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random-meme-bot · 2 years

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CID Monologic Trials: Case 1

THIS IS AN OLD VERSION, CLICK HERE FOR THE BETTER VERSION!

Index:

Intro + Characters

Case 1 (You are here)

So, this is the first actual post of me theorizing about CID, if you're interested in this thing, go check out the other post in which I explain who I think it´s capable of being a culprit in any of the chapters.

Of course this will contain spoilers for Cartoons In Danganronpa so go check it out before reading this, also bear in mind that everything is pure speculation and chances are I end up being wrong.

Chapter 1 Evidence (click on it)

Ok, first of all I think we shoud start by defining our prime suspects.

I will asume that the main motive (scaping the academy) is not the reason this crime was comited, and instead focus my attention on the motive given by Monokuma:

This leaves us with the following suspects:

Jenny

Morty

Mabel

Blossom/Bubbles

Ed/Eddy

Star

Vendetta

Zim

Kyle/Cartman

Out of this list we can remove:

Jenny: They woud not condemn a class full of inocent kids, even knowing that her mother's life it's at risk.

Mabel/Blossom/Bubles/Ed/Eddy: Same thing as Jenny, but with the added fact that their Brother/sister/Best Friend is in that class so they have least of a reason to do it.

Star: She doesn't remember Marco, and even if she did she woudn't condemn a class full of inocent kids, she is also the victim (although all that means is shelf defense murder and I don't think that's the case)

Kyle: As explained in the intro + Characters post, wright now he woudn't not do it, not even if that meant saving kenny (and getting rid of Cartman)

So, our Prime Suspect's are:

Morty

Vendetta

Zim

Cartman

So, with our suspects well defined, I think the next point of interest shoud be the body, starting with the cause of death:

Given the fact that no poison was found on the body, we have to assume tha the laceration on the throat is the cause of death since it's the only wound on the body, as for the murder weapon the only posible thing woud be the knife that was found on the kitchen.

No bloddy weapons were found and this is the only object that apears to be cleaned out so im certain it was used as murder weapon, now "why clean the weapon but leave the body and a trial of blood?" that's a question for later, for now.

Let's move to the blood on the body, the lack of it to be precise

Star's hands were found compleatly clean of any blood the two main theories of why this is the case are "She coudn't touch her neck because she was unable" and "She coudn't touch her neck because the death was instant".

The latter seems pretty unlikely due to the laceration not being on a vital organ so let's explore the first theory

Why was Star unable to touch her neck?

As Dib said during the investigation "When a persons throat is slit, their first instinct woud be to hold their neck to stop the bleeding and allevate the pain." With that information only reason that comes to mind is that, She coudn't move her arms, now the question shifts into Why?.

The answer to this becomes obvious once we convine two pieces of evidence:

The black smudgets indicate that the piece of string was in the cabinet with Star and whatever colored them black, (let's put a pinn in that as we will come back to it latter), so now we know that star had her hands tied up when she was killed, and that at some point she was also in the cabinet, this creates another question:

Why woud a tied up person be on a cabinet, but then murdered outside of it?

No mather how you look at it, it dosen't make sense, obiusly it wasn't in an atempt to hide the body, as it was found outside of it, an top of that no blood was on the cabinet, wihich means that when she was on the cabinet the crime still hadn't been comited. But that creates another set of questions

Why woud you hide your target?

Let's play pretend, let's say you're the killer, you have your victim wright were you want her, she is tied up, and everyone is sleeping...

Or are they? You hear footsteps somebody is comming, you don't have enough time to comit the murder and then clean up before they arive, so you think fast and push the victim into the first hiding spot you find.

Yes, I personaly belive that they we're more than two persons and a fiend that night in the crime scene, but for now let's just pinn that and continue with our rasoning, if star was still alive

Why didn't she screamed for help?

Any person in that situation woud have not only screamed but also moved as to let the other person know what was happening, the reason for this not happening is obvious, She coudn't, since we know the only restrained parts of Star were her hands, we have to asume that she was unconcious.

As for the reason, well... Here is when we get a little more speculative, she clearly wasn't hit on the head as the only wound was lethal, so my theory is that the killer used some drug or chemical for this process, since the Monokuma file #1 only mentionts that "no harmful chemicals were found" this woud be a possible loophole, I have no evidence for this but it's the only thing that makes sense.

Now continuing with my assumption, let's think

Where did the killer get the sleeping draught?

The're is only one place we're something like this woud be found, the infirmary. Now we know that the killer was in the infirmary at some point, but since Dipper was unconcious the whloe time we don't have a way of knowing who entered the place, except for the persons that took care of him (Ed & Morty).

Now let's go back to the first pinned Idea in our list of misteries,

The black smudges:

We know only one thing that coud have caused them:

Acording to Dipper "This had to have been painted a different color at some point" so it would've be normal for the sweater to leave paint in the places it's comes into contact with, but

Why woud the killer gone through all the trouble of painting a sweater?

So it would be harder for anybody to see them on the darkness of course, since this would have helped him surprise Star and it would have hidden him while escaping, it would also make sense if they were also wearing the sky mask to completely avoid recognition, so did the killer hid Star on top of the Sweater? this is a question better left unanswered for now. Let's leave the other pinned idea for latter as well and instead focus on,

Why was Star on the Kitchen?

Well according to a certain pice of evidence, she was lured there

Someone sent star a message telling her that they've finished something earlier than expected, and that they wanted to see her in the cafeteria to talk about another escape plan.

Of course all clues lead to this message been sent by either Blossom, Bubbles or Jenny,as they're the only ones that have tried any escape plans, and also were the only ones that were making something other than sleep (losing their powers) but according to bubbles they weren't done until 6:30 AM way pass the time the message was sent.

So somebody stole one of their Monokallers (I'm assuming during the whole gym scene as after that they were gone and also because Dipper getting captured would have created the perfect distraction) and pretending to be one of them send a message to Star luring her into the cafeteria.

As who's Monokaller is, I believe it's Jenny's as she being a robot will explain why it can be unlocked without the use of a fingerprint.

With that out of the way, let's continue with our Pinned ideas by addressing:

The third person.

Thanks to a few pieces of evidence we can deduce who whas in the kichen at the time of the crime.

Acording to Both Charlotte & Monokuma Cupcake was in the kitchen the whole night and even saw the boddy, Kyle saw Cartman going ito the kitchen at 11:50 AM and then waited for him on the stairs, he didn't saw anybody else before of after, of course Star and the killer were on the kitchen, and acording to the Monokaller that was found on Mabel's lab, Star was lured there at 11:50 AM.

All of this seems to point towards Cartman being the killer, however exactly because we know that he was at the scene of the crime, we also know, he coudn't have done it.

Acording to the Danganronpa rules "Once the body is found by three student's an anouncement will happend to alert everyone, Killer's do not count towards the student number", the anouncement happened the next morning when Bubbles found the corpse, we know she was alone because Dipper was the first person to arrive after the announcement, we know that Cupcake is one of the tree students, this mixed with Kyle's Testimony creates a perfect aliby for Cartman as the third student needed for the anouncement.

Kyle didn't see anybody else go down to the first floor so both the killer and star should already be in the kichen, except for the fact that dosen't make sense.

Why lure somebody to a place they already are?

So the only conclusion is that Star was able to get into the second floor without kyle seeing her, we know that she was in her room when she saw the mesage, afther all, her Monokaller was there.

Star left the room without the key to it? What a nonsensical move, specially since she remebered to bring her Dimensional Scissors.

(Soooo Tumblr only let's me put 10 images on posts, so you might gonna have to use the google dock of evidence from here on out... Sorry)

We know that Star's Scissors don't work since the portal she made to escape the School didn't work, but what if that wasn't the case...

I belive Star's Scissors work, but only on the School, this woud mean that she coud move throug the rooms basicaly instantly, this woud have alowed her to not only get into the first floor without beein spotted, but also it would explain another piece of evidence:

* Instert Gaz's Testimony *

Gaz claims that she got woken up by a bright flash, this happened twice that night, the first flash could be attributed to Star opening a portal to the cafeteria on the hallway, kyle was on the stairs between floors so he wouldn't have seen it, and the rest were asleep so they probably wouldn't have noticed.

