Nicolas wrapped the fingers of his good hand around the bars of the gate separating them, the bandaged ones remained pressed against instead due to their lack of mobility.
The older man paused a moment, turning on his heel to look down upon the small boy calling out to him. His mouth moved rapidly, and the smaller tried to focus on his lips and keep up.
“..don’t need…..useless….celeber……not worth….” He sneered down at the small boy on the other side of the gate as he spoke, knowing full well the other was too stupid to fully comprehend anything. He had been sure to keep in the dark most of his life, not teaching him even the simplest things. The boy at least seemed to pick up on commands and lip reading certain words.
After coldly delivering his lines, the older turned on his heel, and proceeded to continue his stride away from the gates separating the young boy and his group. The money the young bastard child inside those gates had offered was worth far more than the sickly thing he had previously been using. That thing never had a long lifespan anyway, and now that it’s time was up, it would be easily trashed.
Distressed, Nicolas attempted to voice out against what he had managed to catch from the lip reading, sounds gurgling and dying in his throat before he could even attempt to form them with his lips, and even then an approximation was the best he could manage.
“f..a-Ah…”
“fA..thER…”
That final call grabbed Captain Gaston Brown’s attention again, and for the last time. He paused, disdain and cruelty growing in his expression. He reached into a pocket of his uniform as he turned, and callously tossed the bottle towards the thing that dared to call itself his son, uttering what would be his final words to the boy as he left him behind, with no intention to come back for worthless trash.
“Don’t bother to act human, monster!”
The pill bottle had fallen open just outside the gate, spilling the tablets into the grass and exposing them to the eroding rainfall. Despite not knowing if he would ever have another supply of the drug he desperately needed to extend his already truncated lifespan, Nicolas made no move to reach through the bars for it.
He only stared blankly out at the space where his father had been.
Even when Wallace came running up and chattering to him once Nic had turned to face the other, ecstatic and bubbling with the promise of holding Nicolas’ contract and purchasing Celeber for him.
It’s been quite a while so this is sort of a warm up.
Series: Futurama
Setting: Any time within canon, Platonic or Romantic Relationship (up for interpretation.
Warnings: Alcohol use, Vomiting, Second Person POV.
Everything’s a blur and you’re not sure which one of you flew the ship out here, you know you’re in Mars Vegas at least?
You’ve been taking Bender’s drinks for a while now, and he kept ordering the strong stuff, leaving you with a burn in your throat and him ever more sober. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all?
But the noise is loud all around you, enough to pull you in, or under–whichever fits better when your sluggish brain stutters– and you’ll go down with your throat on fire and a rusty robot trying in vain to haul you up when he can’t keep his own balance.
“I thought y’were, y'know,” You try to gesture to emphasize your point, but you’re not entirely sure if you’re gesturing at the real Bender or one of the fuzzy doubles of him.
“Gyro…..gyrowhatever.” You’ll blame the drunken fog and not your usual level of idiocy for being unable to comprehend the inner workings of the mechanism you called a friend.
“Only when I’m in functioning condition.” Came the slurred response, or at least that’s what you think he meant. Does he slur like that because he is low functioning, or because the rust around his mouth plate makes it hard to talk? You’d open your mouth to ask if you weren’t face down on the floor again.
“Whoopsie!” Came a garbled reply and a laugh from beside you, when had Bender come down to the floor with you?
Bile rises and adds to the burn, you make a mess on the floor between the both of you.
You’re pretty sure you’re kicked out then, but whether you drag your sorry asses to a hotel room or bicker about piloting the ship drunk and sober is anyone’s guess.
Series: Futurama
Setting: Human AU, Established Relationship, between each of the inspiring works timeline-wise
Warnings: Mild swearing, smoking
Bender held up his cigar, brushing his fingers across the nightstand and plucking up the lighter when they met the cool metal. He flicked it on, the sudden flame bright in the darkness. Holding the tip of his cigar just above the flame, he rolled it a bit in his fingers to get the tip glowing with an even burn.
Series: Futurama
Setting: Human AU, Established Relationship, between each of the inspiring works timeline-wise
Warnings: Mild swearing, smoking
Bender held up his cigar, brushing his fingers across the nightstand and plucking up the lighter when they met the cool metal. He flicked it on, the sudden flame bright in the darkness. Holding the tip of his cigar just above the flame, he rolled it a bit in his fingers to get the tip glowing with an even burn.
Fry stirred on the other side of the bed, lying beside him. Reaching his arm up to snake it around Bender’s waist. After a moment he realized Bender was sitting up rather than curled up next to him, and pulled himself up as well, rubbing his eyes.
“Hey baby.” Bender said aloud, giving his cigar one more slow twirl before clicking the lighter closed and bringing it up to his lips.
Fry mumbled something incoherent and shifted, his other arm joining the first at Bender’s waist, then pressed his face into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck.
