#mickandy

[ramuqrr]

[dewdropriley]

do we want more mickandy fic

[ramuqrr]

randy meeks hated tea.

not in the casual way someone says they hate olives or black licorice. he hated it in the way someone hates a smell that brings back a bad memory the second it touches their nose.

there had been a time when tea was normal to him. harmless. something warm to sip while he stayed up too late watching horror movies, something people handed him without thinking twice. chamomile when he couldn’t sleep, green tea when his throat hurt from quoting movies too loudly, sweet tea at diners that came in sweating glasses.

it had all been fine.

until someone gave him kuding tea.

he’d been younger then. more trusting. someone had pushed a cup into his hands and said “just try it.” and randy had.

it looked normal enough. dark leaves unfurling in hot water, thin curls of steam rising from the surface. but the second it hit his tongue it was like the drink itself hated him.

it was bitter in a way that felt personal. sharp, medicinal, clawing its way down his throat and sitting there long after he swallowed. it didn’t matter how much water he drank after. the taste stayed. harsh and lingering.

after that, every tea tasted wrong.

even the ones he used to like.

because all he could think about was that bitterness.

people told him the same thing over and over again.

you just haven’t had the right one.

but randy knew better.

one bad cup was enough to ruin the rest.

then he met mickey.

mickey altieri. twenty years old, a film student he met in one of his classes. the kind of guy people noticed even when he wasn’t trying to be noticed. sharp features, messy stubble lining his jaw, spikey hair that framed a pointed widow’s peak like it had been cut to look dramatic on purpose.

and mickey always had tea with him.

not just any tea.

kuding.

randy smelled it before he even saw the cup. bitter and earthy, the same scent that used to make his stomach twist immediately. it drifted through the air whenever mickey set the mug down between them during class or study sessions.

and mickey drank it like it was nothing.

like it was normal.

“best tea there is,” mickey said once, leaning back in his chair, fingers loosely wrapped around the mug.

randy raised an eyebrow. “you’re kidding.”

mickey shrugged and took a sip like it didn’t hurt at all.

“fits my personality.”

“meaning?”

mickey grinned, sharp and amused.

“disgustingly bitter.”

he said it like it was a joke. like he was proud of it.

randy should’ve hated it. the smell alone should’ve made him nauseous. every time the steam curled off the mug it should’ve reminded him of that first awful sip years ago.

and at first, it did.

but time does strange things to people.

days turned into weeks. film discussions turned into late night debates about horror movies and sequels and stupid tropes. they started sitting closer without really noticing. mickey would bring tea every time, setting the mug down beside stacks of film notes and half written essays.

the smell was always there.

and eventually, randy realized something unsettling.

it didn’t make him sick anymore.

in fact… it started to feel familiar.

comforting, even.

like the smell of popcorn in a movie theater. like warm electronics from an old tv. like something tied to moments he had started to enjoy too much.

he still wouldn’t taste it.

he couldn’t.

that bitterness had ruined tea for him once already.

but mickey kept offering anyway.

“just a sip,” he’d say, nudging the mug closer across the table.

randy always refused. rolled his eyes. pushed it back toward him.

until one day he didn’t.

maybe it was curiosity. maybe it was stubbornness. maybe it was the way mickey looked at him like he knew randy would cave eventually.

so randy picked up the mug.

and he took a sip.

the bitterness hit instantly.

it was exactly how he remembered. sharp and aggressive, burning down his throat and making his face twist in disgust before he could stop it.

it was awful.

objectively terrible.

he set the mug down immediately, coughing a little.

mickey just watched him with that same crooked grin.

but randy didn’t push the cup away.

because underneath the bitterness there was something else now.

something tangled up in it.

late nights. stupid horror debates. mickey laughing across the table at something randy said.

so he took another sip.

and another.

it never stopped tasting bad.

it didn’t suddenly become sweet or smooth or easy to drink. every swallow still burned, still scraped down his throat in that same harsh way.

sometimes it made him gag.

sometimes it made him angry.

but he kept drinking it anyway.

because it was mickey’s tea.

and somewhere along the way that had started to matter more than how it tasted.