Star would have gotten into the Cafeteria at 11:50 AM, the killer (that was already on the kitchen or flew to it when she teleported into the Cafeteria) lured Star into the kitchen where they left her unconscious, they heard Cartman approaching so they hid Star and the sweater into the cabinet, but remember our second question that we saved for later?

Why would the sweater be under Star?

The logical thing would have been to hide the Victim first in case you only have time to hide one thing... But what if we've been looking at it backwards?

What if they didn't want to hide the sweater, but instead to hide the thing inside the sweater.

I believe that the killer hide itself with star as to not be seen on the place where the body was gonna be found.

We almost have enough to formulate a full theory, but there's some evidence I wana touch upon:

First: Cupcake's behavior, something happened that night that made it so the only person she show's affection towards it's Cartman, and I believe this it's related with her only being able to recognize people by their face, as I previously stated I believe that the murderer had an sky mask the whole time, so cupcake was unable to determine who it was, however, she does know that it wasn't Cartman as she saw him enter and leave the kitchen, so this would just give him a second alibi.

Secondly: The hairball, no matter how much I look at it, the only connection I see to anything is when Cupcakes bite Vendetta in the ponytail during daily life, but I don't see how this would help, maybe it's just a red hearing?

Thirdly: The Monosauce, I think this was created on the Memwave because of Cartman, either intentionally because he discovered how it worked, or unintentionally because of the Memwave's voice option.

Fourthly and Last but not least: The Bloody trail: We've already established that star was killed in front of the cabinet , so a trail of blood that indicates the body was moved makes no sense, but what about

A trail of fake blood that exists just to mess with people?

If we take our attention into the Monosauce we can see that either the bottle or it's contents are of an orange color, with this being something created by Monokuma it's not hard to assume thay the blood color was intentional, I think Cartman realized what was happening (probably because Cupcake told him) tricked the Killer into thinking that he had left and then altered the scenes of the crime to cause chaos before actually leaving.

Remember the knife and how it was surprisingly clean for how messy everything was? I think that just like the bloddy trail, this was Cartman tempering with the evidence.

So all of the evidence is on the table, some things are very clear, while others not so much, logic and Speculation are mixed to create a path to the truth:

According to my theory, the killer using the Monokaller it stole from Jenny told star to go into the cafeteria, Star went there by using her Dimensional Scissors, creating the first flash that Gaz claims to have seen, the killer then lured Star onto the kitchen, where they left left her unconscious using the tranquillizers they stole from the infirmary, suddenly they heard Cartman coming, and decided to hide itself and Star in a nervy cabinet, leaving the black smudges, they tied Star's hands using a piece of string form the sweater in case she woke up before , Cartman left, Cartman got alerted by Cupcaked and pretended to go back to his room, after he left the killer, took star out of the cabinet and murdered her, then proceeded to use the Dimensional Scissors to escape and get rid of the evidence, this created the second flash that Gaz saw, they left the sweater back into Mabel's lab and also hid Jenny's Monokaller in there as to incriminate Mable, they throw the piece of string in a nervy garbage can, and finally left the sky mask back in the storage room (as how the blood got there, your guess is as good as mine...), while this was happening Cartman got back into the kitchen, point in which he saw the body, using the monosauce (he either had already created later accidentally, or had created now intentionally) created a fake blood trail from the door connecting to the cafeteria all the way to the corpse, he also took the knife the killer had left by the body, washed it and left it on a nervy drawer just to mess with people, after that he left for real, and went back to his room alongside kyle, once he was done removing evidence from the crime scene the killer, opened a final portal to the kitchen so they could leave the Scissors near Star, finally they got back into their own room, waited for the body to be discovered and faked surprise.

Out of our prime suspects there is only one who had the chance to steal the Monokaller and then immediatley leave the room without raising suspicions, there is only one who could have stolen from the infirmary without fear of anybody asking him why he needed medicine, and there's only one who coud have done it.

Morty Smith

I'm 100% certain that he is guilty

And about 80% that the events happened that way.

Morty is the only one who could have done it, and had the reason to do it, but the blood on the sky mask and the hair ball make me doubt of my reconstruction of the events.

Wow this took longer than expected, it was pretty fun though, seeing all of the pieces come together, abd having those moments of realization that force you to rewrite everything, but yeah, this is my theory of who done it and how, is it perfect? Heck no, there's evidence I don't even know how to work into the case.

So leave me your options on my theory, your theories and the overall estructure of the post.

#cartoons in danganronpa #danganronpa #cartoons #Monological trials #Case 1 #Gravity falls #Invader Zim #Making Fiends #the powerpuff girls #ed edd n eddy #my life as a teenage robot #rick and morty #It's 2:00 on the night #I should have left the editing oart for tomorrow #also if anyone asking why monological teials #Because it's just me talking monologue + logic monological and trials because this is basically a one person Dangan trial #long post

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vividbeast · 1 year

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absolutely ruining my sleep schedule to watch the adult swim april fools live for the first time and its. Alright!

#barking tag #this is the closest the vibe has been to the few times i caught adult swim as a kid #the space ghost episode made me feel like a kid watching something i wasnt supposed to lol #i actually caught the last couple minutes of the train thing and got so hyped i thought it would be a whole night of ambient swim #but im happy to see unedited footage of a bear on tv for the first time #and broomshakala actually!!#also shut the fuck up about pibby it was never going to be a real show asldj #i wish as would air more weird shit instead of endless reruns of rick and morty #i am the only person who cares about this no one watches tv anymore-

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iamcalmdammit · 2 years

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Where’s the rest of “she said yes”? Waiting for the few parts

Hi! Yeah, I'm waiting for the new parts too! But honestly, I didn't really plan to continue that, I consider the last part the end of it. One of the reasons is that I'm currently working on an original story (urban fantasy) and I'm focused on figuring out a certain part of that story. The other is that I work quite a lot because of an upcoming merger lately.

If I had a night person, though, maybe I would post something new. I don't know. Or maybe when I rewatch the series I'll write new stuff.

#night person from rick and morty btw

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tinyreviews · 2 years

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Maybe the problem is that there is no B plot. No boost of dopamine from experiencing different plots that cleverly converge.

Rick and Morty is an American adult animated science fiction sitcom created by Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon for Cartoon Network's nighttime Adult Swim programming block. It stars the voices of Justin Roiland, Chris Parnell, Spencer Grammer, and Sarah Chalke.

#rick and morty #night family #night person #jerry #horror #adult animation #adult swim #adult animated series #dan harmon #justin roiland #chris parnell #spencer grammer #sarah chalke #cartoon #tv series review #2022

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apas-95 · 6 months

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2010s creepypasta called 'the slovak cooking video': genuinely the most terrifying thing you ever read, kept you up at night on the verge of a panic attack. if go back and reread it now it's not actually very good but, like, cmon

reddit nosleep post titled 'it's been 32,105 seconds since I've last seen my cat': high-concept horror writing with a genuinely good premise ruined by the protagonist being overly hyper-logical, and simultaneously, randomly incapable of basic reasoning because the author's first idea for the story was how cool the explanation of the concept would be, which we haven't gotten to yet. has rick and morty prose

scp foundation article #42069 named 'a funny hat': okay yeah, christ. fuck. i want to show this to every person i know. this changed my life. used to be absolute garbage before it was put up for rewrite and spent two years being ship-of-theseus'd by a group of new authors. was good enough that it spawned an entire mythos of low-quality derivatives to make into 'iceberg' videos

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loganlermanstanaccount · 9 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 6)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 5, Part 7

summary: Everything unravels. You teach Miguel a lesson.

warnings: soooo much smut. mutual masturbation, grinding, slight femdom, Miguel is a submissive switch cuz I said so, m! masturbation. very very 18+ Minors DNI (ageless blogs will be blocked, thanks!)

a/n: yeah...so. ya.

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 8k

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

in your half-hearted hubris,

Miguel is not a jealous man. Jealousy implies something he thought was shed long ago: a second skin of something green-eyed and crooked.

