripping the Love-a-Lot bear. “I’m here. I’m here…” He cried. The crying of something leaving the body—hope.

He had tried to talk to you. Tried to let you know he was stuck and could hear you. He heard everything you said, and even the music you played.

The first time he heard the music from your pink boombox, Cutting Crew’s song, “I’ve Been In Love Before” was playing. And something cradled the boombox, hanging in the air like dust.

Wary, Billy touched the particles, and as he did the song was tuned louder, the dust turned gold around his hand. The same thing happened with lights when he neared them. They got brighter.

He thought he could reach you this way, but it didn’t seem to work. He wondered if you were even hearing him when he tried to talk, or when he messed with your lights and music.

He knew this had to be his personal hell when he could hear you, when he knew you were there on the other side, but no matter what he did he would go unheard; be a ghost in the wall, fated to only observe as things lived and moved on without him.

Billy turned his back to your bed and settled down against it, eyes dry as a salt bed, and holding your care bear to his abdomen. A tear drew a hot line down his cheek, and he closed his eyes.

After you awoke, you retreated outside to the Camaro. All you had left to do was paint the scratches left from repaired dents, and the areas where the original paint was burned off.

You sat on a vibrantly colored gym scooter, able to easily roll around the car. Like a jeweler looking through a loupe, you focused intently on the scratches, blinking the strain from your eyes as you colored them in.

When you were done, you used your feet to push yourself away, the wheels of the scooter scratching against the cement. Admiring the car in full view, you drew in a deep, shaky breath. It was done.

Closing the driver’s door, you sat for a moment. You were almost too nervous to start the Camaro. Or too excited? You looked at the rearview mirror. Hanging from it was Billy’s necklace and earring—your lucky dice.

They were the push you needed. You turned the key, startling the engine awake, and jumpstarting your heart. It beat furiously in your chest and ears, but the vibrations from the car’s grumbling eased you.

Billy opened his eyes. He’d know that growl anywhere. He fled your room, following the noise outside. Through the spores, floating like wispy cotton seeds, he saw the dust again, mimicking where his car’s tail lamps and headlights were.

You had his Camaro.

He heard it accelerate, and like jets drawing clouds in the sky, the dust trailed behind.

His knee jerk reaction was to try and follow, but he stopped himself, knowing you’d be back. But when? Your empty house here felt emptier without your ghostly presence.

A cawing screech made him whip around, heart stuttering. The creature, with the face of a hookworm and leathery wings, was perched on the porch light. It wagged its wings and leapt from the light, prompting Billy to run for the tree line.

Gliding over the roof, more bats gathered like snowflakes. Their flapping shapes, appearing as static, were accentuated by the sky’s pulsing crimson light. They angled down after Billy.

The wind tossed and played with your hair as you sped down lonely roads, tracing their curves and ignoring their low number limits. You drove as Billy always did—a little too fast, a little too recklessly. You wanted to relive him anyway you could.

You momentarily closed your eyes, imagining it was you and him in the car, and he was the one driving. You held your hand out of the window, dipping into the high winds, and splaying your fingers; the breeze seeping through like cool water.

You saw Billy beside you, crooked smile teasing his mouth, and bumping his palm on the steering wheel to the beat of Poison.

The softness of his smile overwhelmed you with the stirring of wings in your chest. I’m gone for him, you had thought fondly. Aren’t I?

It was true. He was as deep in you as your pulse.

Absorbed in daydreams, you must have driven all around Hawkins, outlasting the sunlight. Night took reign, and on your way back you mindlessly took the road Fred Benson’s corpse was found on.

And something glowed ahead. A light, deeply hued as a natural, red spinel stone, poked through the middle of the road.

Billy hid in a gutted cabin, waiting, and trembling. It had been quiet, save for the thunder. The storm was always the same, never a molten silver sky, never shedding cool tears, only angry—like an infected wound.

He missed sunlight. He missed the shitty cow smell of Hawkins. He missed you. He missed his shitbird sister Mad Max. He missed being safe.

Here, everything was a threat, from the way the sky wrote its bad omens in messy red ink, to the predators always looking for him. Billy didn’t know what would happen if he was caught by one of the creatures. If he was killed, would he come back and be forced to try and survive all over again?

He moved away from the wall to peek out of the window, its jagged glass teeth threatening to chomp down on him as if he were in the jaws of an anglerfish. He skimmed the canopies for the bats—whether they were flying or camping in the branches. Nothing.

He emerged from the woods onto a road. He had to get back to your house. It was the only place he wanted to be here. But he heard something familiar to his right. The sound of his car.

You slowed the Camaro to a stop, and sat there, staring at the gaping wound. Quite literally. It looked like flesh sliced open.

Leaving the car running, you stepped out of it, haloed by the headlights. They cast a cookie cutter shape of your shadow that stretched taller than you. You warily approached the glowing gash.

Standing over it, you couldn’t see through, but the concealing of whatever was inside was thin—like skin stretched taut over a drum.

Billy expected the sound of the Camaro to pass by, but it stood still as those clouds of dust. For some reason, you had stopped. And then he saw the muffled light reaching out from the road. He thought it was sunlight, real daylight, when it was only from the Camaro.

He hurried to it, and upon seeing a human shadow stamped to the flesh of the gate, his body heat was snuffed out. Was it you? Slowly, he lowered to one knee. His body felt like an eggshell filled with arctic water; so cold, he could feel it emanate off of him.

“Who’s there?” He called.

You stilled, lungs on pause, and eyes blown wide as a camera lens. Billy. His voice. Coming from the other side?

“I said, who’s there?!”

Like a puppet cut from its strings, your legs gave out and you dropped to your knees. God damn everything if this wasn’t real. “Billy?!”

“Y/N? It’s you? Is that you?!” Emphasizing his last three words, Billy frantically beat his hands against the pavement.

“Billy, it’s me!” Your throat closed up, almost too tight to speak. “I’m here.”

Faraway screeching sounded. Billy twisted around, and flapping wings in the sky injected desperation into his voice. “Fuuuck! They’re coming!”

“Who? Billy, how do I get to you?!” Then you recalled that what covered the gate looked thin. Thin enough to easily break. At least you hoped so. “Billy grab my hand!”

Grimacing, you plunged your hand through the moist flesh, bursting out on Billy’s end like something undead waking from its grave. He seized you by the forearm, his grip a metal clamp.

You pulled, but the gravity of the gate kept it from being easy. You grabbed Billy’s arm and straightened up, bending your knees to get leverage. Gritting your teeth, tendons in your neck swelled as though they might pop free.

Like uprooting a long weed, Billy rose out from the road. He slapped his free hand down and pushed himself up, muscles bulging, and onto his side.

The strength snuffed from your body, you collapsed by him. Neither of you let go of one another. You always had the strength to hold on no matter what.

Eyes rimmed with stinging tears, you looked at him—all of him. His hair was wet and plastered to his face, as if he had just risen from water. Dried blood stained his white top like cola spilled over a table cloth. The blood from nine months ago.

You reached for him, moving the hair from his face to see his eyes. Fright and exhaustion shadowed them. But they were still as blue as you remembered.

You realized he was shaking.

“Billy,” you whispered. You thought of how many nights you had lain awake missing him, and caught hold of him tightly, melting against him like snow into fire.

He snaked an arm around you, molding you to him.

The miracle of both of your actualities, your breathing forms, and of being able to hold one another again was as great a miracle as hope and desperation may produce. Perhaps greater.

He drew a hand up your figure and sowed his fingers in your hair like roots in soil. Burying his face in the nook of your throat, he whispered in a broken, strained voice, “Y/N, I was so scared. So scared. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. He made me do it. Please, he made me do it. I’m sorry.”

He was home. And the first thing he did was apologize.

“I know.” You squeezed words out from your tight throat. “I know it wasn’t you.” You cradled his cheek, encouraging him to look at you—even with those eyes, glistening like light striking the edges of a diamond. “It’s not your fault.” You touched your thumb to the edge of his lips. “You’re safe now.”

He relaxed in your hold, his trembling easing away from the warmth of your words. Closing his eyes, tears escaped down his cheeks—one touching the webbing between your fingers. He exhaled a shaky breath he had been holding for months. He had finally awoken from a nightmare. It was all over.

You kissed him as you had in the school parking lot, but with the hunger of a year, and the tenderness of promise.

Pressing your forehead to his, you murmured, “You’re home, now.”

❰ tags. @bdpst-massacre

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x fem!reader #stranger things x reader

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rotworld · 3 years ago

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3: Salamander

The apprentices of Magister Hezethril seem to be dying of horrific accidents with suspicious frequency.

->contains gore, murder, non-consensual touching, yandere, threats, and extreme power imbalance (basically teacher/student).

There’s a commotion in the hallway. A crowd of apprentices, swarming together in a sea of black cloaks, have gathered in the open doorway of the alchemy laboratory. But there’s no excitement among them, no jovial anticipation. They’re whispering and weeping, clinging to one another anxiously. Your heart skips a beat. It can’t be. Not again. You push your way through the crowd, refusing to believe it until you see it with your own eyes, ignoring the voices all around you.