each sip hurt worse than the last. the bitterness sat heavy on his tongue and in his chest, making his throat ache.

but the pain had this strange warmth to it.

the kind that made him keep going back for another drink.

even when it hurt.

especially when it hurt…

…then mickey was revealed as ghostface.

and suddenly randy understood everything.

the bitterness. the warning signs. the way something about it had always felt wrong.

he had ignored it because he wanted to like the tea.

because he wanted to believe this time it was different.

when the truth finally came out, it hit him all at once.

and randy threw up.

every bitter sip he forced himself to swallow, every moment he convinced himself it was worth it, came rushing back up violently.

the taste lingered long after.

because the worst part wasn’t that the tea had always been bitter.

it was that he had taught himself to love the bitterness anyway.

and once again,

he’d been deceived.

[ramuqrr]

randy x mickey angst

tw for self harm

mickey’s manic breakdowns were not dramatic in the cinematic sense. they were horribly ugly. disorienting. private. they didn’t look like the chaotic euphoria people imagine when they hear the word manic. they looked like implosion.

when they came, he would isolate himself first. that was always the beginning. a door locked. curtains drawn. phone silenced. he would shrink his world down to the smallest possible space, as if containment might keep whatever was swelling inside hjm from spilling outward.

then the destruction would start.

it wasn’t random. it was frantic but deliberate; a physical translation of something unbearable happening in his mind. he would drag his nails down his arms hard enough to leave raised welts that turned into open skin. he would scrape, claw, press until the sting broke through the static in his head. his legs, his chest, his shoulders, any surface he could reach became a canvas for punishment. by the end of it, his skin looked torn and mottled, red and raw, like he’d been dragged across asphalt.

the room never survived either. glasses shattered against walls. picture frames split open. lamps overturned. anything breakable became collateral. the violence wasn’t aimed at anyone. it was aimed at the noise inside him. but from the outside, it looked terrifying. it looked like someone had tried to survive a war in a one bedroom apartment.

randy knew the episodes existed.

in the early days of their relationship, mickey treated them like dark humor. “sometimes i redecorate,” he’d joke lightly. “stress relief.” he would grin when he said it, but his eyes always seemed slightly elsewhere, like he was checking how much randy could handle.

randy had assumed exaggeration. everyone has bad nights. everyone spirals sometimes. the first time he actually witnessed one, he hadn’t been prepared.

he’d decided to surprise Mickey. takeout containers balanced in his arms, already rehearsing some dumb line about date night. he used the spare key Mickey had given him and stepped inside quietly.

the screaming hit him before he even closed the door.

it wasn’t anger. it wasn’t a fight. it was raw throated and uneven, the kind of sound that makes your body react before your brain can interpret it. something smashed against a wall. glass shattered, scattering in a violent spray. then another crash.

randy’s heart lurched into his throat.

“mickey?” he called, trying to keep his voice steady.

another object hurled. another sharp explosion of breaking glass.

panic immediately crept up his spine. his mind scrambling for explanations. intruder, accident, someone else in the apartment, but none of them aligned with the rhythm of the noise. this was chaos from one source.

randy moved down the hallway toward the bedroom, each step cautious. when he reached for the doorknob, it was locked.

randy knocked gently. “hey. it’s me.”

something hit the wall again from inside. them silence. a thick, ringing silence that made his ears buzz.

“mickey?” randy tried again, tone softer this time.

from the other side came a sound that twisted his stomach. a choked sob that bent into laughter halfway through, jagged and wrong.

“i’ll be out in a minute!” mickey called. his voicw wavered, cracking at the edges like unstable glass.

randy stood there, hand still on the door, listening to the way mickey’s breathing stuttered between words.

“i’m fine,” mickey added quickly. too quickly.

randy knew he wasn’t.

he tried the doorknob. locked.

“mick, open it.”