Bender chuckled a little, spilling smoke from his mouth as he puffed on the stogie a few times in quick succession, “What was that?”
“Morn'n’, why’re you up?” The answer was accompanied by a couple of soft kisses pressed to his neck.
“I wanted a smoke, it’s been a while…Do you want a taste?” Bender asked, pulling it away from his mouth for a moment now that he was satisfied it would stay lit.
Fry paused kissing and pressed his forehead gently against Bender’s shoulder as his boyfriend took the first long drag, “’S really early, somethin’ wrong?”
Bender froze mid-inhale, caught red handed but unwilling to get into it. After holding the smoke in his mouth for a beat too long, he exhaled it in one large burst to answer, “…I’m fine…here, this is one of the flavored ones you like so much.”
He moved the cigar towards his opposite shoulder, offering it to his boyfriend.
Fry grunted and shook his head marginally against Bender’s shoulder, not bothering to lift his head up and try it himself.
Smirking, Bender pressed the cigar back to his own lips and taking in another mouthful. Reaching his free hand back, he shook Fry awake again, prompting him to lift his head back up.
“Huh–mmff!” Bender cut Fry’s confused cry off by pressing their lips together, parting them and gently blowing the smoke into Fry’s mouth.
Fry relaxed into the kiss easily, taking the trail of smoke into his mouth and holding it before blowing it slowly out of his nose, allowing the full flavor to coat his tongue and sinuses.
Breaking the kiss, Bender took a moment to gaze at his boyfriend through the thin veil of smoke between them. Fry’s tired and watery eyes, his pale skin spattered with freckles, in contrast to Bender’s own dark complexion. He was so beautiful.
Fry interrupted Bender’s musing in the blunt, oblivious way only Fry could, “Tastes like cherries.”
“Shut up baby you know you love it,” Bender retorted, rolling his eyes at the brilliant observation. He used his other hand to peel the loosened label from the cigar and discard it, before deciding on a better position for the two of them.
Shifting again, he pulled his feet up onto the bed, passing the cigar to Fry so he could wrap his arms around the other.
Fry took the cigar in his pudgy fingers, using his free hand to prop up the pillows behind the two of them. Bender leaned against him, resting his head gently on Fry’s shoulder as Fry took a puff of the cigar for himself and settled back against the pillows.
After Fry held the breath for a moment, Bender picked his head up and leaned in for another kiss. Realizing what Bender wanted, Fry met his lips and exhaled the smoke into his mouth, repeating what had just been done to him.
Fry passes the stogie back to Bender again, and they continue to share the smoke between kisses, pausing ever so often so Bender could ash it in the tray on the nightstand.
By the time sunlight started to trickle in through the busted blinds haphazardly covering the window on Fry’s side, the cigar was down to a nub.
Bender went put the end of it into the ash tray to let it burn out, only to be stopped by Fry holding onto him tighter.
Bender rolled his eyes at that and gave an exasperated sigh, “I’m just putting this damn thing in the ash tray so there isn’t a fucking fire, but y'know, whatever.”
“Oh.” Fry released his grip and did his best to block the intruding sunlight by pulling the blankets up over his head, not even sounding sheepish.
After waiting another moment to be sure the cigar was out, Bender moved the covers aside and resumed his position curled up next to Fry.
Fry hiked the blankets up over both of them, snuggling closer. Bender knew full well they might as well get up at this point, but nonetheless wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, squeezing him gently.
Fry responded by tangling their legs together and nuzzling Bender’s messy hair, planting a kiss in it, which prompted a content sigh from the other.
Finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep, the duo drifted off together, tucked into their cocoon of blankets.
Inspired by Futurama Appreciation Week, Day 1 (Favorite Characters) and Day 3 (Favorite OTP)
Series: Futurama
Setting: Any time within canon, Platonic or Romantic Relationship (up for interpretation)
Warnings: Mild swearing
Weren’t humans supposed to be cute when asleep? This meatbag was a snoring, slobbering mess.
Ah jeez, he’s going to mess up my shiny metal finish with his gross bodily fluids.
….Not that Bender was going to push the meatbag off any time soon, he’d grown far too attached to this routine, this comfort.
Fry’s weight was a firm pressure on his chest cabinet, soft and doughy against the unyielding metal.
Above all…he was so warm. The stark contrast against the cool metal was an interesting sensation, one Bender wasn’t quite willing to give up, despite how he might later complain about becoming overheated. He was a robot damn it he was all about coolant! His processors had to work at peak capacity if he wanted to avoid shit like this–stupid moments of weakness where he felt even a shred of affection for a filthy, sweaty skintube.
Confident the loud snores meant Fry wasn’t waking up anytime soon, Bender brought one arm up, wrapping it tightly around Fry. Pressing him even closer, enjoying the feeling of his squishy body against the hard, hollow metal cabinet. He buried his face in the crook of Fry’s neck, using his other arm to scoop up Fry’s legs, shifting their positions so Fry was cradled in his lap.