“...looks like Bianca…”

“...the third this week…”

“...couldn’t have done this to herself…”

“Excuse me,” you mutter, shouldering past a pair of gawking boys. You’re hardly a step into the room when the stench hits you, sharp and unnatural, rust and ozone. Something pale green and foul-smelling is spilled across the stone floor, dripping from an upended cauldron, but what’s worse is the blood. You can follow a trail of pain and slow suffering; a bloody handprint on the glass case in the back of the room. A smear across the table. A spattered drag across the floor, all the way to the lifeless body of an apprentice, her hands frozen in rigor mortis claws in front of her face. Her mouth is still open in a silent scream.

“What in the seven hells is going on in here?”

The words crack like a whip through the tense air, cold and razor sharp. The crowd parts silently, allowing Magister Hezethril into the laboratory. You make way for him, scrambling out of his path. The Magister is imposing in his long red robes, towering above the apprentices and pushing them aside with webbed hands. His bronze skin turns ink black halfway down his extremities, his nails lacquered with gold. He sweeps forward wordlessly, tendrils of long black hair waving in his wake. His frightening eyes, spots of gold in black sclera, fall upon the dead apprentice. He scowls in distaste. “Who was in the room when this happened?” he asks.

A trembling apprentice steps forward, a young man with blood on his hands. “I was,” he says hoarsely. “I came in to use the lab. Bianca was already here, working on something. She dropped something into the cauldron, I didn’t see what. But all of the sudden, she was gasping and convulsing. She started,” he swallows hard, his hands trembling, “scratching. At her own throat. I tried to stop her, but she fought me. She just kept scratching. There was this awful, wet noise, and then she…” One of the other apprentices puts an arm around him as he begins to sob.

“I see,” Magister Hezethril says. He turns on his heel and walks away. “Clean this up,” he orders, leaving shaken apprentices in his wake. Some scatter, eager to be far away from the gruesome mess, but you stay with a handful of others. The young man who saw Bianca die sits, unresponsive, against the wall. He’s going to need all the help he can get. Several apprentices cover Bianca with a white sheet and take the body away. You and a few of your peers begin scrubbing blood from the floor. You wince at the fleshy chunks of tissue among the mess.

Luca finds something in the bottom of the cauldron that makes him wrinkle his nose. “She was poisoned,” he mutters. “This brew was extremely toxic. No one in their right mind would have brewed it, but there’s some kind of residue in the bottom. I think she was sabotaged.” He pinches a fine, ashy dust between his fingers. You can’t recognize it anymore, singed as it is, but you believe him. The smell in the room leaves a distinct burning sensation in your throat.

Beside you, Sheila squeaks, “Sabotage?” She’s had to leave the room twice to vomit, and she looks like she might need to again.

“It’s not unheard of,” Phoebe says, shrugging. She wipes Bianca’s bloodied handprints from the cabinets. “Lots of mage apprentices die under suspicious circumstances. It’s new apprentices, usually. Young, impulsive, trying to compete. They just want to get ahead.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Sheila insists. “What’s there to compete over, anyway? The Magister hates all of us.”

That gets a bitter chuckle from everyone in the room. Working together, you get the laboratory cleaned up in no time, every trace of blood and poison mopped up and disposed of. It leaves an empty feeling within you. It feels like you do this more and more often lately, erasing all traces of your fellow apprentices. Memorial services, if there are any, happen in the distant hamlets and villages where the apprentices came from. Life in the Magister’s tower goes on uninterrupted and you’re expected to behave as though the sudden holes opened up at certain desks and in certain dormitories simply do not exist.

The others are thinking about it now. You can feel that heaviness in the air even with the body gone and all traces of death washed away. Accidents happen anywhere you gather inexperienced mages, but not nearly this many, not so close together. There’s a field south of the tower full of fresh graves and wooden crosses. “Why isn’t the Magister doing anything?” Sheila whimpers. “Is this what he wants? Are we all supposed to kill each other until only one of us is left?”

“Of course not,” you insist. You give her the water pail you were going to use to rinse your hands, letting her take it first. She sniffles as she scrubs Bianca from beneath her nails. “The Magister must know something’s happening. Maybe he’s just being careful. He doesn’t want to say anything until he’s certain he knows who’s responsible.”

“Are you kidding? Magisters get off on things like this,” Phoebe says, rolling her eyes. “It’s a power trip for them. You saw how he looked at Bianca, right? Like she was an insect. He only cares about his favorites. Bet you get extra credit for offing somebody.”

“That’s awful,” you tell her.

She shrugs. “That’s life.”

“I assume you’re done in here if you have time to gossip.”

The Magister’s voice is like ice down your back. Sheila practically sprints from the room. Phoebe sheepishly greets him and keeps her head down as she leaves. Luca eyes the Magister suspiciously but passes without a word. “Magister,” you address him, bowing your head. He holds out his arm when you try to step past him.

“Just a moment, apprentice,” he says. You’ve heard him speak to your peers, reducing them to tears with nothing but his hard gaze alone. But when he looks at you, his strange gaze softens with affection. He says “apprentice” as though it’s a term of endearment. You shift uneasily, peering into the hallway behind him in search of your friends, but they’re long gone. A sinking feeling overtakes you when he bumps the laboratory door with his elbow, shutting it behind him. “I won’t keep you long,” he assures you. “Solstice preparations will begin soon. Could I persuade you to assist me?”

Could I persuade you, he says. A phrase unheard of, coming from the mouth of an elder mage. They don’t ask favors. They don’t plead or beg. They give orders, and apprentices jump to follow them. Magister Hezethril is no different, but for you, he will dress up the truth in pretty language, will say it sweetly so it scares you less. But you know better. You hear the threat unspoken. His hand hooks beneath your chin, demanding eye contact. The webbing between his fingers is soft and damp, slick against your skin. “Yes, Magister,” you say quietly. “I would be happy to assist you.”

The Magister’s smiles are uncomfortable, too wide and hungry, too inhuman. “Excellent,” he says. “See to it that your schedule is open, I’ll need you the next few evenings for preliminary research.”

“Of course,” you say. “But, ah, I will need tomorrow evening to myself.”

“Oh?” the Magister says, sounding so unconcerned and casual that you almost slip up, forget who you’re talking to. “And why is that?” You try, subtly, to slip out of his grasp. A mistake, you realize too late, Magister Hezethril’s pupils narrow into slits and he corners you against the back cabinets, slamming his hand against the wooden panels beside your head. You hear the cabinet door splinter, feel it shaking and collapsing inward. You hold your breath. The Magister bends slightly from his great height, his gaze piercing and heated. “Where are you going, apprentice?” he hisses. “Why the rush? Are you hiding something from me?”

“I’m not, I swear I’m not,” you insist, too weak and hesitant to convince him. You can never lie to him. He always drags the truth out, one way or another. “I just...I promised one of the others that I’d tutor them in incantation.”

The Magister makes a frightening, inhuman sound, somewhere between a hiss and a growl, flashing fangs and a black, forked tongue. “This again?” he mutters. “How many times must I tell you that you are above them? They do not deserve your attention. How could you possibly learn everything I have to teach you when you are too busy with these wastrels you call your peers?” He doesn’t give you time to answer, nor the space to breathe. His sharp nails trace your jaw, titling your face towards him when you try to turn away. He looms so close you can smell the fire in his lungs, magic that could reduce you to ash if he so desired.

“It would be such a shame, wouldn’t it, if another apprentice were to die,” he murmurs, looming inches from you, his breath warming your lips. “Such a terrible waste. So many accidents these last few months. So many dead.”

“Please,” you whisper, clutching his shoulders. His robes bunch up beneath your grip but it’s worthless. He’s so much older and stronger than you. “Please don’t hurt anyone else.”

Magister Hezethril tilts his head, drinking in your fear and submission. He traces your lips with the sharp tip of one nail. “Are you available tomorrow, apprentice?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say shakily. “Yes, I swear, I’m all yours.”

It’s just what he wants to hear. Smiling, he pulls you into his chest. Gently, he smooths down your hair where it ruffled against the cupboards, pushing the creases from your cloak. But he pauses as he does this, catching sight of the thick turtleneck fabric you’re wearing beneath. He toys with it, peeling it down to expose tender flesh. You shiver under the attention, the careful stroke of his fingers along your pulse. “You aren’t just yet,” he says. “But that’s alright. I can be very, very patient.”

You wince when he slices into you, just enough to break the skin. He rolls your turtleneck back up. The wound throbs hot underneath. “See you tomorrow, apprentice,” he purrs. You nod numbly. The laboratory opens and slams the shut, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

#rotpeach writes #teratotober #i know salamander seems like a weird one lol #but they were traditionally given mystical properties in various cultures #so this one is a mage lol

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sinkix · 4 years ago

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《What your fav Haikyuu!! Character says about you│Nekoma Edition》

Yo-hoo! Here’s another part to this potential(?) series! I hope you enjoy the possible call-outs in some of these lmao. Writers block been kicking my ass recently but I had a lot of fun writing these. Enjoy <3

You can find the Karasuno ver. here

✧✧✧✧✧ ✧✧✧✧✧ ✧✧✧✧✧ ✧✧✧✧✧

Kuroo:

Have a hand fetish and will not say no to choking.

Daddy kink™

Will not accept anything below 6 inches.

More of a dog person but would love to own a black cat.

You drool over tattoos.

Your grades are mostly B’s but you know in your heart you deserve that A, and tbh you probably do. Chase ur goals bby.

Halloween is likely your favourite holiday.

You have to resist not to carve a dick into the pumpkin EvEry GodDAmN YeAr.