One minute, he's watching you kiss someone else. And when you sigh into it; imperceptibly, but he notices because he always sees these things about you; he's biting the inside of his cheek and drawing blood. The guy you danced with, and now your lips are on his. Is… Is that your type? Jun is slender and charming; a pretty boy, through and through . There's a hand on your thigh, he notices, milky white and willowy. It has Miguel looking at his own, rough and tan, the ghost of soft skin and pillowy thighs on his fingertips. The illicit foray of one night, one night with you , and he's second guessing himself.

Insecure.

His hands are rough and calloused. He picks at hangnails, the skin is raw from rubber gloves and mystery chemicals, and knuckles creaky because he cracks them too often. Is that what you like? The kind of thing you touch yourself to; his hands, pawing at flesh. Jun cups your chin, slender fingers pulling you closer, and your own come up to wrap around them. You seem desperate for it, panting and pretty lashes fluttering when you separate.

And you look at Jun like… like he wants you to look at him.

There's blood in his mouth when you finally do. He looks away, quick and furtive, like you've caught him doing something wrong. It's not right or wrong, he supposes, just tripping over a muddle of thoughts – still stuck on the image of your hand on Jun's.

He was a late bloomer, awkwardly proportioned and too tall for his limbs. Clumsy, if you can believe it. He's always been a bit of a bull in a China shop; bulldozing and brutish and still growing into a body that pools at his ankles and is tight around his wrists. Like an ill-fitting suit; the kind he wore to Fernanda's quince, skirting the rental hall with a bottle of j2o. In and out of conversations, tripping and stuttering over words in stiff dress shoes and a waistcoat . Gabi took a lot of photos: peace signs and pointer finger looped into coat pockets.

Point is; he's not felt this way in years . Tongue-tied, hot and cold, heart-pounding. Jun decidedly isn't; able to talk to you like a normal person, making you smile and laugh. Curling fingers into the crest of a wide palm, he digs his nails into the flesh: producing a sting that makes it crystal clear. Oh. Oh.

Fuck.

One minute, he's nursing a warm beer and trying not to take a chunk out the inside of his mouth. The next, he's on the floor of Lyla's living room, blinking up at bright lights.

There's soft hands all over him. Holding his own, cupping his cheek, moving his head this way and that as he tries to focus. He's looking at your pretty lips, pert and pressed into the lean line of a frown. There are… people talking over the other; strained and hushed in a quiet corner.

He recognises Lyla's voice, distinctive despite the ringing in his ears.

"A-All over a drink…. pushing past 'em, Jess…. he threw the first punch…"

~~~

The drive home is terse, air thick with something. Stewing, you've got your arms crossed and head turned to the windows. You're watching the streaky lights of the city zip past, lips pursed. Head on the glass, you're making a point not to turn back or utter a word to Miguel.

"You picked a fight." You swipe a finger on the condensation, finally ready to talk.

He shrugs limply. A beat passes.

"....this is the part where you explain what happened, Miguel."

"I picked a fight."

"...that's it?" Your brows shoot up. "You just… there was no build up? Why? "

"Wanted to give 'em something to bond over in the morning." He deadpans, glancing over to the passenger seat. "Matching black eyes."

You shake your head slightly. "Don't believe you."

You see something flash in his gaze, and then it's gone. He smooths over features, and that Miguel is back: lifeless and blank. Steadfast, he doesn't turn to look at you.

"Okay." He says simply.

"All that Ophelia shit from a couple of weeks ago, and you still won't –" It's under your breath as you clamp down anger. If Miguel hears, he doesn't indicate. "I just want to understand."

He purses his lips. "Nothing to understand. I'm an insecure piece of shit, and I picked a fight. I ruined Jess' birthday, and fucked it up for everyone else. I know. Can we… Can we speed this bit up? I'm exhausted. "

"No-one… I didn't say that." Your voice is hoarse. He's being mean. He's never been all that nice; sarcastic and smug, for sure, but never cruel. It feels spiteful. You're blinking away a hot tear before you can stop it. And then they become angry tears, ones that sting your cheeks on the way down.

You're not good with fights. Never have been. And it's not even the confrontation that scares you, it's the apathy. Sifting through your guts and begging someone to care, when they don't. It's like screaming at a brick wall and expecting the mortar to shift; a pointless exercise in delusion. You'd grown sick of it with Jamie; the hand-waving and the what do you want me to do about it of it all. It's the one thing you've grown to like about Miguel, about all your little fights. He's rarely the bigger person, petty, and able to get down in the shit and stink with you; because, on some small level at least, he gives a fuck. He cares .

You're embarrassed that you even thought he would be any different. Disappointed, but not with him: with yourself for getting caught up in all of this.

You're sniffling, wiping up and flattening out of sheer spite; refusing to let him see how a stupid thing like this affects you. The tears well up in your eyes, hot and blurry and you're focusing on holding yourself together by the seams before you get home.

You don't notice him pull into a side road and park the car. It rolls to a stop, and he's reaching over to the backseat; and pulling out a box of tissues. The box is floral and tissues scented; rosy and sweet in a way you wouldn't expect from him.

When he nudges you with the box, apologetic, you're still not looking at him; not even flicking over to give him a dirty look.

"Chula. " It rolls off his tongue so softly, but you jut your chin in the air. "Please. I'm sorry."

You purse your lips.

"I'm a dick."

"Yep." You manage.

"I picked a fight. I'm an insecure piece of shit–"

"No, no." You're turning back, quickly. "Stop saying that. Why are you saying that?"

He shrugs again, and you flop into your seat. You notice, he's gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.

"Relax , Miguel." You wrap a hand around his, and watch him visibly melt. His gaze softens. "M'not trying to push, I'm sorry."

You take his hand off the wheel, inspecting the purple and blue that spreads across taught skin. His palm is rough, knuckles bony and bruised.

"When we get home–" Home. You sigh, bringing it up to the little car lights. "I've got a first aid kit, somewhere. We need to clean this up, or it might get infec–"

Looking up, you catch Miguel staring , stars in his eyes, and it… it knocks the breath out of your lungs. All of a sudden, you're flustered and letting go of his hand in a hurry.

All he does is nod, starting the car. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling away with a palm on the flat of the wheel. In the light of street lamps, shadow cutting his cheekbones just so. He's beat up, he's tired, but even then; Miguel is so, so pretty.

~~~

You end up in the bathroom, first aid kit splayed on the countertop. He insists on standing, despite a slight limp he tries to downplay, and so you're sitting on the faux marble with Miguel between your legs. Your dress rides up but you're too tired to care, ripping open gauze and tapping disinfectant on a little pad. At least he has the decency to be still and quiet, with his palms on the counter top and kissing bare thigh.

Miguel is tall, still having to bend over when you pat the peak of a split lip; hand on his chin ever so gently.

"Where'd you get all of this from?" He asks because your first aid kit is comprehensive : micropore, gauze and antiseptic with a name that sounds like sleeping pills.

You're swatting him gently, trying to keep his jaw still. "My ex was a med student."

He smothers a smile, like he's trying not to laugh.

"...what?"

"...is he the one that couldn't make you cum?"

You stop tending to his wounds, hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. Never have I ever faked an orgasm – the words start ringing in your head. You're not a blushing virgin, but his crass word choice makes you flush.

"None of your business."

He smirks. "So that's a yes. "

"I faked it once or twice , sue me. But… I mean, the sex wasn't bad. It was even good, sometimes."

"Sure." He cringes, and you bat his shoulder.

"Don't want to hear it."

He hums, pressing a little closer to your front.

"What was he like, then?" He seems nonchalant; but his tone is unusual, sending shivers down your spine.

"He was… nice."

"Nice?"

"Yep." Four years, and that's the best you can come up with. It's all you can verbalise, at least. How does one describe the feeling of getting hit by a metaphorical train? One that leaves you on the tracks, thinking of picnic dates and IOUs and diner coffee? They'd describe it as poorly as you do, most likely. A moment passes. "I loved him, I think."

You don't know why you said that, but the melancholy of the night starts to sink in.