Sometime he wished he’d never gotten into this mess.
It’s been quite a while so this is sort of a warm up.
Series: Futurama
Setting: Any time within canon, Platonic or Romantic Relationship (up for interpretation.
Warnings: Alcohol use, Vomiting, Second Person POV.
Everything’s a blur and you’re not sure which one of you flew the ship out here, you know you’re in Mars Vegas at least?
You’ve been taking Bender’s drinks for a while now, and he kept ordering the strong stuff, leaving you with a burn in your throat and him ever more sober. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all?
But the noise is loud all around you, enough to pull you in, or under–whichever fits better when your sluggish brain stutters– and you’ll go down with your throat on fire and a rusty robot trying in vain to haul you up when he can’t keep his own balance.
“I thought y’were, y'know,” You try to gesture to emphasize your point, but you’re not entirely sure if you’re gesturing at the real Bender or one of the fuzzy doubles of him.
“Gyro…..gyrowhatever.” You’ll blame the drunken fog and not your usual level of idiocy for being unable to comprehend the inner workings of the mechanism you called a friend.
“Only when I’m in functioning condition.” Came the slurred response, or at least that’s what you think he meant. Does he slur like that because he is low functioning, or because the rust around his mouth plate makes it hard to talk? You’d open your mouth to ask if you weren’t face down on the floor again.
“Whoopsie!” Came a garbled reply and a laugh from beside you, when had Bender come down to the floor with you?
Bile rises and adds to the burn, you make a mess on the floor between the both of you.
You’re pretty sure you’re kicked out then, but whether you drag your sorry asses to a hotel room or bicker about piloting the ship drunk and sober is anyone’s guess.
Part one is here, part two is here, and it can also be read on my AO3
Series: Gangsta.
Setting: AU Prompt: “We catch the same bus home and I always fall asleep, but you always wake me up at my stop.”
Warnings: (mildly) vulgar language
And wasn’t that the most pathetic pout on the other’s face?
“D’you think that’ll get you somewhERE?” Nic was so far past unimpressed with this asshole staring back up at him, he had to be older than five and yet he was still pouting.
“Ah know you can understan’ me, enough.”
The pout quickly morphed into a scowl as the blond man roughly pushed himself up to his feet, grousing under his breath. More than willing to use his height as an advantage, he did his best to lean over the smaller and intimidate him.
Nicolas raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Eyepatch’s little display. First a pout and now a tantrum, the man looked to be the same age and yet he acted like a toddler.
Sneering, he easily replied “Ahre you tryin’ t’ start a fight? ‘cause I’ll ‘e quick to fIN’sh it.”
It was easy enough to hide his disappointment that the smaller man wasn’t even the least bit intimidated, throwing his hands up in mock defeat, the blond conceded aloud.
“Not starting anything. You could stand to lighten up though.”
Just as Nic opened his mouth again, taking a step forward, both men stumbled as the bus ground to a halt, throwing Nic onto the other and knocking him hard to the floor of the bus.
He looked up to see the doors of the bus swung open, the driver pointing out and likely saying something given the exasperated look Eyepatch had while he was listening.
Grunting, he was hauled up by the other as he stood, shouting—based on his animated expression and rude hand gestures—back at the bus driver, before the taller man unceremoniously yanked him out of the bus by the collar.
Once Nic felt his feet land solidly on the sidewalk after the dismounting step, he was quick to shove the heel of his palm into the other’s shoulder, nearly sending him down to the ground again with the rough shove.
“Ge’ off.”
Huffing out an aggravated breath, Nic looked around to notice they had passed both of their stops in the midst of their ridiculous stare down, and the realization also hit him that the bus driver must have heard his loud voice threatening to fight, leading to the other asshole “surrendering,” just to make peace. And now they’ve been removed from the bus. Wonderful. He hoped the same bus driver would forget about it soon enough, he didn’t need to be banned from the route for good all because of some asshole he was trying to be fucking nice to.
He turned back towards where the bus came and started off at a brisk pace. They were at least two stops past where he usually got off which meant a two mile trek on top of the half mile he had once the bus dropped him off.
The blond had done what he could to mitigate the bus driver, but the “If you two are going to fight take it outside!” had been pretty firm. And of course now the shrimp just stomped off, not even commenting about how his ass had been saved thanks to him.
“Hey! Wait up!” He called, hurrying after, breathing heavy as he called out to the unflinching back of the shrimp.
“Come on! You’re not going to say anything after that?”
“The least we could do is chat with one another for the next hour we have to walk in the same direction!” How was this guy even walking so fast?
Putting a little more effort into his pace, he managed to get right behind the guy on one side—seriously he had short legs how was he walking so fast?
“Really now? The cold shoulder? Isn’t that a little childish, or is it just to match your stature?”