You either study for 6 hours consecutively or cannot study at all and you get very frustrated at this.

Have the potential to be a good leader and command the room but probably don’t put it to use as much as you should.

Your playlist parkours from sad 3am crying into your pillow songs to aggressive punk music you could rob a store to.

You like bad boys who hang around bars and look like they would put out a cigarette on your forearm and call you a slut. Just stating facts sweaty xoxo.

Either dress very feminine and girly with a ‘smol girl uwu’ aesthetic or a hardass punk who would kick your ass for a can of beer no in between and tbh both are equally hot.

You’re a big softie at heart either way and just want to be held and told everything will be okay.

Ur a hoe for when people stroke your hair or caress your chin it’s your ultimate weakness.

Watched Rick & Morty.

Twice.

Sleeves rolled up veiny forearms and donning a silver watch are your muse and something you fantasise about frequently.

Most of your memes are shitty top text bottom texts that are somehow funny and I don’t understand why lmao.

You call someone ‘bro’ even if it’s someone you’re immensely attracted to.

Did someone say ties? No it’s just ur dirty ass thoughts thinking about that hot business dudes attire from across the street and how you wish they were tied around ur wrists.

Probably had a crush on Jeff the Killer as a tween and are relentlessly haunted by your old Wattpad library.

Tbh any dark-haired dude with bedhead that screams rugged and probably not good for you is something that draws you like a moth to a flame.

You often question why every person you’ve fallen for has been a Scorpio and curse that tendency of yours.

Dw man they’re hot so I feel u.

Kenma:

Went through a ‘I’m not like other __’ phase and it’s something that you think about a lot and wish you didn’t.

Watched dan & phil as a kid.

Any mention of Pokemon has you turning into a rabid beast you get way too excited.

It’s cute though dw bby.

Pretty antisocial but interesting to talk to.

Your family often question how you’re able to sleep in till 3pm and judge you heavily for it.

Nocturnal night owl gang rise up.

Frequently have bags under your eyes but somehow manage to pull it off.

Listen to ASMR on the down-low and will never admit it to a single soul.

Frequently go on BL binges and have many related book marks.

You pray that someone will never find your laptop bc holy fuck the amount of smut on that.

You wear scarves & beanies even when it isn’t that cold outside.

100% went through a scene hair phase/attempted to.

You dye your hair a lot or REALLY want to.

You have a voice kink low-key so anyone with a pleasant/soothing sounding voice just gets u goin’.

Cats are your favourite animal and you either do or want to own several.

Would name them after video game/anime characters u fuckin nerd lol.

Speaking of cats ,you fantasise heavily about cat-boys and have a folder dedicated to them.

Oversized hoodies are your vibe and always ball the sleeve hems in your fist as a comfort mechanism.

Shopping centres are your worst nightmare and trigger your claustrophobia or social anxiety and honestly I feel that spiritually.

Have a cute sticky note collection.

You like a lot of music consisting of guitar and slow/soothing beats.

You also fw EDM/ techno on occasions.

Honestly wouldn’t wanna anger you since you have a seething temper when pushed far enough.

It’s the kinda temper that’s eerily quiet but no less terrifying, like the other person can tell you are graphically plotting their demise.

You love sleeping to the sound of rainfall and often play those nature ambience videos while you sleep.

Never tidy your sheets and it’s just a big scrunched up heap of fabric in the centre of your mattress most of the time.

Make your fucking bed.

Lev:

Your ships are chaotic and shamelessly controversial.

Would do something just for the sake of creating mayhem lmao.

You were the fucker who stuck their chewing gum under the desk, I see you.

Your brain never stops whirring it’s a constant hurricane of crackhead energy and you have no idea how to turn it off.

Would eat a stick of pencil lead for $2

You don’t help your situation with the amount of coffee/energy drinks you consume.

The class clown who cries themselves to sleep.

Such a wholesome dumbass but somehow kinda intimidating???

Even if you’re not confident you can do something you’ll try anyway and honestly I respect that about you.

You !! use!!! a lot??!! of!! random punctuation!!! so you always??!?!? seem!!111!! excited!!!!!11!?

Every time you’ve ever tried to make a sandcastle it has failed.

You tried to eat the sand once but we don’t talk bout that.

You would also pick up slugs and snails and chase your friends around with them.

Can never tell whether people are laughing with you or at you and while you don’t let it show it high-key bothers you when you’re laying alone in your room at night.

Not one to hold grudges, you carry a ‘shit happens’ mentality which is v good but it sometimes leads to people taking advantage of it or walking all over you.

Your meme collection is both questionable and horrifying.

Like how many cursed images and heavily distorted pictures does one person need.

Never organise the files on your PC/laptop so it looks like a complete dumpster fire.

The one at sleepovers who persistently woke everyone else up with their snickering and refusal to sleep till dawn.

For the love of Asahi charge your damn phone.

I see that red bar and ‘12%’

Charge it now.

Bought a plant one time, gave it a name and talked to it frequently.

It died not long after bc u forgot to fucking water it.

No one better ever make you responsible for a pet.

Type of person that when someone asks you to tag along on an endeavour no matter how stupid it is you will agree.

2am skydiving in france? hell yeah.

Midnight shopping spree and spending over half your pay check? count you in.

Exploring an abandoned hospital and performing an Ouija board to summon the demons of hell? you’re damn right you’ll be there.

I hope you have a mum friend by your side bc if not how are you still alive.

You sometimes put the milk in before the cereal and it’s something I’ll never forgive you for.

Yaku:

Very responsible and usually make the right decisions.

You do have moments where you act like a complete dumbass though.

Like u go from 50 year old to 5 year old in the blink of an eye.

A hopeless romantic but it’s a side you don’t often reveal.

Prefer strawberry milk over any other flavour.

You’re the type of person to shower twice a day w/o fail.

Where that stank smell coming from? Not you clearly bc your skin is basically 90% The Body Shop’s rose scented soap at this point.

You get stomach aches a lot and you can’t figure out why.

Probably an allergy to everyone’s bs.

Really good at dirty talk even though you don’t seem the type so people are always taken aback.

You have to be really in the mood though otherwise it falls flatter than Oikawa’s ass, use your skill wisely.

You often call people clowns when you know you’re secretly the biggest one going.

Honk honk, hoe.

You send messages in one paragraph rather than multiple texts unless you are REALLY excited.

People underestimate you at times then are shocked when they realise you are capable of being a fire-breathing dragon from the flaming pits of hell.

You like spicy chicken wings.

Such a petty little shit at times lmao.

Enjoy the view from the top of mountains so you either hike a lot or really want to.

Way more of a cat person since it’s just much more convenient for you.

Usually pretty cheerful or calm and people are drawn to your stable/friendly aura.

Went through a phase of drinking mountain dew and your body still feels the awful effects

Fav element is probably air.

You’re 5′6″ or shorter.

Box dyed your hair brunette several times and can never get the pigment out to this day.

Yamamoto:

Whenever you smell something weird in the room you always internally freak out and think it’s you.

Head-butting walls is your hobby.

You fell off your bike as a kid and still have the scar on your knee.

Probably have tons of ear piercings.

Would tame a pigeon and call it Larry.

You get frequent nosebleeds and can never tell if it’s a medical issue or your extreme simping for fictional men/women.

Hopefully the latter.

You constantly chew your pen/pencil in class so you never lend them to anyone out of embarrassment.

I really hope no one ever lends you stationery bc 30 minutes later it’ll look like it was mauled by a rabid rottweiler.

You really want to own a dog and would call it something intimidating like Banshee or Diablo.

You bleached your hair that one time and it almost fell out so now you’re forced to stay at least 10 metres away from all at-home hair dye products.

You tried your best though bby so A for effort, even if it did look like dehydrated ramen afterwards.

Your grades are mostly C’s and you’re barely passing bc you just don’t care about your classes lol.

Still though you’re actually pretty smart so put it to good use you lazy oaf, channel that crackhead energy into something good.

Your phone screen has several cracks in it from when you dropped it on the bathroom floor while shitting and you’ll always be angry at yourself for that.

You have some really weird quirks but you make it work.

Actually a v chill person but you just kinda attract chaos/trouble wherever you go.

Carry a lighter with you even when you don’t need one.

Shy texter but once people see you irl you are the complete opposite, you just dk how to text without coming across as awkward.

One of those people that’s unintentionally funny and always get confused when you make someone laugh but it makes you feel good regardless.

Have a cool necklace collection and own at least one dog-tag/army style pendant.

Should really consider buying a rabbit you would look so cute w/ one.

You have really nice legs and people should compliment them more.

Either severely dehydrated or overly hydrated to the point you are peeing pure tap water so for the love of god please learn moderation, your kidneys and bladder will thank you for it.

Inuoka:

Your favourite character would be Hinata but you like people taller than you so your love for Inuoka spawned.

You really enjoy using the double spiderman meme.

Cannot correctly verbalise your feelings without creating a minimum of 10 misunderstandings but once people are used to it it’s kinda endearing.

You usually wake up in a good mood and people can never fathom how or why.

You either stay up till 5am or you wake up at that time no in between.

A morning person bc you love the sunrise.

Change your lock-screen very regularly bc you get bored.

Your humour consists solely of poop jokes.

When you don’t understand a joke you laugh anyway and hope they don’t ask you if you actually get it.