"Then why'd you break up?"

You shrug. "Wasn't enough."

He looks surprised, eyebrows drawn up momentarily, as if that's the last thing he thought you'd say. You strike him as a romantic; ditzy and dopey when you have feelings for someone, a love conquers all type of person.

The mood sours, air heaving in that little bathroom. You finish up in silence, applying strips to a gash above his brow. It takes some time for him to speak, as if he's been building up the confidence.

"Is that your type?" He asks, finally puncturing that pressure.

You shake your head, a little confused.

"Nice? Like that guy you were talking to."

"...Jun?" You hesitate, sensing something else behind his words. "I mean… I just wanted to get laid."

He doesn't really react, thumb grazing the silk of your slip dress. The skin his hand brushes past feels a little hotter.

"He's pretty, though." You're careful not to make eye contact, getting to work cleaning the cuts on his knuckles. You smile to yourself. "And yeah, he's nice. More than nice, actually. "

Jun works with computers. Jun is good with his hands. And you really were going to fuck him. Until… until…

…until Miguel got into a fight. After watching you kiss someone else. The gears turn in your head, creaky and lumbering because you haven't had to navigate a shitty pseudo-situationship in forever. You're wrapping up his hand with gauze, mouth moving quicker than you can think.

"Are you jealous?"

He splutters, flashing pearly whites in indignation.

"No… No . You can fuck whoever you want." He says it too quickly. "I don't care."

He looks a mess; a gash above one eye, a nasty cut glancing the side of his lip, and knuckles bruised. Suspecting more hiding beneath his shirt, you look at him, gaze heavy. You're worried, even when you shouldn't be, even when he doesn't deserve it.

"Oh my God." You're connecting dots, and your stomach churns with the realisation. "What the fuck ?"

" M-not -"

"Just because you don't want to fuck me– "

"I never said I didn't want to–"

"You didn't have to, you just refused to acknowledge how we almost did for two weeks. "

"Neither did you!"

"I wanted to… after. And you said we couldn't, because I had a lecture."

"You did have a lecture, and you were high! That doesn't mean anything… I need you to mean it when you say it."

"So you resort to sabotage? I was gonna get laid, you fucking asshole."

"You kissed him."

" So? "

"You didn't kiss me."

That one takes the wind out of your sails, and you're stammering with the amount of brainpower it takes to wrap your head around it. You slip off the counter, putting some space between you both.

"...I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not saying you can't kiss him… o-or you're not allowed to, or some crap. I just don't get it. I don't understand."

He's holding your hands in his,

"You just met the guy, and you kiss him on a stupid dare–"

" –he kissed me." You correct him, voice hoarse.

"He kissed you . Cool. Whatever. You kissed him back. But when I tried to kiss you, after… " He trails off.

"I dodged one kiss . Maybe I wasn't feeling it."

"And that's fine. I respect that, and I respect you. But it wasn't just one kiss. It's all the time , around here. I say something, then you say something, and then… we have a moment. Time just stops. Can't you feel it? I-I feel like I'm going crazy."

You keep quiet, only the sound of your heart racing to punctuate thoughts.

"Miguel… "

He gets even closer, pressing you against the counter, his bandaged hand migrating to your waist, and then the small of your back. Your knees are weak as you swallow roughly, with Miguel; strong, annoyingly handsome, perceptive Miguel; resting his forehead on yours. You come together, intimate, even allowing your eyes to flutter shut, waiting for the press of lips on yours.

It never comes. Wrenching yourself away at the last minute, you're standing in the doorway; arms folded, because you don't know what to do with your limbs anymore.

He doesn't look disappointed. Just deflated.

"Do you want to fuck me?" He asks. Yes , you answer, but he can't hear it.

"Do you want to kiss me?" Do you want me? Do you want me in a way no-one else can have me?

This feels different. Not as simple as a yes or no.

Your face must say it all for you, because he sighs. "I just want to know why."

His behaviour has been erratic, to say the least. You've spent a good month and a half terrorising each other, before coming to an uneasy truce – and he fucked it up. All that talk like he knows you, that he sees you, and it all feels for naught.

"After all the shit you've pulled… what gives you the right? I was so worried about you–" Your voice is barely above a whisper. " Fuck this. M'going to bed."

Slipping into the gloom of the hallway, and then into your room, leaving Miguel there.

It's different, why can't he see that it's different? A one night stand, with Jun, with someone else; kissing a guy in a dare doesn't have consequences. You get off, you go home. Simple, clinical, no need for niceties. With Miguel, as you've come to realise, there are other things to navigate. Even when high, you knew ; with someone like him, it's too intimate – the possible consequences too dire. He's your roommate, for God's sake.

You can hear him now, turning off the bathrooms lights and padding into his room. For once, there's nothing to be heard from behind the wall. The dim light spills in, warm yellow pooling around the door. Your window is open, moonlight and the city below to keep you company.

And you want him to stew in that room, to punish him for all the shit he's put you through in the past week; hell, the past few months you've been here. But you can't. If you're sick of the mind games, you can't keep this game of chicken going – you're both careening towards the edge faster than you can say the words: Yes, Miguel; I want to sit on your face. If you could get rid of the attitude, that would be great, too .

So you're knocking on his door, still in your dress, tugging down its hem when he opens. He's in that shirt and slacks, bloodied front and all.

Deep breath. You straighten your back, and make sure you're heard, loud and clear.

"I don't like it when you bring over girls to fuck them in your room. The walls are too thin, and I can't sleep because I hear everything. Everything, Miggy."

He's stony-faced, unreadable as ever. Still, you continue.

"I don't like it when you look at me… like that, and then pretend it never happened. You're inconsistent, sarcastic, you freak out whenever there's a sock out of place and it drives me fucking crazy–"

" I don't –"

"I'm not finished. You're a prick. You don't tell people you love them enough, when… when you do. You so clearly do. Lyla was worried when you took so long to get to Jess' – just give her a call, sometimes. Let people know what's going on."

His face is stuck somewhere between abject horror and plain old shock. For Miguel, that means his eyebrow is raised a half-inch higher than usual.

"...you finished?" He strains.

"One more.. ." Another breath. "...your poker face needs work. Because you look like you need a shit half the time."

His jaw shifts. You maintain eye contact; despite everything screaming that you should run with your tail between your legs.

"I fucking hate you , Miguel."

"I know." He softens, running a hand through his hair. Leaning against the frame, he steps a little closer; and imperceptibly, you're both pulled by the gravity of the other. All of a sudden, your head is on his chest, blood-spattered cotton that smells like him, arms wrapped around his middle. Hesitant, he pulls you even closer, slotting into the crook of your neck as best he can.

Wordlessly, you separate. You knit your eyebrows together, looking up at him. With your hand on his cheek, he leans into your touch. You graze a thumb on his lips, eyes fluttering at the broken skin: plump and messy and pretty.

"Sit down." You say it so softly, he convinces himself he didn't hear it.

You go again. "Sit down."

Your tone makes him flush, and then he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He leans back, you step forward; legs brushing his knees splayed atop the sheets.

"Do you want me?"

He's nodding before he even hears the end of the sentence, eyes locked onto yours.

You shrug.

"Prove it. "

And it goes straight to his cock: the way you say it, blasé and casual, like you haven't put words to the way he's been feeling for weeks. Usually, he'd start to spiral, endlessly loop around what you mean. Want , strong and heady; and to him that means a hungering that leaves his throat dry and innards bare.

Do you want me? Do you want me in a way no-one else can have me?

And yet, he doesn't quite know the answer. Instead, he shows you; hoping and praying he hasn't read this wrong.

Barely breathing, studying your every move, he takes your other hand. You hinge slightly at the hip, coming closer, eyes still locked onto his and he places your little palm onto his crotch. It spans his whole length, quickly hardening. When you don't react, he panics, trying to move your hand away…

…and then you squeeze .

Miguel keens, bucking into the pressure you apply with the heel of your palm. He starts a slow roll of hips, other hand wrapped around yours on his cheek; melting into it, in a way that brings heat to that sweet spot between your legs. And then he stutters to a stop, lips parted and panting.

