PUBLIC ENEMY N°1

I am Morty from Earth Dimension H-Z6. I am a terrorist. Me and my grandpa have formed an alliance and we work on bringing down governments

[h-z6-smith]

(( I HAVE RETURNED ))

[marksman-morty-blog]

"Here you go, little buddy. It’s got Spongebob on it." He smiled at h-z6-smith. 

[h-z6-smith]

"Spongebob is great. Th-thank you."

[marksman-morty-blog]

"C’mon, pipsqueak. I’ll carry you to your little rat’s nest..thing..whatever you terrorists call home.”

[thenightguard-fnaf]

Just a litte art of what I think mike looks like

[roleplayaskmemes]

Send a ♒ and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours!

A mix of nsfw, crack, fluff, angst, etc.

1-50

Read More

[fananadoms]

Just as Alice exhaled the smoke a Loyd explosion went off. His eyes widened in shock and he dropped his hand down from his face. He looked over to where he could see smoke and fire.

"The fuck???"

He stood up from where he was sitting, grabbed his backpack and walked over to the ledge. He leaned over the ledge and looked at the building.

"The hell, man?" He took another hit.

[h-z6-smith]

His fingers eagerly typed in the next code, an explosion just as loud happened in the opposite direction. Morty began giggling under his bandana, watching the purple haired person freak out.

He truly was being a dick but he wasn't aware of it. For him, the whole thing meant a few giggles and something fun to tell his grandpa when he got home.

[marksman-morty-blog]

"Here you go, little buddy. It’s got Spongebob on it." He smiled at h-z6-smith. 

[h-z6-smith]

"Spongebob is great. Th-thank you."

[fananadoms]

Alice kicked a rock as he made his way to his destination. He had just left his dealer’s place and wanted to find somewhere to settle in. Alice made his way through the city until he came to an area with abandoned buildings. There was a specific building somewhat hidden by the others that he made his way towards.

He made it up to the building and grabbed the ladder to the fire escape. He pulled himself up and climbed. He snaked his way through the fire escapes and open windows until he made it up to the top floor. The top floor had a bunch of loose boards and Alice pryed one open to reveal a backpack.

Alice grabbed the backpack and put the board back in place. He patted down the backpack and put it on. When he was finished he headed out the window and climbed his way up to the roof. 

He set his backpack against a wall and opened it. He pulled out his pipe and packed it. He grabbed his lighter, lit his pipe and took a satisfying toke.

[h-z6-smith]

Morty watched in horror as a purple-haired person entered the building he was going to use to watch the explosions. Earlier, he had been running placing bombs in specific places and that abandoned building happened to be right in the middle of the explosions. Simply perfect.

But, the building was abandoned, right? Then why was a person entering it? Out of curiosity, he followed from a distance, not understanding well the situation.

This person didn't look like a spy, at least.

He watched as the stranger lit up a pipe. Oh, so he just wanted to relax, or something. Morty wasn't exactly an innocent angel, and he decided to play this stranger a prank.

He pulled the detonator out of his pocket, then typed in a code. A few seconds later, a building in the distance exploded, making a loud, delicious sound. As unusual as it may be, Morty was more focused in how this person with purple hair would react to the exposion, and without noticing he was grinning, the bandana covering the malicious smile.

[h-z6-smith]

(( JUST WOKE UP AND CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT ALEX/JOSHUA FROM SILENT HILL OH MY GOD HELP IM HAVING SO MANY FEELINGS NHNHNNNHGGGHHHHH ))

[inboxstuff]

Your muse sees my muse battered and bruised, how does your muse react?

[dead-kun]

whenever someone tells me “it’s your fault i ship this” my heart swells with pride and purpose

[thehustlekat]

Japanese Animal Doughnuts

[mute-mortimer-deactivated201604]

Words could be weapons — ironic, it seems, that a mute would consider this a paragon of his description of the world, but it sat far more proudly than don’t think about it. A word could be as sharp as a sword, as sneaky as a dagger, as ranged as a bullet. As blunt as a fist.

He’s always been good with them. Not in the vocal or physical senses, though his fingers could speak fluidly, passionately. He’s always been good at taking words, he supposes, absorbing their blows and shedding them like a second skin. He’s a bit more eloquently put together than most other Mortys, bound more in the loops and curvatures of letters. He needs them, not because he enjoys a good story or devours them, but because without these stupid little symbols his thoughts, his opinions, his very being would be lost in the abyss of a very lonely conscious. Calligraphy is no art or talent or gift, or even a blade; it is a requirement, a critical shield in his defences, the only thing able and meant to stave off his growing loneliness.

The anarchist might see a deadly and beautiful weapon where there were phrases, but the mute sees them as both cage and an escapist fantasy.

The other grins, and he finds himself responding in kind — there is a spark of familiarity there, that same expression of happiness and curiosity and faint weariness that he’s felt in his own smiles. There’s involvement, or maybe investment, in the way he leans towards the mute, in the way takes tender care of the sketchbook when he’s using it and stares reverently at the scribblings on the paper. Shadows and dirt may be been equally fond of his copy’s skin, but he’s not quite as far from innocence (though he’s wandered from selflessness, as all Mortys do) as his trail of bombs would lead one to believe; Morty can see it, if he looks closely enough, and there’s a moment where that’s all they’re doing, watching and thinking and breathing.

He averts his eyes when he realises he had been staring; and he blushes when he realises that, beat for beat, his double had been staring back. He is more curious about the incendiary’s kindness than put off by it, but all the attention is enough to make him shy and self-conscious. He fiddles with the edge of his notebook for a second before returning to the corner and writing, quickly, quietly, “I’m good,” just for something else to do besides gawk. Lightly, his teeth run over his bottom lip again, but he’s careful not to apply any pressure, mindful of the person before him.