Happened once and you’re still traumatised from the cricket silence that fell upon the room.

Really like the taste of lemonade and drink it more often than you should.

Often think about what you would look like with a shaved head.

More of an extrovert but def have occasional introvert tendencies where you wanna be left tf alone.

Never allowed to pick up anything in stores bc the last time you did you sniffed a scented candle and it shattered to the floor.

Constantly have spontaneous ideas of what to change about your appearance.

You use a lot of hand gestures like thumbs up and peace signs.

‘Dude’ and ‘lmao’ is 90% of your vernacular.

Your nails are a disaster, some are down to the nub while others are pretty grown out bc you only bite a select few please sort it out.

Look really good in red.

Your laptop has way too many tabs open from random google searches of words you didn’t know the meaning to.

You read a lot of books but for like 10 minutes at a time bc you have the attention span of a walnut.

You are the type of person to nuke your AO3 tags with things that aren’t even relevant purely bc you found them funny.

Your Tumblr drafts are a nightmare, you have like 100+ in the works yet keep starting new projects why do you do this.

Happy sunshine but you have a LOT of mood swings like that shit comes out of nowhere.

Cry pretty often but no one ever sees and it’s usually because of said mood swings.

You always smile and pick yourself up again though which I commend you for.

TYPES IN CAPITALS IN SITUATIONS THAT DO NOT REQUIRE SAID PUNCTUATION SO YOU SEEM LIKE YOU’RE YELLING ALL THE TIME.

#hq #haikyuu #nekoma #yaku morisuke #lev haiba #yamamoto taketora #kuroo testuro #kenma kozume #inuoka sou

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elizaviento · 6 years ago

Text

Higher Power

My dear Anon -- this prompt was perfect and I thank you for the delicious images that subsequently invaded my mind. I hope this meets your expectations, as well.

Note: This story features Rick/Reader D-74 from Assimilation because, you know, they’re my babies and I just love them so.

Higher Power

(Rick Sanchez x Reader)

NSFW -- 3200 words with lots of romantic type feely feels.

(FYI: Assimilation can be found in the Rick Fic Masterpost link in my blog description.)

*****

It was Jerry’s idea to go camping. I only agreed because I knew how much he loved it. Rick only agreed because Beth guilted him into it. So, you can imagine how much fun we were having while huddled around Jerry’s poor excuse for a campfire.

“Okay! Who has a scary story?” Jerry asked much too cheerfully while violently ripping open a bag of jumbo marshmallows that proceeded to spray outward, hitting him in the face before tumbling to the ground.

“Don’t worry, I brought another bag” I said before the kids could groan in disappointment. I knew Jerry better than he knew himself so the second bag of marshmallows was just a metaphor for my knack for bailing him out.

Rising from the ground, I quickly dusted off the seat of my jeans before shuffling toward my tent a few yards away, which was more difficult that I had initially taken into account. The sky had managed to fade from the soft hues of pink and blue to pitch black in the half hour that we’d congregated around the fire and I found myself stumbling on twigs and small rocks more than once before reaching my destination.

Once I’d finally made it to my tent, I felt around for and quickly unzipped the entrance flap -- the metallic hiss of the zipper sounding as loud as a freight train in the all encompassing darkness. Then, crawling inside on my hands and knees, I continued to navigate by touch until my hand closed around the plastic bag containing the fluffy cylinders of sugar.

When I felt something bump my ass from behind, I opened my mouth to scream the very second a hand materialized out of nowhere to engulf it.

“Jesus fuck! Calm down!” Rick’s rough whisper floated toward my ears from close by. “You -- y-y-you’re too fuckin’ jumpy” he chided, releasing my mouth so I could breathe a sigh of relief as he crawled inside the tent beside me and flopped down on his back.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he gripped my upper arm and tugged until he’d pulled me on top of him. I could feel, rather than see that our faces were within an inch of one another as his warm breath wafted across my skin.

“Humm?” was his only reply as he closed the short distance and pressed his lips to mine. Even in the complete blackness, his aim was perfect and I wedged one hand between his neck and the floor of the tent to hold him in place. That is, until I remembered that we were mere feet away from the remainder of our family. Pulling back, it was my turn to place a hand over Rick’s mouth to prevent him from connecting our lips once more.

“As much as I’d love to be defiled among the majestic beauty of nature, I’d rather not scar Jerry and Beth for life. Or the kids.” I removed my hand from his mouth expecting something witty in retort. I wasn’t disappointed.

“Baby, you can only be defiled once and I -- uh -- I’m pretty sure I took care of that looong ago” he purred, squeezing my ass for good measure. I needed to nip this encounter in the bud, right now, or I’d never have the willpower to resist. So, I pitched my body to the side until I landed on my back beside him.

“We need to get back before Jerry assembles a search party” I warned, hoping that the threat of my brother happening upon us rutting in a tiny tent would deflate his libido.

“Ugh. For some -- someone so hot -- so sexy, you sure know how to kill a boner” he complained. My eyes were just beginning to adjust to the darkness so I could faintly make out the movement of his lanky form as he sat up, his spiky hair swishing across the vinyl ceiling of the tent.

----------

What felt like hours later (but was in reality only 45 minutes), Jerry had run out of cheesy campfire horror stories and was grasping at any straw to keep each family member’s attention.

“Come on, Dad” Summer whined as she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her hoodie for the 247th time that evening on impulse, the ‘NO SERVICE’ message on the screen mocking her time and again. “Can’t we just, like, go to bed now?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jerry asked, plunging another marshmallow on the end of a twig and thrusting it directly into the fire; only to pull it free when it had transformed into a block of flaming ash. “It’s only 9:00 o’clock! The night’s still young! Rick, you must know some spooky ghost stories with all that planet hopping, right?” Adjusting my gaze beyond the flickering flames, I caught a glimpse of Rick and Beth sitting directly across from me, rolling their eyes simultaneously.

“No, Jerry” Rick spat, his face screwed up in disgust as he took a swig from his flask. “I don’t have any spooky ghost stories ‘cause they -- g-ghosts don’t exist.”

“Well, how could you possibly know that?” Jerry countered, shoving the charred marshmallow into his mouth before spitting it right back out with a whimper. “Ow, that’s hot!”

“It was practically smoldering like a brick of coal, Jerry” Beth explained with a sigh, wrapping her arms across her chest. It was, indeed, becoming increasingly chilly as the evening progressed and I felt a smile tug the corners of my lips when I spied Rick draping an arm across her shoulders in an unconscious bid to warm her. No fatherly instinct, my ass, I thought, making a mental note to point out his adorable display of affection at a later time.

“Yeah, Rick. How do y-you know ghosts don’t exist?” Morty chimed in as he speared a hot dog on his twig and very carefully hovered it above the flames.

“Be -- because there’s no such thing as a soul. Or god. Or the devil. It -- it’s just us, all alone fuckin’ judgin’ and -- and -- and killin’ each other in the name of some ‘higher power’ that, if it did exist, wouldn’t give two shits about any of us anyway.” He paused long enough to take another pull from the flask. “Does that -- uh -- does that answer your question?” he finished, standing from the fallen log he and Beth were sharing in some type of mic drop-esque grand gesture.

Narrowing his eyes in the way he does right before he says something stupid, Jerry countered, “I think you do believe in a higher power, Rick. But in your case, it’s yourself."

“Yeah! You -- y-y-you know what? You’re absolutely right, Jerry!” Rick said, throwing his hands in the air while Beth lowered her head and pinched her brow. I could second her reaction as I also stood to make my way back to my tent. “‘Cause -- uh -- you know --” he continued, suddenly jabbing an index finger in my direction, “-- your sister screams -- calls me GOD every single night!”

In that very moment, everything fell eerily still and silent. Even the crickets seemed to halt the ritualistic rubbing of their hind legs as each pair of eyes that didn’t belong to Rick grew to the size of teacup saucers.

“Uhh…” Jerry hedged while trying and failing to formulate an adequate come back.

“Seriously, Grandpa Rick?” Summer interjected while stomping away, presumably toward the tent she’d be begrudgingly sharing with Morty. “Just… gross!” Tentatively, Morty rose to join her, the inky blackness swallowing him whole like the gaping maw of some type of mythical sea creature.

Feeling like I could vomit at any second, my eyes flicked toward Beth. The look on her face could only be described as mortified as she also gathered up the remainder of the food and tossed it in the cooler. “Thanks a lot, Dad” she spit sarcastically, actively avoiding eye contact with me.

Then, as if suddenly realizing what an absolute horrid thing he’d just allowed to fly from his mouth, Rick slumped forward and groaned -- scrubbing a hand down his face before fishing the other in the inner pocket of his lab coat again for his flask. Or should I say crutch.

“Look. I --” he began, but the damage was done and I was already striding toward the sanctuary of my tiny tent with unshed tears of humiliation and rage stinging my eyes.

----------

He didn’t come after me. At least, not right away. He knew he’d managed to piss me off royally and that if he didn’t give me time to cool off, I wouldn’t be above socking him in the jaw.

So, I lay in the dark -- staring up at the ceiling of my tent with the sleeping bag zipped up to my chin. Once securely inside, I’d let the tears silently fall from my eyes as I seethed and seethed and cursed his name. How could he say something like that? In front of the kids? In front of BETH?! Did he really think so little of me that he wouldn’t think twice before blurting something so fucking crass in front of our family?