"Why'd you stop?"

"G-Got carried away. Sorry ."

His brows are knitted, shoulders hunched, and when you slide your hand down to the corded muscles of his neck, he tenses. He always seems so stressed, but you've never seen him like this: desperate and falling apart at the seams.

"You're okay, Miguel. Relax. "

You shift your wrist, rolling around that growing tent in your palm. He hisses, palms flat by his side and head thrown back. With a little smile, you watch his shoulders melt, satisfied.

"Does it feel good?"

"Y-Yes." He groans. Despite your quickening pace, he seems to clamp down instinct; biting his cheek to muffle wanton moans.

"How about you get more comfortable for me?"

At first he doesn't understand, grumbling when you take your hand away from his clothed cock. Pulling him upwards, you make a start with his buttons, helping slide the fabric off of his shoulders. He slips his slacks off, and then he's left in black boxers; it's band hanging dangerously low.

They're tented, sporting a wet patch of precum around the fat tip of his dick. And he is large, its outline clear under the thin fabric.

You wrap a hand around his waist, other hand tracing up to his chest.

"What about you, chula? "

You look up. Miguel looks down at you, eyes low, large hand splayed between your shoulder blades.

"You don't like what I'm wearing?" Doe eyed, you don't really expect him to take you seriously.

"N-No, no. " He's stuttering, now. "You look beautiful. Always do. I just… I want to see more ."

You click your tongue with faux disapproval. "Don't be selfish, baby. You wanted my attention, right?"

He nods, with the self-awareness to be hesitant at your tone.

"Then," You start, slipping a hand into his boxers. You wrap a dainty hand around his length; thick and slanted and weeping at the tip. "Learn to be grateful."

"Ayy-" He wraps around you, head bowed to dip into your shoulder.

You pump his cock, other hand around his neck; eyes sparkling as you force him to look to his side, at you.

"F-Fuck–" He's breathing heavily, mouth open into a pretty little O , and you clamp a hand down to his jaw.

"What do you want?"

"R-Rapido, mas rapido por favor -"

[Faster, faster, please-]

Surprisingly vocal, he loses it as you press your thumb onto his slit; flushed and pouring with precum. You rub his wetness along the length of his shaft, squeezing and turning your wrist as you get to his tip. He likes that; hips bucking to fuck into the ring you make with your hand.

You want to savour this moment: Miguel stripped down to his boxers, beautifully tanned skin pressed up against yours. And of course, that look on his face; a lusty haze, even stronger than the one you were under when high, all those nights ago.

His lashes flutter, and you watch as his core tenses; watching and waiting for just the right moment to… stop.

You pull away, and he chases it, bucking into thin air. You're pushing him back onto the bed, with a hand to his chest. Eyes blown , he leans back onto his forearms; unable to tear himself away. There's a certain glow about you, a glint in your eye, one that takes his breath away. Something smug , a little smile as you drag a black thong down your pretty thighs. It's long forgotten when you chuck it onto the bed; Miguel still can't get over the sight of legs and a flash of your cunt, committing it to memory.

Sidling up to his chest, you kick a leg over and seat yourself onto his lap. Flush against the fabric, you settle onto your knees. The look in Miguel's eyes almost bowls you over; stunning and windswept, as he runs a hand over your thigh. Eyes wide at the way the fabric pools around your body: the swell of tits cupped by silk, how good it looks against your skin.

He's staring at where you meet, that spot between your thighs when it happens; when you guide his hand to the apex of your pussy. His thumb slots against your clit like it belongs there, rough pads applying just the right amount of pressure.

"Oh f-fuuuck," You sigh into it, pressing your tits to his chest in a way that makes him hump into the pocket left by your body and the smooth fabric of your dress.

Even in his haze, Miguel is hyperfocused on your pleasure, obsessed with the noises he can pull from you. With a big hand on your waist, he pulls you closer to slot you against his front. It's your turn to moan, the prettiest thing he thinks he's ever heard, slipping his cock between your lower lips with a swirling intensity.

You're drunk with the pleasure, hands on his shoulders to angle him towards your clit. He thinks you look like an angel, head tilted back to expose the expanse of your neck. Bringing his teeth to that slight vein, he's a killer; sucking rough hickeys to the skin.

"M'close, fuck –"

"Damelo, hermosa, " He places two palms at the globes of your ass, squeezing and pressing into you even closer.

[Give it to me, beautiful.]

"Miguel…shit–b-baby, think I'm–"

You cum, gushing and clamping down around nothing. Miguel is more interested in the way you transform ; fine lines and deep furrows of your face softening, the pure bliss written into the gentle arch of your body. He did that. It makes his chest warm, it makes his cock swell; and with the feeling of slipping through your pretty folds, he gets so, so close to that biting edge.

You stop, slipping off of his lap and he whines at the loss of you. Tugging down your dress, you make your way out of the room and he's reeling , clutching at your arm so you don't leave.

"Chula ," He's babbling, tucked back into his boxers, but on his knees for you. "I'm sorry, please. Do you want me to beg? Because I will , baby, I w–"

Helping him up, you give him a little smile that he's too pussy-drunk to realise its true nature. Dangerous, you cup his face with both hands, brows pressed together and large, sparkling eyes. Not quite sympathy, but it's enough to make him think you'll wrap a hand around his cock out of pity, press those pretty tits against him and–

On your tiptoes, you give him a chaste kiss between his brows. You flash him a stunning smile, bottom lip hooked under your teeth.

"Goodnight , Miguel."

And then you're out the door, down the little hallway and into your bedroom. Miguel runs a shaky hand through his hair, unsure whether to laugh or cry. And he knows, still rock hard, body burning with the memory of you: he's fucked.

~~~

When morning comes, Miguel wrenches open his eyes, bloodshot and sore. He feels like shit , barely able to sit up without feeling like his chest will collapse.

It feels like he was ran over in a headfirst collision; and he was, essentially, wincing at the memory of that fight. He can feel strike one and two; between his ribs, to the side of his navel; but the real knockout punch was you – a deadly, calculated assault that he almost hates you for.

Almost.

He came harder than he has in months last night; bent over his cock, pumping shakily. It had only taken a couple of rough tugs until he spilled all over himself; embarrassingly quick. He lasted longer the second time, unable to help himself.

In his defence, the black thong you had slipped off was right there ; rumpled amongst the sheets. He had pressed it to his nose and then wrapped them around his shaft; eyes closed as he imagined being buried in your plush pussy. All his fantasies; quickies in the shower spent jerking off to the thought of you, where he'd hold onto the feeling of brushing past you in the kitchen, or little touches on the couch. You've surpassed them, well and truly.

Now, he stumbles into the shower, stripping on the tiles. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he pokes at flesh; purple bruises stretching over brown and tan muscle. Turning around and craning his head, he follows them all the way to his back and then… oh. He can see them: scratchy-sharp lines, spanning the width of his shoulder blades. You did that, he thinks.

Fuck . He's hard again, sighing heavily as he clambers into the shower. It sputters to life, ice cold, but he grits his teeth and takes it , trying to free his mind of cotton and cobwebs. As the water warms up, he presses both hands flat on the tile, head down and eyes closed. The water washes over him, down his back, and like a flash of lightning he's imagining you pressed up against him, bent in half over his cock. He'd press a thumb to your clit, slamming into your ass; fucking you hard, like you deserve. You'd like that , he thinks, from what he's heard of you in your room, the filth that spills from your mouth and to his side of the wall.

"Miguel?" It's a little muffled over the shower, but you get closer to the door.

"Yes?" He shouts over the rush of water. He shouldn't . He really shouldn't.

"You've got a call!"

He hums. With the way you say his name he caves, making a tight ring around his length.

"It's Lyla, and-" Something clatters. " Fuck , sorry."

Your voice is breathy, little groans as you pick up whatever's dropped to the floor. Miguel feels like a perv, turning the water pressure down to listen to your voice properly. All the while, he keeps a steady pace on his cock.

"Should I just let it ring? Keep it going?"

Keep going is what he hears, and then he speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him. What would it would it take to have you babbling and begging for more? How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length.

"Miguel?"

Or maybe you'd be on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God , thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

H-Harder, please–

That's how you would ask him, clawing at his back, and he'd capture those pleas in a searing kiss.

"–Miguel!"

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes onto the tiles. He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool tile.

"Just take a message," He strains, panting as you say something in response. He doesn't quite catch it, of course, too busy reeling from the aftershock.

The shower croaks and gurgles, spluttering to a stop. He listens as your footsteps recede beyond the door, moving away.

Shit. It's going to be a long day.