“i said … minute.”

the word dissolved into something close to a gasp.

randy didn’t argue again. he stepped back and threw his shoulder into the door. the first hit rattled the frame a little bit. the second made the wood splinter. on the third, the lock gave way with a crack, and the door swung open.

the sight inside stopped him cold.

blood streaked across the sheets. smears on the wall. shards of mirror glittered across the floor like ice. thw bedside lamp lay shattered, its cord ripped from the outlet. and in the center of it stood mickey. chest heaving, arms shaking, skin torn open in angry lines that welled red and dripped down to his fingertips.

it didn’t look theatrical up close. it looked desperate.

mickey’s eyes snapped to him. for a split second there was anger. at being interrupted, at being seen. and then it crumbled into something else entirely.

shame.

randy didn’t yell. he didn’t ask what the hell happened. he didn’t react to the blood the way his body said he should.

he stepped carefully through the glass.

“hey,” rqndy said quietly, like you would to someone standing too close to the edge of a cliff. “i’m here.”

mickey’s hands were still trembling violently. his breathing coming in in sharp, uneven pulls. he looked like he was both in the room and miles away from it.

“i told you not to—” mickey started, but his sentence faded off before he could finish it.

randy reached for his wrists gently. mickey flinched harshly at first, but he didn’t pull away the second time. randy’s grip wasn’t forceful. it was grounding.

“you don’t have to do this alone,” randy said, voice trying to stay steady despite the pounding in his chest.

the adrenaline drained out of mickey almost immediately. his knees buckled, and randy caught him before he hit the floor. they sank down together on the edge of the bed, glass crunching under randy’s vans.

for the rest of the night, randy stayed.

he cleaned the wounds carefully, using warm water and whatever first aid supplies he could find in the bathroom. some of the scratches were shallow. others needed pressure to stop bleeding. mickey hissed when disinfectant touched raw skin, but he didn’t fight him. the fight had already burned out of him.

they barely spoke.

randy wrapped gauze around mickey’s forearms and thighs, careful not to wrap too tight. he brushed damp hair off his forehead. when mickey’s hands started shaking again, randy laced their fingers together and matched his breathing to a slow, steady rhythm.

“breathe with me,” he murmured.

it took time, but mickey followed.

eventually the trembling turned into exhaustion. the manic edge, sharp and electric, faded into something hollow and fragile. mickey leaned back against randy’s chest like gravity had doubled.

randy just quietly held him there, arms firm around his waist, letting his own body act as an anchor. every time mickey’s muscles twitched, randy tightened his hold on him slightly, not restraining. just reassuring.

when mickey finally fell asleep, it wasn’t peaceful. it was collapse.

randy eased him down carefully, pulling a blanket over him. he watched him for a long moment, studying the bandages, the dried blood at the edges of his skin, the way even in sleep his brow stayed slightly furrowed.

then randy stood and looked around the room.

he cleaned in silence.

he swept up broken glass piece by piece. he cleaned off blood from the walls with steady hands. he fixed overturned furniture. he took off the sheets and replaced them with clean ones from the closet. the methodical movement helped steady his own shaking.

in the kitchen, he made something pretty simple for the morning. eggs, toast, fruit cut into neat slices. something that didn’t require effort. something gentle. he left it covered in plastic wrap in the fridge with a short note: “eat. please.”

before leaving, he stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

mickey was still asleep, bandaged and pale against clean sheets, looking younger, somehow. not dangerous by any means. not broken beyond repair either. just worn thin by something bigger than him.

randy didn’t see a monster in that room.

randy just saw someone drowning in his own mind.

and as he closed the door softly behind him, randy understood that loving mickey wasn’t going to be simple or tidy. it was going to mean learning the shape of his storms. it was going to mean staying. 

not to fix him.

but to make sure he didn’t have to survive them alone.

[dewdropriley]

mickandy smut fic but it’s them trying to analyze porn and just getting really horny and fucking instead

[dewdropriley]

hello mickandy crowd do we have any aus we want…

[ramuqrr]

mickey who has never felt an ounce of love for anybody or anything until he met randy in that stupid film class and he just cant get him out of his head. every tap of his foot, every bounce of his knee, every stretch of his arms, every jerk of his neck, he’s obsessed. love doesn’t exist. just a sense of possession. a spark in his chest that he’s never felt before.

he’s hooked.

[ramuqrr]

i can feel his breath why do i feel warm