The only response he got to that was a grunt, although it was hard to tell whether it was an acknowledgement or just the exertion he was putting into his pace.
Huffing, the taller made sure to raise his voice even more, hoping to get on the other’s nerves.
“What are you, d–?” Nearly choking on his own words, he sputtered and ground himself to a stop, scuffing his shoes on the pavement.
Suddenly rushing up next to him and then halting caught the shorter man’s attention, he paused in his stride and turned, one eyebrow raised.
I’m a complete idiot he signed to me earlier and I even signed back! Here I thought I was just being smug because he was flaunting it like any schmuck can’t pick up another language.
Throwing his hands up to his face, he scrubbed them across his eyes and groaned at his own stupidity before finally plastering a grin on his face and opening up his hands.
“We might as well chat while we walk back together, my name is W-O-R-I-C-K.” He signed.
The shorter grunted and lazily signed back with one hand, “N-I-C-O-L-A-S.”
Then abruptly turned and started walking again, forcing Worick to catch up once again. Checking quickly over his shoulder, Worick began to walk backwards so he could hold his hands up to Nicolas and keep the conversation going. Reading up on sign language and memorizing the signs was different than putting them together in a fluid string the same way Nicolas did, but at least he could call it practice. And his habit of reading whatever material he could get his hands on to memorize was finally proving helpful.
Trying to start up conversation for the next few quiet minutes was near futile, Nicolas either grunted or gave another lazy sign from just one hand, which only made it harder for Worick to interpret. He rolled his eye, it was clear Nicolas was just being difficult, his signs before had been sharp and crisp when done in anger. He refocused just in time to catch the tail end of the next set of signs from the other.
“–Move.”
“…What?” Questioning the sign aloud in his confusion, Worick got his answer when the back of his shoulder met with the metal post of a street lamp, and he unceremoniously fell backwards onto his ass.
Part of the 100 Drabble Challenge, a bit of a warm up drabble in an attempt to start writing an idea of mine. AO3 link is in the sidebar!
Series: Homestuck
Setting: Post canon/Sburb/Sgrub
Warnings: Mention of phantom sensations, some swearing.
It was like an itch he couldn’t even scratch.
Tick tick tick tick.
What where they called? Phantom sensations?
Tock tock tock tock.
Like when you lost a limb but you swore the foot or arm that wasn’t there anymore itched and itched and itched.
Tick tock.
But no matter what you couldn’t scratch it, it didn’t even make sense to feel anything when nothing was even there. The fuck is someone supposed to do?
Tick tock tick tock.
Couldn’t phantom sensations hurt too? It feels like a bad sunburn, the kind he used to get before he was smart enough to realize they couldn’t strife on the rooftop under the beating Texas sun without sunscreen.
Tick tock ticktock ticktock.
Rose would have some psychoanalytic bullshit field day if she knew. Especially since there was no physical place for the feeling to manifest, and he could hardly put words to the feeling, it was a noise inside his head even now that the game had been won.
TicktockTICKTOCK.
Yeah, “THANKS FOR PLAYING” his plump ass. At least no one could see the persistent facial tic (HAH) under his shades.
Series: Blue Exorcist
Setting: This verse
Warnings: potentially triggering content (manipulation, child death mention, murder, implied gore, blood)
Snow crunching under his feet as he made his way, steps heavy and final to the surrounding forest. not that he cared to muse or waste his precious time on such a thing. Time. Mephisto always had to flaunt that in his face didn’t ‘e? Locking time limits onto games or bets of his (theirs? He didn’t remember how much of this he willfully agreed to versus had been coerced into at this point.)
He shouldn’t have been able to do that. He shouldn’t be walking away with blood dripping from still dripping, fresh and wet, from the long blade he’d ripped out of the hands of the monks attempting to protect it.
The sword in his hand was empty. Nothing but a toothpick they worshiped, and yet they called out when he snatched it away from them. It remained empty even as he wiped the fresh blood on the clean snow, marring the perfect, glaring white with red smears before it dried across the blade.
He wasn’t sure why he bothered pretending to give a single fuck what happened to the sword now. It was sharp, cold steel, it did the job it needed wonderfully and now he all the feeling he could muster regarding it was just the sadistic joy he could take out of running it through Mephisto’s torso–another glaring white to mar with the blossoming red.
That would only earn him a sour look.
He willed his swirling emotions to shut the fuck up and stop bouncing around his head already.
Inhale. Exhale. He needed a cigarette or twelve. He shoved his hands in an icy snowbank until they went numb. The feeling grounded him. Brought clarity to his muddled senses.
The bastard was only on Time when it suited him. He was probably waiting until his emotions festered enough to be delectably entertaining.
Shadows played at the edges of his vision, teasing. They all knew they were unable to enter.
But he knew who to exactly blame thank for such a wonderful gift.
For a heart closed off, “protected” he called it. Detached from the little intricacies “those humans” call emotions. Detached from a world he no longer considers himself a part of, hadn’t considered himself a part of in years.