~~~

You sleep like a baby. Lulled into blissful sleep, after practically floating into bed. That orgasm does wonders; and you sleep better than you have in months. You dream of cotton candy clouds, flowing green grass, and tanned, muscled men on their knees; in the kind of sleep that wraps around you like a blanket.

Surprisingly fresh in the morning, you wake up before Miguel does. You're milling about the hallway when he barrels into the bathroom, and on the couch when he leaves.

"Mig?" You poke your head towards the door, and he almost jumps half a foot into the air.

Eyes wide, and he can barely manage a weak smile.

"Lyla called."

"Yeah, you…" He sighs, clutching the towel slung around his waist a little tighter. "You mentioned it."

In the light of the morning, you're able to assess him a lot better. To put it plainly, he looks rough ; blinking at you oddly, shifting when you come closer. You don't touch him, Miguel seems much too antsy for that, but you get closer to inspect the bruises that bloom across his side. It looks even worse than yesterday, purple and blue across taut muscle. You reach for it and he flinches, so you pull away.

"...you okay?"

" Yep. " He grits it through a plasticky smile; and the fact that it reaches his eyes is a red flag in of itself for the usual grump.

The side-eye you respond with isn't quite enough to chip at it, so he continues.

"M'just fine."

" O–kay . Lyla said something about a debrief , earlier."

"At the usual place?"

"...uhhh. She said at HQ? In about an hour."

"Okay… okay. Nonono, that's fine… okay." He's muttering to himself and about to turn around when something catches his eye. Your lips; pretty gloss and freshly done. In fact, you're fully dressed to go out; in a display that has him confused.

You answer the question he posits with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"She invited me, Mig."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Of c.. of course she did."

Distracted and haphazard, Miguel gets dressed; squeezing into the car with a flask of coffee to-go. It scares you; the way he barely flinches while taking sips of the bitter liquid you know must be piping hot. He's acting weird, even weirder than usual; but you let it wash over you and move on.

Eventually, you pull up to HQ ; a shitty dive bar that is inexplicably serving breakfast and other miscellaneous items at 12pm. At least, that's what it looks like, arriving to see one overcrowded table and a sea of pancakes and coffee. Jess sports a croissant and orange juice, whilst Peter scoffs down a burger almost as big as his face.

"Miguel!" He says it with a mouthful of pickles, beef and patty, slapping the man in question heartily on the back.

He winces, batting Peter away before sliding into the seat next to you. For barely a second, your legs brush together and he's shifting away. Okay. That's… odd.

You're sifting through menus when you glance over to the counter and you see her : a pretty woman of about 25, tucking red hair away behind her ear. Your heart stops, and then you're tapping Miguel.

" Look, " You hiss quietly, nodding towards the counter. " Isn't that…? "

June McGinnity, the premier main character in the hit tv soap, And Everyday Before The Last; The Final Season. It's the very same show you've been bingeing for the past 6 months. 18 seasons, 3 spinoffs, and a revival currently in the works; you're obsessed with the show that's gotten you through your last breakup – and the one before that, and a couple of rocky moments with your parents.

She's been a staple for the last couple of seasons, quickly skyrocketing to popularity in her minor role, and now , in The Final Season, she's got her well-deserved spot as a season regular. June is tenacious, smart, absolutely hilarious, and–

" –she's coming over here . Shit, Miggy, she's coming over," You whisper to him and for the first time this morning; he smiles, wide and genuine. It takes you back; not just because he looks so pretty when he smiles, but because you have no idea what's so funny.

June slips into the seat besides Peter, and your eyes almost fall out of their sockets. She gives him a kiss on the cheek , as Peter brushes away blunt bangs. Frantic, you turn to Miguel, who's trying not to piss himself laughing.

He's borderline howling, and you put a hand around his arm to get him to keep quiet – to stop embarrassing you in front of June – but he's too busy wiping away tears.

Peter turns to the scene, clearly confused. He says something to June, and then he's turning to you, saying your name.

"Hey, I don't think I've introduced you to– Miguel, please shut the fuck up– this is–"

"MJ." She smiles, brilliant and sparkling, with her hand outstretched and you think you might pass out.

"I'm–" You're stumbling over your words, grasping her hand before you can overthink it. Maybe it comes off as overzealous, but you're desperately trying to shut out Miguel's laughing. "I'm a massive fan, you're so incredibly talented ; as June – I always cry at that one scene when you meet your long-lost sister... a-and when you find out that Jackie is actually your Mom, I swear, I get chills–"

The man besides you splutters, hunched over and gripping onto the table for support. It's getting egregious, now, and you make it known as best you can with a dirty look.

"I'm, oh fuck, no… I'm done, I promise." He clamps down a smile, hands up in surrender.

"Was that… too much?" You gain some semblance of perspective, and then you're falling over yourself to apologise. " Shit , I'm really, really sor–"

" – No, no. You're good, it's nice to get recognised for that show! Most of the demographic is old people and pensioners, honestly. Not a lot of IRL interaction with fans, if you know what I mean." She flashes you that smile, again, and you melt. She turns to the man beside you. "Don't be a dick, Miguel."

"Yeah, Miguel." Peter continues to inhale what you think is his second burger, wagging a sauce covered finger. "What she said."

Miguel rolls his eyes so hard you think they might rattle about in his skull, and you give him a rough shove for good measure. Down the other side of the table, you spot Lyla; downing a brightly coloured drink and massaging her temples.

"Shit , Lyla. You want to slow it down?" Jess says, and then her eyes are flicking over to yours. She does a double take, giving you a wide smile. " Hey , y'all! When did you get here?"

"Not long!" You call back, and she gives you a thumbs up in response. Lyla coughs beside her, sporting a nasty grimace; and then she's up and looking around the table, as if taking a headcount. At least, you think she does, as it's hard to see her eyes between pink tinted shades. They slip down her nose and she brings a fork to the empty glass; silencing the rabble.

"M-Morning…" She stills, hand on her chest like she's got heartburn; throat bobbing as she gags slightly. "Morning, everyone. First off, hope you all feel as shitty as I do."

And then there's cheers and good-natured elbowing, especially towards Ben and Miguel. Apparently , if you're to believe the whispers and rumour mill; Ben took to bar-hopping across town, ending the night without a shoe and someone else's shirt. He gives a rueful smile, holding up a mug to scattered laughter. And Miguel… well, he's Miguel , sitting back in his seat with folded arms.

"Second," She pauses, for dramatic effect. "Someone's volunteered to pay for the next round of food to apologise for last night… everyone say Thank you, Miguel."

She starts a limp round of applause with a flourish, and sits down. There's only about a dozen people there: most you recognise, and some you don't. There was no attempt to explain what exactly a debrief was; so you're left disorientated in the mash of voices. Miguel picks at waffles besides you, in his own world. Without a word, you get up, making your way towards neon bathroom signs in the corner.

It's some peace and quiet, a moment to think as you look at your reflection in the mirror. You look lighter , as if a weight was lifted off of your shoulders last night. Your skin looks a little brighter, eyes sharper and even your hair falls differently, today. You feel good, and it seems to translate to the person looking back it you. Wow. You're practically–

" -glowing. Shit , you look good." Lyla calls out from behind you, entering the little bathroom with Jess.

Jess gives you a warm hug, and Lyla follows before pushing up heart shaped glasses.

" Damn, girl." Jess gives a low whistle, hands on her shoulders to turn you this way and that.

They make you giggle, with a warmth that blooms at your chest.

"Was it that cute guy from last night?"

Lyla interrupts. " Jun! Did he send you a little something after you got home?"