Eventually, the burning sensation in my face began to cool along with the tear tracks drying on my cheeks. Rick knew to let me be when I was truly angry because he also knew that I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. However, perhaps he deserved it this time. Perhaps having a legitimate grudge held against him would serve him right.

Mulling the thought over, I yawned and let my eyes drift closed. The crickets had resumed their delightful chirping and I allowed them to lull me into a peaceful sleep.

----------

“Shhh” a raspy voice hissed with lips pressed to my ear when I was suddenly jolted awake. After a second or two, my brain registered the voice with the vision of a man with blue spiky hair and a perpetual scowl.

“I’m still mad at you” I whispered while I attempted to wiggle from his grasp. I was trapped in the sleeping bag with Rick’s arms wrapped tightly around it.

“You’re not” he challenged, his voice low enough that only I could hear while his lips still pressed and feathered across the shell of my ear.

But, I actually was. And, his arrogant insistence that I wasn’t…

Freeing my arms from the cocoon of the sleeping bag trapped in Rick’s arms, I forcefully shoved him away. Wishing there was even one speck of light to see the, no doubt, shocked expression on this face, I wiggled from the sleeping bag completely and sat upright with my knees pulled up to my chest.

“What the hell?” he harshly whispered from the other side of the tent. I could faintly hear the whoosh of polyester fabric as Rick blindly groped his hands across the sleeping bag, searching for me.

“Don’t you dare, Rick!” I spat, my voice straining as I tried to project a whisper in a manner that adequately portrayed how upset I was with him. “Don’t you DARE try to get in my pants after that little stunt you pulled!” He groaned in obvious annoyance and the rage burned within me fresh and hot. He had no right to be annoyed with ME. “Get out” I demanded, pointing toward where I thought the flap of the tent was located even though it was much too dark for him or I to tell.

Without a word, I felt the tent pitch and sway as he attempted to crawl toward the exit. Again, I could hear the swish of his hair as it made contact with nylon and I began to snicker as it became increasingly obvious that Rick couldn’t locate the flap.

“Wait” I said, my voice softening as his exasperated sighs only managed to endear him to me in the most inopportune moment. I had promised myself I’d hold a grudge, but I was failing. Now that I was free of the warmth of the sleeping bag, the chill licked at my exposed skin and the deep seeded adoration and yearning for Rick began to bubble up from the pit of my being; that coil nesting in my stomach slowly unfurling to extend to my arms as they searched for him in the darkness. Recognizing my tone, he immediately sought me out again, as well, and soon we were comfortably entwined.

“I’m sorry” he whispered into my hair and he sounded more sincere than I could ever recall.

“You know I’m not good at expressing my feelings --” I began and he scoffed as if to imply ‘yeah, me either’ before I continued, “-- but that was fucking brutal, Rick.” He pressed a tender kiss to the top of my head and I knew I wasn’t angry any longer. Turning to press my face to the crook of his neck I whispered confessions of love against his skin while balling my fists in the lapels of his lab coat.

“Sweetheart --”

But, I deftly cut him off by pressing my lips to his while tilting and raising my hips, effectively tipping him flat on his back. Now straddling him, I settled my bottom on his upper thighs while my hands worked the buckle of his belt. Even in the darkness, the practiced movements came so naturally that I’d soon pulled it from the loops and began the task of loosening his fly. And, while I undressed him, he undressed me -- lifting the oversize t-shirt from my body before I trailed my hands under his sweater until he lifted his arms so I could do the same.

We were quiet. Silent as the night. Neither of us above a whisper as our humid breaths heated the small enclosure that protected us from the elements. And when I finally rose to line his cock to my entrance, I suppressed a sob as I slowly took him fully inside.

“Oh baby -- oh fuck, you feel so good” Rick groaned before capturing my lips just in time to swallow my moans and gasps.

“Rick” I breathed, nestling my face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder as I buried one hand in his hair. “Rick, please.”

He knew what I wanted. He was always hesitant to utter the words even though we both knew them to be true. He hitched a breath as if to prepare but I decided perhaps now wasn’t the time. Perhaps I wanted the words to come of their own volition instead of from my gentle prompting.

So, I began to fuck him. Slow and deep -- alternating between pressing kisses to and planting my teeth in sensitive flesh behind his ear. And, still we were quiet. Silent as the night. Neither of us above a whisper as we rocked together, his fingers digging bruises into the flesh of my hips while my fingernails pressed crescent grooves in the flesh of his neck and scalp.

“Oh my -- fuck! -- oh god” he released in a strangled whine as I quickened my pace. The slight slapping of skin on skin ricocheted between the nylon walls of our enclosure as it mingled with muted grunts and gasps and the occasional soft moan that I allowed to escape when Rick’s cock hit my sweet spot just right.

“Who’s the higher power now, huh?” I asked in the sultriest whisper I could muster before trapping the shell of his ear between my teeth.

“Sweetheart -- baby...” he whined, gripping my hips tighter in silent question. He was teetering on the edge of control and I nodded my head in approval, excitement already overtaking me as my body tensed in preparation for the pounding I knew I was in for. And as he bent his knees to firmly plant his feet on the floor for leverage, he moved one hand from my hip to roughly grip the back of my neck and pushed his pelvis upward until the head of his cock pressed heavy, direct and consistent pressure on my g-spot.

“I love you.”

The words were so sudden and unexpected that my body immediately responded, tensing further as my cunt violently clamped around Rick’s cock and I came -- hard -- sinking my teeth in his shoulder to silence the scream that threatened to rip from my throat. Each contraction seemed to be stronger than the last as it pulsed and pulsed through me, the endorphins flooding my bloodstream at an alarming rate. And, as my climax began to ebb, Rick lowered his hips only slightly before forcefully slamming them upward again and again and again. Limp as a rag doll, I allowed him to fuck into me as another orgasm began to build deep inside. No longer possessing the mental capacity to sexily moan and croon for him, I only dropped my head to his shoulder as he whispered the praise he knew I cherished so well.

“Oh, fuck, my perfect girl. You -- you know I love you, huh? Y-y-you can feel it, yeah? Feel how much I fuckin’ love you? -- oh shit!”

I came again -- quietly sobbing and drooling against his neck and I clung to him; sweaty and trembling.

“Thaaat’s it, my sweet girl. You -- you’re pussy’s so goddamn perfect, baby. Fuck, I’m gonna cum” he growled directly into my ear, probably a little too loud at this point but I was far too gone to care. He fucked up into me -- hard and deep -- once, twice, a third time; clenching his teeth, a forceful inhale whistling past them as he filled me up. Hot and thick and perfect.

“Holy god, fuckin’ christ” he gasped as his muscles relaxed and the death grip on my neck and hip loosened. I only hummed in response letting my full weight settle on his chest for only a moment before I rolled and plopped down beside him.

“Leave it to Jerry to pick a campground that doesn’t have showers” I quietly joked and snickered as the product of our coupling leaked to the floor of the tent.

“I -- uh -- I’ll portal us to the house in a couple of hours” he rasped. My eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness once more and I could faintly make out the motion of his sweeping hand through his hair as my mind burned the evenings activities into my memory bank. “But, remind me to tell Jerry he was actually wrong. Yet again.”

“About what?” I asked suspiciously, furrowing my brow as I hoped he wouldn’t say something completely idiotic to ruin the moment. But in the safety of the darkness, he said something that nearly knocked the wind from me --

“My higher power is you.”

The End.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez x reader #rick sanchez #fanfiction #sister smith series #higher power #fanfiction request

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worstmorty-blog · 7 years ago

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( me: i should initiate more contact on this blog also me: (just keeps rping as my morty on skype with my qpp)

[Under normal circumstances, Rick would consider his brilliant escape from the most rigorous and secure intergalactic prison to be a matter of celebration; perhaps he’d again claim himself to be a God, or the closest thing to a “God” there possibly could be in reality, bearing a mind rivaled by none and abilities to “control” the universe as he pleased. A takedown of the Galactic Federation was incredulously simple, and although the grandfather ought to be rejoicing, he felt an abnormal, metaphorical weight on himself. He was freed, but that freedom didn’t allow him an ounce of joy. Though Rick evidently wasn’t the type to “reflect” on his actions, the isolation and confinement of his few months spent in prison only allowed him the pastime of thought.]

[He’d never admit it, of course, but Jerry’s words were striking – insisting that Rick was a chaotic force in his family’s lives, that he was merely worsening their situation by sticking around. They wouldn’t have a damn thing to concern themselves over now, thanks to the intergalactic method of law enforcement collapsing by his own hand, but that didn’t mean that his return would be “for the best.” He’d ruined the lives of those he’d cared about (though, he could scarcely admit to himself that he truly cared in the first place), and allowing himself any presence in their lives – even if he truly sought to stand by them – might only impair them. In usual fashion, Rick decided it would be for the best to isolate himself, akin to when he’d abandoned his own daughter for twenty years, and entirely for the same reason.]

[In that state of mind, Rick wondered whether eluding and dismantling the governmental stronghold was as clever of a solution as he’d believed; not only might he have caused his family grief (they could’ve ransacked his laboratory in the garage by now, perhaps even forced them to relocate in the process), but he was now so reluctant to rejoin his family that he might as well have stayed. Part of him wondered if he ought to have played coy during his “interrogation,” and allowed them to erase his mind so they could rid the world of him and his vast knowledge. The entire universe would be better without him, as far as he was concerned. Suicide had crossed his mind rather often in the time he’d spent whilst freed; death was preferable to living with the guilt of his inability to save his best friend, of harming his family to an almost abusive degree, of abandoning them all again and leaving them to likely suffer from the same abandonment issues that Beth had.]