He felt Mephisto standing just behind him. He felt it and still jumped a bit, much to the bastard’s delight.
Numb hands fumbled for the sword– he tells himself it’s only out of habit but the other’s eyes sharpen to the same point as the steel held loosely in his hand, and he knows better. The smug twitch of the corners of his mouth lets Shirou know he knows that too.
It’s gone from the priest’s hands and the hilt is twirling in Mephisto’s (nondominant, although you also know it’s more of a display than anything) hand before he can blink. A key is in its stead. It’s the rusty color of dried blood and Shirou is quick shut his mind off before it goes in that direction. None of his keys looks like this. He doesn’t need to think about why this one suddenly does.
“You really need a fucking bell or something, you know that?” The words are biting but not nearly as much as the wind which whips in his face as he says so.
“And where would the fun in that be, hmm?” His wrist flicks and the blade is pressed under the priest’s jaw.
He can feel his heartbeat pulse through his jugular.
“Job well done~! Your reward is a ride home right? Or were you planning on freezing to death out here?”
It was tempting at this point, but instead he hears his own voice saying, “There’s no door.”
Skin scrapes lightly against the blade as his jaw moves. Mephisto put it just a hair far enough away that it wouldn’t kill Shirou were he stood, and he knew the piece of shit wanted him to express gratitude for it.
He can go fuck himself.
He clears his throat and looks pointedly behind, fixating on a spot just to the left of the other’s ear. Shirou’s left hand shoots back and runs smack into a doorknob.
Of fucking course.
The blade is gone in a puff of fruity pink smoke that makes Shirou’s eyes water and his throat close up. Turning and attempting to resist a coughing fit, he shoves the key roughly in the lock and all but forces the door open with his full weight.
Mephisto follows behind and the door slams shut, disappearing.
The secluded area where blood from newborn’s and their mother lays undisturbed behind it. Likely never to be disturbed again, unless the Grigori demanded he bring the corpses to their feet. He’ll do that right after he goes ice skating on a frozen over Hell.
Shirou is left shivering far after he is in the warmth of the building.
Written in order to complement @imaginebees work found here, colored version here.
Series: Gravity Falls
Setting: Canon Compliant
Warnings: potentially triggering content, hallucinations, derealization, guns, panic/panic attack, post traumatic stress disorder implication, mental instability.
Pairings: None
Disclaimer! I am in no way trying to imply that mental health issues make one inherently dangerous to any degree, nor that someone in such a position would follow the same actions as what transpires in this work of fiction. We are reviewing the mental state of someone tormented by a dream demon to the point of Sanity Slippage and then traumatized by unknown horrors.
Running. He was running. His legs hurt. His lungs hurt. Felt like they were about to give out under him and send him skidding to the floor, felt like they were just about to burst, felt like he was burning inside out bottom top, all the way from the sharp stabs in the soles of his feet to the feeling of blood pooling in his mouth–his EYES.
It hurt everything hurt and he was running when would he stop running how long had he been running.
It was icy cold pressing against his skin, despite the burn from within. It was a darkness that enveloped him despite the brightness that shined out his eyes.
Where was he running to how long had he been running what was he running from where was he running to what was he running from how long had he been running where was he running to how long until he stopped running what was he running fromwherewasherunningto oh when would the pain stop when would the cold stop
When would he be warm again when would he be whole again how long would he feel like something stabbing him from in inside when would he be home again
Home. he wanted to go home. where was home.
Stanley. He needed to see Stanley. Who was Stanley?
Where was he running to when would he stop running how could he struggle against the cold darkness which threatened to snuff out his light.
Stanley he hated Stanley he wanted to see Stanley– Who was Stanley?
Fire eating at his lungs fire eating at his limbs fire gobbling him up from the inside out– and since when was fire such a brilliant blue?
Blue fire was bad why was blue fire bad it brought flashes of glowing yellow with hints of gold–gold make sure to buy gold–and bits of black.
Sixer sixer siiixxer sixersixersixersixer
Who was calling his name, was that his name? Different voices melding and his HANDS why his hands he couldn’t feel his hands they didn’t burn like the rest of him.
Were his eyes closed? Prying them open outright BURNED hotter and brighter than everything else before– where were his hands his feet his limbs why had his entire body floated away?
Were his hands on his face? Why were his hands important why did he need to open his eyes so badly why did he need to see his hands
SixersixersixersixerSIXER that had to be his name the voices were growing louder and out of sync with each other as they called for him.
Pain throbbed along with the fire behind his eyelids fingers– how many?– pressing tightly against them–10 8 12 10 12 8 12 10 what was the right number
He begged for the pain to halt as bet he could without finding his mouth past the burbling blood
When would the pain stop when could he go home where was home was he running there was he running anymore the spikes of pain changed and it’s so hard to focus on feeling anything else
What was he running from where was he running to clawCLAWS sharp and slashing through him digging in and ripping out oh it was so hard to scream without his mouth and he was no longer sure if this was preferable to the cold.