"Did you ditch Miguel to get some?"

"God, did you invite Jun over? "

Jess gasps, before quickly adding. "No judgement, of course. Once upon a time, we probably would've done the same thing."

It's a back and forth that gives you whiplash, dodging fastballs that get hit into the tiles. Not trusting yourself to speak, you shake your head, demurely.

"...are you telling us you didn't have sex last night? Because that glow says something different."

You clamp down any words that might give you away, but Jess' sharp eyes latch onto the cracks: a little smile tugging at the sides of your lips.

"So not Jun … but someone else? Last night…? "

The penny drops and then she's grabbing at you and Lyla. When realisation hits the mousy brunette to your side, she's flinging off pink shades to look you in the eye.

"You fucked Miguel?"

"No!" You're hissing, trying to calm raucous behaviour. "Technically, not… yet."

"Not yet? " Lyla repeats, astonished. "I mean, I thought you two were already–"

"It makes sense! Could've sworn I saw his knees shakin' today…"

"Okay, okay…" You're laughing, finally understanding the magnitude of the grenade you've just lobbed at them. "It wasn't like that . It's not a thing."

"...do you want it to be a thing?"

You tilt your head, pretending to think on it. Yes , you want to ride him till something breaks; but Miguel is a walking red flag. You know, deep down, nothing good can come out of it.

"Don't… don't say it like that."

"Look, Ly, she wants it to be a thing. "

" Definitely. It's basically already a thing ." Lyla concurs, nodding firmly.

"Fuck you guys." It's not said with spite, leaving your mouth with a smile.

"Oh, no. You like 'em tall, and tan, and a little grumpy. You mean: Fuck me, Miguel. "

You're swatting her away, whilst Jess is doubled over in laughter; hand on the ceramic to steady herself. They're good fun; raucous and boisterous and making you feel welcome, when you know they really don't have to.

The laughter dies down, and they're leading you out of the bathroom to their side of the table, chattering away. Jess digs into another pancake, rock hard, and all of a sudden you're telling her about the waffles at Pam's Diner, and all the interesting characters you've met there. Lyla nurses another sweet cocktail, chattering on about a pre-game she's got in a couple of hours; and then you're exchanging stories about hangovers and missed lectures.

From their conversation, you slowly learn what a debrief entails: the remnants of a tradition they'd started when 19 and spotty. All of them, friends of friends, roommates, classmates; growing to know each other in the dinky bar across the street from their dorms. Tending to hangovers in the morning from an all night rager, or pre-gaming before the biggest events of the year: it's something that trickled down to every so often later in their adulthoods. It's something else Miguel started, surprising you yet again.

So absorbed in their heart-to-heart, time flies by; and late breakfast turns to brunch. You're exchanging phone numbers, and left smiling from lots of little tete-a-tetes, before Miguel tries to drag you to the car. One last goodbye had turned into two, which had turned into four; and then he's grumbling alone in the car for a dire couple of minutes.

You open the door, glowing. Your mood dampens immediately as you sit down; soured by Miguel's own swirling dark cloud. He seems worse than before, somehow. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the air thick with something. Where you would've bit your tongue before, pushed down difficult-to-say words, now, you find a surge of confidence.

"Miguel," You start, and he turns; key still in the ignition.

You look around at the parking lot, mostly empty, except for you two.

"Can we talk?"

"...sure." His tone seems anything but sure; which feels like a first, for him.

"About last night."

"Oh." And then he's gone again, eyes flicking around the cab of the car. All of a sudden the mirror needs fixing, and he's fiddling with some buttons on the dash.

You place a hand on his to still him. He doesn't flinch.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He shrugs. You don't believe him.

"Did you like it?"

He pauses, chewing his lip. " Yes ."

You believe that .

"Good." You hum. "I liked it. But you made me feel like shit, too."

He softens. "I did?"

"You did. You only wanted me after you saw me with someone else. After I kissed Jun."

You wait to see if he admits it, and his hand curls into a fist, tight. His grip relaxes, and then his voice comes out in a whisper.

"Y-Yeah… I was jealous." He seems remorseful, at least.

You sigh. "I don't want a relationship with you, or anything. But it made me feel like… an object. A conquest, another notch on your belt because you only want me when you can't have me. It made me feel shitty, Miguel."

"I fucked up," He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wasn't really thinking, chula. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Miguel. I like fucking around with you." You say it with a small smile. "I want… more ."

"Me too." He's smiling back, shy, brushing against you with fingers stretched out.

"That's fine, more than fine. We can do this because I make you feel good, and you make me feel good, and somehow… this works . But we need to keep this," Gently, you push away his hand, gesturing between you both. "...and us separate. My heart can't take the possibility of this blowing up. And… And it's probably going to be me; 'cuz I seem to like getting my heart broken."

You give a watery laugh, but he doesn't laugh with you; instead, boring into your soul with red-brown eyes.

"If we're going to do this, it means I can't kiss you, properly ; it means no cuddling after sex, or staying the night in your bed." It's why you couldn't kiss him before, and you hope he understands. "You can say no… you probably should say no. But that's what I want, right now. And those are my terms."

It takes a moment before he respond, mulling it over, and you barely breath in the interim.

"I want you ." He nods slowly, and then more firmly as he turns the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life, as Miguel turns to you with as best a smile he can manage. Lip cut, hair smattered across his forehead, and thick brows softening; he says, firmly, " Yeah, I'd like that."

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

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #rigor mortis 😼#kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut

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mrsshabana · 1 month

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𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary Working in a morgue, you're used to being surrounded by death. But one night you come face to face with an undead that isn't the norm for your line of work. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, modern au, vampires, blood, violence, corpses ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 2.6k words. Thank you @chibi-absol for helping me develop this idea and motivating me to write something for myself ♡

✧:･ﾟ→ Chapter Two

This isn’t the job you dreamt of having, but it wasn’t bad either. Being a mortuary technician wasn’t on your to-do list, but you were desperate and needed money. Your family owned a funeral home growing up so you weren’t deterred by the idea of working with dead bodies every day.

And hey it had some perks! Sure it was the night shift but at least you got to work alone. Never having to worry about a manager breathing down your neck or co-workers interfering with your work. It was more pleasant than the average person would expect.

You worked for the city, not a private funeral home so most of the time you were preparing bodies for cremation or doing autopsies on suspicious deaths. Most of the bodies that come in are either homeless people or people who have no family members to claim the body. These cases were suspiciously high in your city. But again, it didn’t bother you because this is how you pay your bills.

Today was like any other day, clocking in at 10 pm as usual. Examining your paperwork to see how many bodies you’ll be working with today.

The file at the top of your stack is for a man estimated to be in his mid-twenties. And… that’s it? Usually, your files have more information on them, like the location or date the body was found. But this one has nothing.

“How strange…” you mumble to yourself as you put on your gloves and prepare for an initial examination.

You waste no time getting to work, loading the young man’s body onto the transport cart, wheeling him over to the examination table and gently setting his body atop the cold surface.

The first thing you observe is how his body moves as you transport him, he must have been dead for a while since it appears that rigor mortis has come and gone. Yet his body doesn’t smell? Everything about this case has been peculiar. But it doesn’t stop you from proceeding as usual.

With a deep breath, you carefully unzip the body bag and remove it completely. Putting this young man’s corpse on full display. Right away there are some things you notice. You quickly turn on your recorder, grab his file, and begin filling it out as you examine his bare body.

“The deceased appears to have spots located all throughout his body,” you look closer at the black splotches that are scattered across his skin. “They don’t appear to be wounds, but irregular shaped birthmarks.”

You clear your throat and continue writing and talking, “He has them on his right cheek, bridge of his nose, both sides of the chin, right clavicle, left breast, left and right upper arms, right hip, and on the genitalia. Further investigation may be required to determine if the deceased was born with these marks or if they were caused by illness.”

You usually don’t get very emotional when looking at corpses, but you can’t help but feel sadness when you look at him. He looks to be around your age, it’s sad to think that he died all alone, with no one stepping forward to claim his body. You can’t help but wonder what his story is and how he came to his end.