[Why had he escaped in the first place? Perhaps it was spite – a vengeful desire to eradicate the Galactic Federation after murdering his closest friend – or perhaps he somehow felt the need to atone, to fix what he’d irreparably broken. Yet, now that he was roaming the universe, the question struck him – what could he fix? Revealing himself to his family would merely do more damage in the long run, especially if he found it inevitable to leave them again, and a simple dimension swap wouldn’t resolve the innumerable issues he’d encountered with his family. Morty would likely prefer his absence to his presence, anyway, and though other Ricks would easily find themselves capable of leaving their immediate family behind, this version of himself couldn’t. He was feeble, frail compared to the others, allowing emotions and care to dominate him; that would be his downfall.]

[Over a year had passed by the time he eventually decided to show his face…or, at the very least, revisit the Smith home, given that he was uncertain whether his family even inhabited it anymore. A dismal sense of defeat dwelled within him as he explored the home, finding it entirely deserted; perhaps it was inevitable to discover that they were missing, that they wanted nothing to do with the grandfather anymore (as evidenced by the various photos of him still scattered throughout the house, most of which displayed empty space where his face formerly lingered). That defeat gradually shifted into a hollow feeling that spread outward from his chest, his heart sinking as any hope of reconciling with his family diminished. Instinctively, he made his way to the final “room” of the house, one with the least likelihood of containing any family of his.]

[Shakily, the grandfather opened the door; the garage wasn’t emptied, but it had been organized, various gadgets of his boxed up as though the family planned to move it with them, or perhaps store it somewhere, only to give up halfway. However, his eyes weren’t drawn to them – instead, his gaze met an eyepatched Morty, lingering in the former laboratory, one he unfortunately recognized thanks to his necessary investigation into an “evil Rick.” He froze momentarily, but not out of trepidation; an unbridled rage brewed within him, influenced by his hopelessness and the possibilities that now raced through his mind once he considered what this Morty might have been up to. His presence couldn’t be mere coincidence. The family’s evacuation from the home, the distorted photographs, the fact that he was ransacking the grandfather’s garage. A worst-case scenario of an assumption presented itself in his mind, one he was incapable of refuting – this Morty had raided his family’s home, and…and…]

[Perhaps even murdered them. The ones he held so dear, obliviated thanks to a selfish, bastardized version of the grandson he’d fucking cherished. His DAUGHTER. His GRANDCHILDREN – his GRANDSON. They…could be DEAD. It might be too fucking late for him to repair any damage he’d done, and his late appearance had likely caused it. One of his hands balled itself into a tightened fist, nails digging viciously into his palm, his grip so intense that it whitened his knuckles; the other hand reached into his coat’s pocket, swiping a laser pistol from within, and hurriedly positioned it in a direct aim at the Morty’s head. The only possibility could be that this motherfucker had murdered his family in cold blood – yet, he hesitated to shoot, even in his infuriated condition. This was a…Morty, a horrific and vicious version of him, but a Morty nonetheless. His likeness to his own grandson was likely what held him back – and he despised himself for his fucking weakness. A guttural growl resounded from him, rather than the fury-induced scream he’d fought to conceal, as he questioned the malevolent bastard.]

What the hell did you DO to them? You – You…you MONSTER! I-I’ll – I… [“I’ll kill you” was his implication – and he had every intent to do so, but his damned feelings prevented him from even voicing the thought.]

How long had it been since Morty had been ‘home’? If he were any other version of himself, the answer would likely be ‘too long’. After all, surely Morty missed his family. Surely he missed the familiarity of the dimension he’d so ruthlessly claimed as his own alongside his merciless grandfather and, of course, the family home. Didn’t he miss the house he’d grown up in? Where he’d learned his first words- lost his first tooth? Where his life had changed forever the second a man from the stars had come crashing on their doorstep, offering Morty things he could only ever dream of?

Yeah right. What a fucking J O K E.

This whole dimension had gone to shit, but this house might be the worst place of them all. In fact, if all went according to plan, this would be the last time Morty would have to set foot in any version this hellhole. And it was a hellhole. It’d always been, of course, but it had only gotten worse over the course of the last year or so. Looking back on it, watching how QUICKLY it had deteriorated without Rick- without a man they’d all been FINE without a few years previously- it was almost funny. They had all been so dependent. And for what? For a man who would abandon them in an instant, should it suit him. For a man who DID abandon them.

And he had abandoned them.

Morty hadn’t always thought so, of course. The second he was informed that his grandfather- no, the man didn’t deserve to be called that anymore. The second Morty had been informed that the high and mighty Rick Sanchez of Earth Dimension C-137 was in the custody of the galactic federation, he’d felt bad for resenting him for what he’d done. He’d turned himself in, after all! All to save the family! Oh, how heroic. And how quickly Morty was to change his mind about that.

He didn’t care about the family’s well being at all. No, he was just a COWARD. It was just easier to turn himself in than to deal with providing for his family- than to deal with the people he’d twisted into small, pathetic co-dependent beings only to get BORED of them the second things took a wrong turn.

No. Rick Sanchez was no hero. Then again, neither was Morty.

In a way, maybe Morty out to be grateful towards the man. After all, it was his abandonment that had allowed the boy to develop into the person he was now. It was all thanks to Rick that he was finally FLOURISHING. But no. Not an inkling of thankfulness was extended towards that bastard. What had once been a childish admiration had long since rotted into a desolate hatred, and once he was done here, he’d never have to think about that bastard ever again.

It was no surprise to find the family home abandoned- RAVAGED. What the federation hadn’t ruined, that miserable family of his had. It was almost poetic, in a way. They had strived so long and hard trying to convince themselves that they were okay without Rick, while Morty was the only one who actively tried to get him back, and the more he tried, the less his family seemed to care. Yet, the second Morty realised his potential- the second he realised that Rick was naught but a relentless famine that had weighed down on their shoulders? That’s when they mourned. And what fools they were for doing so.

A few small “tsk” noises were released as he walked through the remains of the house, laughing at the memorabilia that he’d- that they’d ALL- previously cherished. But that’s not what he was here for. Mementos could rot for all he cared. He was here for something much more valuable. He made his way into the garage, a satisfying “ah” sound escaping his lips. It was pathetic how much the federation had left behind. Of course, that just meant more for him. Not that he particularly cared about Rick’s things.

No, if he were to have any joy with them, it would be in disassembling them- in prying the things the man had worked so long on apart as if they were scrap metal. And to Morty, that’s truly all they were. Parts. Pieces. Nothing here was worth anything. Morty could make things far more brilliant- and had. He wondered, for a moment, how many years it had taken Rick to develop his first portal gun? Even without a reference to work with, Morty had recreated that technology in mere months.

A small “hmm?” was released from his lips, malicious grin spreading across his lips as the door was opened; rather TIMIDLY. Well this was bound to be fun. Who was it? A federation member? One of his kin? Oh, how he’d love to see the terrified face of his father one more time before ENDING the pitiful fool’s life.

His grin dropped only slightly when he recognized the man as a Rick, quickly losing any excitement or thrill he’d found only moments before. Ugh. How TEDIOUS. He’d never killed a Rick before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? And he would kill him if it came to that. No one but Morty was getting these leftovers. He deserved them. He’d suffered for them.

A flinch wasn’t given as the gun was held to his head, a single hand coming up in false surrender as another reached for a weapon of his own, hinting to the other that he was in possession of one as he waved it almost playfully behind his back, but not revealing it just yet.

“Oh, what was that? You’ll what? P L E A S E, Rick, speak up, won’t you?” He gave a rather dramatic roll of his eyes, smile widening into one a bit more malice. Maybe this would be fun. He didn’t know which dimension this asshole was from, but he was clearly INTIMIDATED by Morty’s presence, and that in itself was DELECTABLE. “Stuttering like that makes you sound an awful lot like this sad little boy I once knew. But you know what happened to him, don’t you? I k i l l e d him. And unlike a certain someone, I can say that word without choking up.”

[Rick recognized the identity of this Morty; or, at least, he knew who he associated with that damned eyepatch. His fellow Ricks, dumbshits involved with the council whom had spitefully informed him of the investigation’s results, noted that the version of Rick they’d hunted down was being controlled remotely. At the time, the grandfather had his suspicions – that Rick’s behavior was irrefutably Morty-esque and immature, not to mention that a majority of his ramblings involved how not a single Rick genuinely cared about their sidekick and grandson – but this encounter essentially confirmed it. The murderer still roaming the galaxy, traversing multiple realities without a hint of remorse, still intent on acting upon the grudge he held against the man whom had revealed it to him. His trigger finger trembled, entirely tempted to end this confrontation, though he knew fully well that he wouldn’t.]