Pain pain all he could feel was the pain and pain is hilarious! Nonono that wasn’t right–
He gasped for air, breathing out fire, and collapsed hard on his knees– did he have a physical form anymore? The sting shot up his legs and he tried to pry his eyes open and focus on the floor beneath him.
He couldn’t move, not with the E Y E he felt burning a whole in his back, not with the burning red and black eyes opening all around him, their hot glares pinning him in place as the pain shot through him again and again–
HEY SIXER
The voice felt as physical as the burning pain and he finally found his mouth and he felt glass shards on his tongue but he still opened it just wide enough to SCREAM gushing the air through his lungs as much as he could manage even as he felt strong arms around him pinning him trapping him tying him down he couldnt move again couldnt run anymore even though he had to get home where was his home he was so sure he had to run home
“STANLEY I HAVE TO FIND STANLEY WHERE IS HE?!”
His own voice was a shriek of terror and broken sobs to match the broken glass he had to spit as he tried to talk, and he felt something be wrenched out of his clenched grip roughly prying ever finger onetwothreefourfiveSIX
things were clattering down around him broken pieces of himself and shards of the voidless world raining down he wanted to run wanted to hide wanted to protect stanley WHO WAS STANLEY AND WHERE WAS HE
He thrashed in whatever was trying to encircle him, panic seizing his breath as his proprioception rushed back to him. His hearing tuned in to the screams ripping from his throat and his eyes finally flew open against the heavy darkness once his arm connected roughly with something.
“OW! Poindexter what th’ hell is wrong with you?!”
A heavy, warm weight was on top of him and his arms were restrained but stronger ones above him, he wheezed and tried to flail once more but the adrenaline was retreating and everything was too difficult as reality came into focus and he saw someone’s face hovering over him.
He blinked hard and saw yellow eyes with slits glaring down, and immediately tried to thrash once more despite his fatigued body protesting.
“Poin–Poindexter– seriously, knock that off, UGH!” Stan protested as his brother weakly flailed despite being pinned under his bulk. “What kind of whackjob experiments are you running down here that cause you t’ scream so loudly all of upstairs can hear you?! You’re lucky I could spin it as the Shack being haunted, and tell an origin story about the first name being ‘Murder Hut’!”
A heavy, warm weight was on top of him and his arms were restrained but stronger ones above him, he wheezed and tried to flail once more but the adrenaline was retreating and everything was too difficult as reality came into focus and he saw someone’s face hovering over him.
He blinked hard and saw yellow eyes with slits glaring down, and immediately tried to thrash once more despite his fatigued body protesting.
“D-don….don’t call me….”
“Poindexter? What– does it hurt your genius ego?”
“Get off me……Stanley. I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine he was tired and frightened and he didn’t trust this person wearing the face of his brother (his brother, right?)
“Sixer I will smack some sense into you if I need to, or maybe just pay you back for that ungrateful punch when I SAVED you from your stupid, dangerous portal!” Pressing his left arm down on Ford’s throat to keep him still and raising his other arm, fist clenched and grin wide as he readied himself for a little payback.
Only to stop when his brother flinched visibly, pausing and scrunching up his face a bit in thought. Scoffing, Stanley hauled himself off the other and the floor with a groan and a crack of his back.
He could still feel his breath raggedly rushing in and out of his chest as he felt the heavy weight leave him– it was constricting it was suffocating it was warm it was comforting he wanted to be free he wanted the weight back.
He eyed “Stanley” warily as he heard faint voices whispering. His hands twitched for a weapon, he needed a weapon
“Wh-Who are you….What do you want with me?”
“Very funny, Poindexter.” Something flickered in the other’s eyes–
He scrambled to his feet and grabbed a gun from the nearby table, nearly falling over himself.
Have to get out of here have to protect himself so he can go home– home where was home, home was with Stanely WHO WAS STANLEY he had to run and find Stanley.
“Hey hey HEY–” Stanley tried to grab his brother and subdue him but he stopped dead in his tracks when Ford had a trembling hand attempting to level a gun at him.
Series: Rick and Morty
Setting: dedicated to @deranged-black-kitten ‘s wonderful fic, read it here ” Warnings: vulgar language, vomiting mention, self harm implication, drug use, alcohol use.
Rick sat back in his chair, adjusting his usual seat setting slightly so he could lean and not have to worry about having to sit up and support his own weight. Everything was already fuzzy and swirling enough without even taking into account what he was about to do.
He had already taken the precaution of activating what basically functioned as a child lock on the doors of his ship, he wouldn’t be able to open them again unless he fully had control of his body, and if he blacked out entirely, the autopilot was programmed just as usual.