[h-z6-smith]

For the terrorist, there are two kinds of silence he's had to go through. One, and the one he hates, is the silence where he remembers being a prisoner in the citadel of Ricks, barely able to eat, where the few times the silence was broken meant that he was going to be tortured. Either him, or his grandfather.

That's the silence he considers to be the awkward one, although that's not the word he'd use for it.

There's also the other side of silence. The good one. The one where he can look into the eyes of someone he trusts and feel warm inside, because there's nothing to fear. He doesn't feel alone anymore. And no words need to be spoken because there's no need for them.

And this-- this is the good one.

The blush that appears on his alternate self's cheeks makes him tilt his head in curiosity, a warm laugh escaping his lips. He didn't even notice that the boy had answered, too lost in his eyes to do anything.

He didn't even dare to turn the page and write in a completely new one. That sketchbook seems personal, too personal for him to just go through the pages doing whatever he wants. Instead, his eyes find another blank spot in the page where they've been writing and, in smaller letters, he replies. "You sem tired." He isn't sure about one of the words, but he thinks he got it just right.

Only then, he realises that he wasn't really thinking about what he wrote, but he decideds not to think about it too much. They were the same person, and whatever the anarchist wrote there, he knows it's the truth.

[altsvm]

[h-z6-smith]

[roleplayingconfessionsfromrpers]

There’s a 100% chance that I won’t roleplay with you if the first thing you ask me is for a smut thread.

[h-z6-smith]

Reblog if you're willing to roleplay the following subjects:

Blood Cannibalism Domestic Violence Gore Incest Mental Issues Murder Rape Suicide Torture Violence in General War

[mute-mortimer-deactivated201604]

Morty is horrified by the suggestion; for all the abuse his lips had endured, for all the people that he’s hurt, (for the planet he had destroyed), he would never feel comfortable hurting anyone, not on purpose. Rick had pointed it out once, with the air of a person whose patience and common sense was often tested, that the mute would much rather run than fight. Would much rather dart away from his problems than attack them, which was probably why he was so good at it. And it was true, and he’d never feel bad or ashamed — too often he’d come home with bruises, with cuts and stains and all kinds of hurt, even the type that couldn’t be seen. Never, never, his mind screams, because the moment that he’d purposefully make another person ache was the moment that a part of him would stop living.

He’s not sure, though, if it’s just the offer itself that shakes him to his core. Morty is once again shivering, eyes wide open in fear and distress; but the part, he thinks, the part that really gets to him is that the terrorist seems to want this. Wants to be punched.

He sucks in a breath, ivories clashing together to keep from biting down on anything softer. Serenity overtakes his expression, morphing it into something more calculating and deliberate, pinning the anarchist in its unapologetic stare. He relaxes his shoulders, which he belatedly realises had been coiled, and feels a cool snap of air against the nape of his neck. Then, slowly, slowly, Morty raises his right first — and taps his double once, lightly, on the shoulder with it.

Nervously, his mouth curls into a slight grin. He takes his notebook and scribbles out a quick chide for the incendiary, “okay, but don’t hurt yourself either.” And then, because there was kindness in the other Morty’s offer too, he adds more gently, “It didn’t hurt. I don’t need or want to hurt anyone.” And he didn’t, because shredding his lip was absolutely not the same thing. The habit is so familiar that it took deliberate effort to keep from doing it right now. It barely stings any more, the fact that his thoughts sometimes manifested in teeth-marks and nails digging into his hands. That his copy had seemed so worked up about it, and still did, was perplexing; the fact that he seemed excited to have Morty strike his face even more so. It makes him slightly sick, and his brows furrow in concern. He presses his pencil back to the page;

"Are you okay?"

[h-z6-smith]

He could tell by the way his double's fist was closed, that it was going to be a rather light punch. That's fine, too. Now, at least, he can understand his double a bit better. Or well, the fact that he disturbed this Morty's peace was now a hundred percent clear to him.

As expected, the hit wasn't hard at all, and the terrorist found himself smiling at it. However, he was beginning to understand that the strength inside his alternate self relied on his words more than his fists, so when he saw him writing, taking a few seconds more than before, he knows that what he is writing might have a bigger impact.

The boy from dimension H-Z6 can't stop thinking how even in the smallest things they could be so different from each other. He trusted his fists, his weapons, much more than any word that he could ever speak. He had been taught how to use those guns, how to clench his fist and give the enemy a knock-out punch. Writing seemed like a talent.

But maybe they weren't that different.

After all, if this Morty couldn't speak, then he too had been forced to learn how to use his words better. Somehow.

It does make sense in the anarchist's head.

He took the sketchbook and, as he feared, the words hit him. Not because they were mean and hurtful-- they were too true on their own, unique way. He doesn't need to hurt anyone, while his own job is to hurt people.

His eyes focused on the last words he wrote, and as an answer, he made eye contact with him and nodded, a soft smile curling on his lips. Hand reaching for the pencil and pressing it against a corner on the paper, where there was space left to write in, the boy writes down "u ok?", then hands it back to him.

The few rays of sunlight seem to reach his double's eyes, painting the blue colour with an orange one, and he is glued to them. He does this to Rick too. It's some sort of fascination he has with pretty people: looking into their eyes. If it's not by listening to their hearts, this is the best way he can tell if someone really is alive.

Blue eyes with orange sparks; blue eyes, full of life. A certain innocence in them that he can't quite understand.