[The evil “Rick” did have a point, after all; with the endless list of injustices inflicted upon most Ricks in their individual timelines, none of them could entrust themselves with attachment, with caring about human beings who were ultimately replaceable. Attachment was equivalent to vulnerability, and allowing themselves to care would merely result in their paranoia being justified. When Bird Person had ruthlessly been murdered by an agent of the Galactic Federation, Rick had sworn never to trust anyone ever again – and yet, even that breaking point of his had its restrictions. No matter what, he found himself incapable of disregarding his family, although he ought to view them as entirely expendable; granted, he’d abandoned one of his countless daughters in a timeline overrun by mutants, but perhaps his trust merely extended to his sidekick. Morty, the grandson he’d gradually grown fond of over the years, despite each inherent aspect of his deeply-seeded mistrust and avoidance refuting those feelings. Why else would he have only included Morty when he swapped dimensions? Why else would he find himself teary-eyed at the thought of losing him?]

[…Losing him…ironically, in his callous attempt to evade his family in order to “protect” them, he might have lost them at the hands of an alternate version of his grandson. One whom had evidently endured enough, and grown so sick of it that he’d retaliated with bloodshed and the torture of his fellow Morties. A grimace contorted the grandfather’s features, desperately wishing that he could be a decent enough human being to avenge his own goddamn family, but part of him wouldn’t…feel justified in doing so, not when it meant ending the life of his grandson. Another version of him, one which felt no mercy, no remorse, but a version of him nonetheless.]

[Rick hadn’t seen his own grandchild’s face in over a year; the face of his partner in crime, whom he cherished enough to sacrifice himself or others for. He could have ignored the tears his grandson had shed after exiting the bathroom of that tavern, or refused to attain vengeance by shooting the bastard that assaulted him; he could have left Morty behind in the “Cronenberg” dimension; he could very well have left Morty stranded in a void of a shattered reality with cats that were and weren’t Schrodinger’s; there were numerous opportunities for him to abandon the child, but he’d stuck around no matter the tension in their relationship. Perhaps he couldn’t accept that the one goddamn person he’d cherished so dearly that he would sacrifice everything for them had been killed – perhaps he couldn’t differentiate this Morty from his own, despite the evident differences in their attitudes. His grandson was an insecure piece of shit; this Morty was an arrogant, ruthless killer.]

[Perhaps he wanted to sustain a conversation with anyone resembling his grandchild, even if it resulted in his death – it wasn’t as though an event in this confrontation would result in him attaining the guts to pull the trigger.] [Weary eyes squinted slightly upon noticing the object that the Morty was dangling around behind him, managing to hide the object, yet provide a threat nonetheless. Of course, at this point, Rick didn’t give a damn about whatever harm came to him – he wanted fucking answers, closure, even if he learned that the family he’d desired to revisit and reconcile with was no longer around, but he didn’t care if he earned a death in the process. He was inching closer to death with every passing second – he had methods of preventing it, but the more he stuck around, the less he was willing to lengthen his lifespan, especially with the newly presented possibility that his family was dead.]

[Jesus. He’d endured plenty of death in his lifetime, both at his hands and the hands of others – he’d once committed mass genocide on a planetary scale, for that matter – but none of it affected him nearly as much as this single possibility. He’d never experienced the immense horror and despondence that accompanied witnessing his best friend DIE because he couldn’t prevent it; he’d never felt the overpowering despair that accompanied the possibility that his family was gone, thanks to him avoiding them for such an extended period.]

[His spare hand gradually raised itself to grip the gun, as though attaching both of them to his current weapon would amplify the threat, gritting his teeth at the Morty’s smug attitude. He realized that he currently held the upper hand, even remarking upon the grandfather’s evident dismay and how closely it resembled…]

[…His grandson’s. Not this bastard’s, but the grandson that this – this monster had proudly claimed to have killed. Every ounce of his being urged him to pull the damned trigger. Learning that his Morty was deceased instilled him with unparalleled exasperation, and yet he couldn’t lash out at another version of him. It was fucking PATHETIC. He truly was frail for being unable to set aside his affection.]

I’ll KILL you! [Although they were shouted, the words held no meaning; they were utterly useless, a fruitless attempt to intimidate him. He followed with demeaning statements, most of which merely spoken to express his fervent rage in the absence of his ability to react violently.] Y-You hear me!? If you laid a fucking finger on them, I’ll end your worthless fucking existence! No universe would miss a Morty like you – a goddamn bastard child who rebelled by killing everything around him!

Oh, yes. He’d been right to begin with. This WAS going to be fun! The pitiful man in front of him was no Rick; he was nothing but a shadow of the man he once was. He was showing every weakness in the book- making every mistake that people like him never did. Every mistake that his kind would surely OUTCAST him for. And yet he continued to threaten Morty? Surely, he must see how futile that was. He knew Ricks were a bit stubborn in accepting that their grandsons could pose any sort of threat to them, of course, but this was a bit much, even for a Rick.

His malicious grin only widened when a second hand was brought up to the man’s gun, as if that would aid him in pulling the trigger when it should be painfully obvious to Rick that such an event wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Honestly, his inability here was pretty pathetic, not to mention the ATROCIOUS acting. Was he honestly acting as if he cared what became of the family here? It wasn’t as if it was his family. When had ANY Rick EVER cared about people that were so easily replaceable, anyhow? No, Morty could assume that the ANGUISH presented was for his sake- a last effort for a Rick to manipulate a Morty into doing his bidding, but he wasn’t going to fall for that. How could he? He was better now, and better than this sad man before him, too.

Yet, the look in the man’s eyes intrigued him, as a child might be intrigued watching a fish flail helplessly around on the land, knowing that it would die within minutes, but far too excited to see something new to care about the death of such a lowly creature. He wanted to know MORE- wanted to know why this man was so hesitant to pull the trigger and why he cared so much about anything in this dimension. There were an infinite number of dimensions he could find spare family members in, but he’d picked this one and was so DISTRAUGHT when things didn’t turn out his way.

A small chuckle was released at the man’s last statements. Perhaps he was giving the guy too much credit. Perhaps he was a weaker breed of Rick- one that truly did care. Well, one that lied to himself that he did, anyway. How TRAGIC.

“You think I ruined this family? *Me*?” He paused for a moment, allowing himself to openly laugh with his entire body for several solid seconds, cutting himself off with an obnoxious sort of snorting sound that only someone who was genuinely amused could make. He shrugged and shook his head, holding out both arms which revealed a rather advanced looking laser pistol that he’d been holding behind his back, but he simply set it aside on his Rick’s old, dusted work table before he closed the distance between him and his latest playmate, standing close enough for him to feel the point of Rick’s weapon against his forehead.

“_Jeez, G R A M P A, you really are a dumb one. You think a Morty could do something like this? We’re useless, remember? SHIELDS and CANNON FODDER for almighty GENIUSES like you. No, Rick. If you’re looking for someone to blame, try looking in a mirror. The Rick from this dimension? He’s gone._” The cat-like grin from his face faltered ever so slightly, obvious anger flittering in his expression, but he continued smiling nevertheless. “He abandoned them, Rick. Threw them to the side the second they stopped catering to his every need all under a pitiful guise of self sacrifice. So if you’re looking for a new REPLACEMENT FAMILY, you’re about a year and a half too late. I’m all that’s left of this family now.” A small hint to the fate of Rick’s ‘family’ in this dimension; a subtle clue to how Morty had become the way he had, but nothing too obvious. After all, giving him the answers he wanted on a silver platter was no fun at all. Morty wanted to see him BEG for them. He wanted him to suffer the way he had for years.

Truthfully, Morty didn’t know if his parents or sister were alive or not, nor did he care anymore. But if Rick thought Morty had murdered his entire family, well, that would just help instill FEAR in the man; help him cower in the boy’s presence like he ought to.

[This Morty’s amused reaction, followed by his relinquishment of his hidden weapon, did naught to quell the fury within him; eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he didn’t lower his own pistol, even if it was acting as a pointless accessory at this point. Setting it aside now would merely prove his own fragility, provide a shred of evidence that he cared – besides, it was likely that this version of his grandson had certain tricks up his sleeve. Even without the pistol he’d been playfully waving around behind his back, he’d likely be equipped with a variety of other armaments that he wouldn’t hesitate to utilize. Better to pretend that he had some sort of “upper hand” here, even if he truly didn’t.]

[His following words struck a chord within the grandfather; particularly, hearing “grampa” once more, mockingly, from a version of his grandchild that might have massacred all he cared about on this godforsaken planet – in this godforsaken universe. The eyepatched Morty proceeded to insist upon the misconceptions he’d formed regarding the “ideals” of other Ricks – how they considered their own grandsons as nothing but tools, even developing a form of “insurance” should they lose or kill their universe’s Morty – and although such might apply to alternate versions of himself, particularly those who had attained membership with the Council of Ricks, it didn’t ring true for this version of himself. Rick berated himself for his attitude frequently, even considered his irrational attachment to his own grandchild – his family – as “toxic” and “unhealthy,” but the feelings remained with him nevertheless, making this encounter that much more infuriating.]

[Finally, the killer spoke up about the supposed “fate” of this dimension’s Rick; under different circumstances, he’d regard Morty’s ignorance here humorous, but it did force him to wonder – if this version of his grandson was clever enough to support himself in traversing the multiverse, how was it that he was clueless that the Rick standing before him and aiming a trembling pistol at his head was the one from this dimension? Beyond that, there was a tinge of personal resentment in the way his grin faltered, brief as it was. It was as though this Morty wasn’t recalling the fate of an alternate grandfather, but rather, the one he himself had grown up with. Of course, that was mere speculation…but it uneased him regardless.]