Spending an extra moment, he stared up through the large glass windshield which made up the majority of his ship, letting his eyes unfocus as he looked at the blackness around. Peppered by endless amounts of astral objects, and he still felt far away, tucked into a darker corner of space alone.
Good.
Grunting to himself, he figured he had stalled long enough– since when was Rick Sanchez one to be hesitant about anything? Besides that, getting high out of his mind and going for a drive was not anything even remotely close to a new experience for him.
Reaching out a hand he punched the play button on the player he brought up with him, the preselected playlist blaring out at nearly full volume.
Sometimes I feel I’ve got to.
Immediately, Rick felt himself slump back, head lolling to one side. He blinked slowly, already seeing through a different pair of eyes.
He and Morty where running for dear life, his heart pounding hard in his chest as he fumbled for the portal gun– this was nothing new, was it?
Shooting the green blast ahead of him and falling more than jumping through, he thudded to the garage floor. He turned to wheeze out something to Morty about how he had never seen those things before and how Morty really needed to be more careful–
Morty wasn’t with him.
For I toss and turn, I can’t sleep at night
He was drooling, he could tell through the haze as he blinked again, trying to clear the previous scene. His arms were down limp at his sides but his fingers were twitching.
“Mmo-moOEURHira, ya, you’ve got nothin’ to wo, worry about here Mmoiiraa, y-you’re gonna do great on stage with your GraEUGHndpa, The Flesh C-curtains are having a COMEBACK, A COMEBACK TOUR BABY.”
His gleeful, slurred shout of assurance only get a small smile out of Moira, but it’s enough to satisfy Rick, so he takes a long pull from his flask and then offers some over.
She smiles and takes a small sip. Gags and makes a disgusted face as though she is personally offended.
He laughs and grabs it back, taking her by the arm to drag her through a portal to their first show.
Get away, you don’t really want any more from me.
To make things right,
You need someone to hold you tight.
It took great effort to move when disconnected from his body, but he somehow manages to turn his head to the side so he can see out the window with vision that blurred in and out of focus.
He was with Squanchy and Birdperson, steering wildly with his left hand as his right was busy pressing hard against his side to stop the gush of blood, too drunk to steer and definitely to drunk to be losing so much blood. The world swirled pretty dangerously around the ship as he tried to speed away from the pursuers, Birdperson started to speak, only slightly raised from his normal tone to be heard over the sirens behind them and Squanchy’s frantic shooting–
But Rick can’t hear him over the screeching of the metal ripping and bending around them or the rocking blast that follows.
Don’t touch me, please
I cannot stand the way you tease
He swung himself around the pole with the kind of expertise granted by years of experience, striking a pose as the crowd went WILD for him, an even bigger gathering than he usually had. Leaning his head back he screamed out along with the music blaring all around him, feeling himself and the stage shake with bass.
His mouth was moving without his command, he couldn’t tell if he was talking gibberish again or crooning out the words himself just like in the vision, he had no control of his body and consciousness was flickering in and out.
I love you though you hurt me so
Now I’m gonna pack my things and go
Birdperson had his wings spread wide above, Rick cradled in his arms. He felt oddly calm looking up at Pers– he was almost never like that. His head felt clear instead of filled up to the brim with an angry swarm of bees.
A slow, bleary blink later and he was fiddling with something in his hands, small pieces of scrap metal and wire which littered the floor of his ship gathering in his lap.
The song was suddenly loud too loud and his clasped his hands over his ears as he waited for it to fade out into the next song. The brief pause granted him silence which only alerted him to how heavily he was gasping for breath.
Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?
A slower tempo seemed to be the trick, his head was detached from his body again, it didn’t matter if he felt his heart hammering in his chest anymore. He couldn’t even feel the tremors in his hands or the pricks of pain where he had gripped the sharp metal. When he was done here he needed a drink.
He was stuck with this piece of shit Morty now, he refused to go to the Council about the matter. So what if this Morty was too young and weak?? Since when did he give a single shit?? He drained his flask and yanked on Morty’s arm to drag him along. He’d just have to teach this Morty everything he needed to be a human shield himself.
Are you high enough without the Mary Jane like me? Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?
The kid answered back with such certainty: Rick appreciated that. Not that he would ever say–sign as much.
“Look alive kid,” He speaks down to the bubble attached to his collar, tilting his head back to give a better view of the purple planet orbiting close.
He was sobbing, holding a fetus-like creature in his hands as he held it close to his chest, it wasn’t anywhere close to his Morty, but it was a start.
He’s leaving his Morty behind, pressing the blade to his wrists with little hesitation, crouched over the tub awkwardly because of his knee brace.
YOU CANT WAKE UP THIS IS NOT A DREAM
The music was searing through his brain again, he blinked hard and realized he had long since been flopped across the floor of the back seat, consciousness lost among the empty bottles, though he had evidently crushed some in the midst of a hallucination. He had scratch marks up his hand under his sleeves he didn’t remember getting, and he could vaguely smell vomit but the music was still fucking going and maybe he overestimated how much he could handle again.
You’re part of a machine, you are not a human being.
A comatose Morty is useless to him, and the Council won’t assign him a new one until this one is dead. If the kid knew what was good for him, he’d be waking up before Rick pulled the trigger.
He doesn’t even know who Squanchy is but somehow he found KLAX all by himself, he’s an absolute mess both on it and off of it with no one around to offer help.
The hallucinations were coming on faster and stronger, less time in between and making him feel all the more sick as he tried to keep himself still.
Low on self-esteem so you run on gasoline.
He’s rotting away in prison sedated out of him mind–
He fucked up a perfectly mutant universe by making everybody a normal human–
He was an emotionless robot and he was loving it–
They were all blurring together in a mess he couldn’t make sense of now, quick flashes that didn’t line up with the song. He tried to remember how many songs he had set up this time, aggravated he couldn’t even get through two tonight.
Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he brought his hands up to his face, covering it as if he could hide from the sensory assault he had induced. The song was fading out and he hoped he hadn’t been enough of an idiot to break his usual “three to five songs” rule, at this rate he would be roaming the galaxy in the aftermath stupor for the night.
I’m an alligator, I’m a-mama papa comin’ for you.
The strong opening chord of one of his favourite songs pitched him forward into the next hallucination– or was this one a memory?
He’s drinking purified fleeb juice for the first time, wrecking himself with something new today just for a fucking change of pace. He needed to be gone, completely out of his mind, he didn’t even care right not if he ever made it back home.
I’m the space invader, I’ll be a rock ‘n’ rollin’ bitch for you.
He was sober for 12 hours and it was horrid, how much worse would it be when DTs set in at the 48 hour mark?–
They wrangled animal herds for every dimension and celestial entity that paid enough–
He had a third eye and antennae, just now teaching Morty how to focus his own.–
Put your ray gun to my head.
He and Birdperson are shot on the battlefield–
Flinching, Rick jerked up to sitting and promptly puked all over his lap, shaking violently and everything spinning. Throwing himself back into the front seat and frantically clawing at the player until it sputtered out, the sounds warping and dying.
Not even realizing until his ragged breath was catching on his raw throat that he had been screeching as he did so. His face and shirt damp from tears and sweat both, not to mention the state of his scratched up skin and smeared vomit all over his clothes.
Ignoring how awkward the position was with him caught inbetween the front and back sections of his ship, he flopped over like a rag doll, facedown, breathing still fast and heavy.
Lying there for several minutes, Rick decided he needed a break before he tried for the next round.
Part one is here and it can also be read on my AO3 Series: Gangsta.
Setting: AU Prompt: “We catch the same bus home and I always fall asleep, but you always wake me up at my stop.”
Warnings: (mildly) vulgar language
Nic did his best to not let the genuine surprise show on his face, not that it particularly mattered considering the blond had already darted off the bus, and it was lurching forward to continue on to the next one. Nic grunted when he felt the bus’ brakes release, reaching out to grab the metal post for support. Huffing, he figured he might as well stay standing for only one more stop, and used his free hand to gather his belongings. Once he was satisfied, he kept his eyes forward, making sure to pay attention to the upcoming stop in order to signal the driver.
Once the bus dropped him off at the usual corner, he heaved a big breath in and exhaled it, smirking a bit that his walk home now wouldn’t start with a huge cloud of cigarette smoke in his face. Served the asshole right for being so obnoxious about blowing his smoke and stomping his feet like a child throwing a tantrum, and right when someone was obviously next to him to, as though it would be such a trouble for the blond to walk a few meters in his own direction before lighting up.
He should be paying attention to where his stop is anyway, he had to be either an idiot or new to the small area.
Nicolas was personally betting that the case was both.
Naturally, Nicolas wasn’t betting on the fact that he would have to play Wake The Asshole EVERY. DAMN. TIME. That he rode the bus home from now on, he wasn’t doing it to be nice or to offer to take care of it for the lazy guy who couldn’t be bothered to do something as simple as get himself home after work every night, he only wanted to have an evening where he could enjoy the fresh air instead of a huffy cloud of smoke that made Eyepatch just seem like a rebellious teen.
The obvious solution to prevent the blond from expecting anything was to shove him off the seat two stops early tonight, giving him just enough time to sign out that he wasn’t keen on continuously doing favors for other people. He couldn’t hear the yelp of the blond or the hard smack of him hitting the floor, but Nicolas imagined it to be quite satisfying. Books always used such fun words to describe sounds like that for him. THUNK would work wonderfully here—oh the blond was grumbling.
Leaning down into his face, Nicolas put on his most surly look before placing a hand to his throat and humming a bit in order to check if he had enough volume before grating out his words.
“I di’n’t mea’ I was gonna get you up ev’ry time. Learn your stop an’ do i’ yourself.”