[This dimension’s Rick had “abandoned” them under a guise of self-sacrifice? He might have…drifted through the galaxy for months before he dared to return, but it wasn’t spent without intent to do so. Hell, his very reason for crumbling the Galactic Federation was so that he’d be able to rejoin his family without concerning himself or them over being apprehended – yet, his only reason for preventing himself from doing so was out of dread that his presence would further ravage the family’s state. He, in essence, was a pernicious force in his family’s life…and that wouldn’t change, even if he sought to better himself.]

[Then – those final words, “I’m all that’s left of this family,” caused Rick’s animosity to waver – the shaky pistol in his hand lowered, eyes staring in disbelief at the Morty before him, wondering if it was possible for his own Morty to exist right before him. However, this examination of his grandson ceased rather quickly, the pistol now forced up against the child’s head as he internally convinced himself that the little bastard was utilizing manipulation now…even if he didn’t even recognize that this Rick was from this dimension.]

YOU’RE all that’s left of this family? D-Don’t give me that shit. I know who you are -- what you are – and you’re not from this dimension. If you were, don’t you think you’d recognize your own damned grandfather? [His expression twitched, aggression instantaneously replaced by dejection, and just as quickly returning to indignation.] I didn’t abandon them. For fuck’s sake, I – I escaped an intergalactic prison to see them again, I wiped out the Federation, a-and I came back to this shit! I wasn’t looking for a REPLACEMENT family. I was looking for MY family. A-And you…you killed them, d-didn’t you!?

Are you really trying to trick me into thinking that YOU’RE my Morty? I’m not nearly as dumb as he is – …was. I’m…not falling for that bullshit.

It was so satisfying to see him falter the way he did- to see any version of the man that had RUINED his life crumple before him. Morty had never really been one for revenge, per se, killing when necessary and when given the chance but not going out of his way to track down and exterminate anyone who had ever wronged him. That would be stupid, after all; a sure way to get caught and KILLED like the previous owner of his eyepatch had. No, if Morty was to take revenge at all, he was clever about it. And he’d W A I T for it as long as he had to. After all, this confrontation was much more satisfying than if he’d hunted down Ricks as his predecessor had.

He knew he would enjoy coming back here, in some sick, twisted way. He HATED this place, of course, but seeing the ruins of the sad, broken life he’d left behind was charming in its own way. It was a reminder of how much he’d changed; how much he’d GROWN. He DESPISED the boy he used to be, hated him with a passion that burned much deeper and brighter than his hatred towards Rick ever could, but reminders of that kid’s DEATH were fantastic- exhilarating.

But he was having more fun in this hovel than he ever could have imagined. Planned revenge was NOTHING compared to the JOY this brought him. He didn’t know what was wrong with this man- what defective dimension he’d crawled out of- but Morty was loving every minute of this interaction. Ironic, really, when you considered how much he hated the old crone. But the company of an enemy was ALWAYS exciting when they acted as pathetically as he was.

The shock- the fear- the DISBELIEF in his expression when Morty announced who he was; it was precious. A small, condescending “aw” escaped his lips, head tilting to the side in mock sympathy as he lowered the gun. Well. That was almost TOO easy. A step backwards was taken, but certainly not out of fear. No, he just wanted to remain eye contact with his prey as he retrieved his weapon- wanted to cherish every pathetic emotion on his features until he breathed his last breath. Because this? Oh, he didn’t want to miss even a MOMENT of t h i s.

Steady hands that were in an obvious contrast to the man’s shaky grip grabbed his pistol, giving a small shrug as he began to raise it in his direction only to freeze once he heard the phrase ��your own damned grandfather” escape his lips. His gaze, full of a confident seething HATRED wobbled, brown eyes widening in astonishment- in HORROR- at his words.

“Gr- R... Rick?” His voice came out small and scared. In the moment, it was as if he was still that pathetic little boy, mourning the loss of his grandfather and wishing- PLEADING- that he would come home to them so he didn’t have to live another day without him- his best and only friend. A trembling gaze traced the man’s features. Most Morties might not be able to tell the small differences between Ricks, but Morty had always EXCELLED at that. He made a note of every little feature. They lined up PERFECTLY with those of his own grandfather, but...

He wasn’t... He couldn’t be...

Another step backwards was taken, void of the confidence he’d had only moments before. One hand held his weapon which had lowered itself helplessly to the ground as his other gripped the work table behind him with enough intensity for his knuckle to go white.

“No. Sh-Shut up.” He internally chastised himself for allowing that dreadful STUTTER to come back after working so long and hard to eliminate it from his vocal patterns. His gaze hardened as his body shook with an overwhelming anger, stronger and much more unstable- much more FEEBLE- than his usual seething hatred.

“You’re not. Him.”

[That patronizing “aw” arising from the alternate version of his grandson merely provoked Rick further; he ought to have recognized that such a pathetic fabrication, the insinuation that he was a member of his family, was a simple attempt at forcing him to lower his guard. All he could really do as the child reached for his pistol calmly, the weapon entirely still in his tightened grip (as opposed to quivering in the grandfather’s), was stare with the knowledge that his demise was likely imminent. Frankly, if he did manage to “go out” this way, he couldn’t say that he’d regret it – fuck, wasn’t this the result he had desired throughout his self-imposed exile? He’d always assumed that his death would be at his own hands. If it was at those of his grandson’s instead…even if it was an alternate, bloodthirsty version of him, he might even feel a bit more justified.]

[Answers were what he’d sought, and at this point, he’d obtained them. Dying like the pathetic, emotion-driven version of himself he was might be entirely fitting here. Rather than exhibiting any sort of recalcitrance, or shooting the bastard in an act of self-preservation, an exhausted expression replaced any form of duress on his feature. Perhaps his acceptance of his fate would come across as disappointing to the miniature sociopath, but that wouldn’t matter in the long run, not if his fate was as irrevocably short as it currently seemed.]

[However, the threat to his existence was short-lived; the pistol had been lifted and aimed precisely, but after hearing the grandfather claim to be of this dimension, the Morty froze. The seething, confident, unbridled rage shifted to appalled astonishment once the words sunk in, and momentarily, his demeanor even resembled his own Morty’s.]

[As dismaying as the sight was, the grandfather did little to express his own concern upon witnessing such a significant fracture in the child’s act. Even when Morty faltered, when he comprehended the “gr” preceding the utterance of Rick’s name as an unfinished “grampa,” he refuted every urge to reach out, every temptation to perhaps accept the Morty’s story – if only to somehow connect to someone claiming to be his own grandson again. However, he recognized that it’d be wiser to reject the likely bullshit that this Morty was spewing. There was no ascertaining whether this was an act, and it was better to “be safe than sorry” – to deny any possibility that the child before him was a version of his own grandchild, adversely affected by the grandfather’s absence.]

[Granted, perhaps a portion of his defiance toward a possible truth was because he couldn’t bear the thought that his disappearance would have affected his own grandchild in such a manner. Hell, he had assumed that this was the perpetrator of the Rick murders that they’d been inadvertently forced to solve – this version of his grandson didn’t strike him as anything but a ruthless killer. Beyond that, the child proclaimed that his Rick had entirely abandoned them – when such evidently hadn’t been the case. In the year that had passed, had he deluded himself to the point of convincing himself that the grandfather had no motive to protect them? That his self-induced imprisonment was merely for self-gain?]

[It felt impossible that a child this distorted could be his own grandson, from their reality. It…didn’t feel real, and yet it was…unfortunately plausible.]

[As Morty stepped back, entirely dismissive of the grandfather’s claims as he lowered his weapon and gripped the workbench behind him, Rick offered a dejected and frustrated sigh. It’d provide a significant disadvantage, not to mention rid him of any potential self-defense, but he tucked his own pistol back into his pocket. It was better than clinging to some false shred of hope that he’d somehow bring himself to resort to violence against a Morty – one that claimed to be his own grandson, even if the grandfather had ultimately decided against the accuracy of such an assertion.]

Yeah? And how would you know? [His tone was substantially more condescending than previously, as though he was regaining the confidence that he’d lost the moment he’d begun facing off with a Morty who would easily murder him without a second thought. Rick was satiated with the response he’d received toward the condition of his family; it was more faithful than any other nonsense this Morty had spouted, even if it resulted in naught but the grandfather’s aggravation and contempt placed both upon himself and this Morty. He had his answers, so it didn’t matter whether he retaliated here – in all likelihood, no matter what he ultimately decided upon with regard to this confrontation, he would die. It was simply a matter of whether it was at this Morty’s hand or his own. Nothing here would matter.]

Seems more like you don’t know jack-shit about this reality. I didn’t abandon shit, and if you really were part of the family I left behind, you’d recognize that, right? I’m no idiot. You can act like you’re my grandkid all you want, but I’m not gonna – gonna fall for the manipulation you’re going for here.

[Crossing his arms with his usual mien of arrogance, he continued, one of his hands briefly lifting themselves to gesture for the Morty to come toward him and attack if he could bring himself to.]

Hey, you took every other goddamn thing from me, from my gadgets to my FAMILY. You wanna finish the job and kill me, go ahead. You’re obviously not my Morty, and I’ve got nothing left without him. Prove how “independent” you are and pull the trigger, asshole, if you’ve got the guts.

#rly good thread honestly #wish i didnt have WRITERS BLOCK SO I COULD REPLY THO #skype tag tbd

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