You make a few more notes about his body, regarding his lithe frame, he was likely malnourished making you think that he was possibly homeless. He also has bags around his eyes, nothing too uncommon or alarming though.

But it is quite strange, his body is as pale as a ghost yet the texture and appearance of his skin seems youthful and alive. Though he is most certainly dead.

You’re about to wrap up your investigation when you notice something peculiar.

“The deceased appears to have… a bite? On his neck?” you say in confusion, leaning forward to get a closer look. You’ve never seen anything like this before.

“He has two prominent indentations on his neck, maybe bitten by an animal. But… the other teeth marks appear human…”

You narrow your eyes and lean in closer.

Suddenly the man’s eyes shoot open and he gasps for air, his chest rising as his lungs are filled with air for the first time in too long. You stumble backward, utterly horrified that your “patient” has just woken up.

Before you can even open your mouth to speak to him, he’s lunging forward and slamming you against the cold concrete floor. His blunt nails turned claws, swipe at you as he hisses and snarls. Baring large fangs as he snaps at you, trying to get closer to you, but you barely manage to hold him back.

Red eyes glare hungrily at you. You don’t know what’s going on but you do know that this is no human, this man is some kind of monster.

“S-Sir! Please calm down!” You beg, but to no avail. The man doesn’t seem to have any thought in his head besides his intent on hurting you.

You feel his strength suddenly increase, black veins visibly popping out on his face and body. He pushes down harder on you, his deadly teeth inching closer to your face. You panic and hold up your forearm to stop him from ripping your face apart.

You may have saved your face, but you sacrificed your arm as his jaws immediately wrap around your flesh and close down with extreme force. But he doesn’t just bite and hold on no, he bites, and bites, and bites again. Until your arm is a bloody mess, skin and muscle hanging from his abuse.

His eyes glow in excitement as your blood touches his tongue.

If you stay here like this it won't take long for him to completely gnaw through your arm. Your body moves on its own, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you muster all of your strength to push him off of you. His body falling backwards causing the back of his head to slam against the bottom of the metal examination table. Momentarily stunning him for a few seconds.

You use that time to quickly grab a bottle of formaldehyde and run to the walk-in freezer.

He grunts and blinks a few times as he regains his composure. After a few seconds, the smell of blood hits his nose and he is ravenously drawn towards it. Blindly running into the freezer, the scent of your fresh wound draws him.

Your back is against the wall beside the entrance, hidden from his immediate view as he enters the walk-in freezer. As soon as he’s inside you smash the bottle of formaldehyde on his face. Holding your breath and squinting your eyes, trying not to allow the toxic fumes to enter your body.

He howls in pain, so animalistically that it almost makes you pity the creature. Immediately he falls to the ground, claws at his burning eyes, and coughs as he breathes in the toxic substance.

While he’s incapacitated you hurriedly slam the door behind him, locking him inside of the freezer.

Your vision is blurry as tears fill your eyes, mostly from the pain in your arm but also from the fumes of the formaldehyde. Your legs feel like jelly as you collapse against the door, breathing heavily, panicking. With shaky movements you examine your body, making sure you didn’t get any of the toxin in your wound. But it appears to have only gotten on your hand and splashed a bit on your shirt.

With wobbly legs you are barely able to force yourself up, quickly running over to the sink to wash your hands. The sounds of the man’s cries echo throughout the morgue. Then everything suddenly goes quiet. So quiet that you can hear your heart pounding.

“I-Is it d-dead…?” You stare wide eyed at the door as the anticipation seems to freeze time.

…

A loud bang echoes through the morgue, shaking the door's hinges, as a large distortion forms on the freezer door. Bang, bang, bang. The creature slams its body against the inside of the door, trying desperately to escape. His strength is shown by how the thick metal door distorts from his efforts. You don’t want to wait around and see if he’s able to escape so you quickly grab your purse and run out of the morgue.

✣ .. ༺♰༻ .. ✣

As soon as you left last night you went to the hospital. You had to get stitches but thankfully you ended up being okay. Though you were so shaken up that you were barely able to tell the nurses about what happened. Of course they’d never believe you, so you just told them that you had been attacked by a large dog.

Physically you weren’t doing too bad, but mentally you were a wreck. A part of you had tried to convince yourself that you had just imagined the whole thing, but you knew deep down that it really happened. No matter how much the thought terrified you, especially when you had to return to the morgue the next night.

At the end of the day you still needed to pay your bills. And you would never forgive yourself if you left this monster for someone else to find and possibly get killed by.

Hesitantly stepping into the morgue once again, it’s eerily quiet.

“I-Is it still here?” You whisper to yourself.

You swallow dryly, walking with trembling feet toward the walk-in freezer. All you can hear is your heart pounding in your chest and the sound of your footsteps.

Slowly, very slowly, you turn the handle of the freezer door. Opening it ever so cautiously.

And there he is. Lying in the fetal position in the corner of the room. His body completely still, pale, and covered in frost.

“Did I… Did I kill it?”

You step closer and he doesn’t move. You even touch his skin, feeling that it’s freezing cold. Maybe you really did freeze him to death.

Looking back at the door you see where he desperately tried to escape. Throwing his body against the door, even clawing at it with his claws. Even though he's a monster you still feel bad for him.

But you know time is not on your side. And this creature has come back from the dead one time, so you know he could do it again. And you can’t leave him in the freezer forever.

So you struggle to grab hold of him and drag him out of the freezer. His body still remains lifeless as he is dragged across the concrete floors and into the examination room.

Now that he’s out of the freezer, what do you do with him? You have no idea if this creature is even killable, and to be frank you want answers. All you can think to do is restrain him to the examination table with leather straps you sometimes use to position corpses. You tie them tightly around his wrists and ankles.

“Ok, that should be good right?” you pant, “Er, maybe not… what if he wakes up and tries to attack me again?”

Really the only logical thought here. He will attack you again.

Last time he seemed to be drawn to your flesh, so maybe you can use that to your advantage. You shouldn’t be doing this but you don’t have any other ideas. So you siphon the blood out of one of the corpses lined up for examination. Siphoning it into a large metal bucket. The blood isn’t fresh but you hope it will be enough to distract him if need be.

Then you place a blanket on his body to cover him up. Partly because he has no clothes on, but also because a part of you feels compassion for him. Something about a cold body begs you to cover it with a blanket. Whether it be man or monster, you can’t ignore your caring nature.

Now all you do is wait. Despite having plenty of work to do, this is more important. And quite frankly you can’t focus on getting any work done with a bloodthirsty monster in your vicinity.

You sit and wait in front of the examination table, watching as his skin dethaws as the minutes pass. Anxiously holding a scalpel in your hand, as if it would be a valid defense against him.

After less than an hour he begins to wake up. His eyes slowly open, looking around the room curiously. Red irises locking on as soon as they land on your form. He glares at you like a predator stares down its prey before it strikes.

He tries to get up, but is stopped by the restraints. You grin, thinking you’ve succeeded. But no, with an effortless tug the leather straps snap and he lunges towards you. Though slowed from being frozen for 24 hours, he’s still surprisingly fast.

“Don’t hurt me! Please!” You plead, holding out the bucket of blood. Hoping that it will be enough to deter him from taking your flesh into his maw.

The scent of exposed blood is too much for him to bear. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Aggressively snatching it from your hands and greedily drinking it. The way in which he gulps down the thick liquid is frenzied and desperate. Like his life depends on it.

The sounds alone are enough to disturb you greatly. You feel stunned as you stand there, watching this savage creature feast in front of you.

In under a minute, the bucket is empty and he’s licking his fingers. Thick maroon dripping down his chin and onto his bare chest. You’ve never seen something so primal before. But it’s oddly beautiful at the same time.

“You…” he croaks, panting as he tries to catch his breath. His voice is deep and carries an inhuman rasp, “Do you… wish to die?”

His face contorts into a scowl as he brings his bloodied hand up to your neck and squeezes tightly. Digging his claws into the flesh of your soft skin.

“P-Please! Don’t ngh- hurt me!” You cry, grabbing his wrist in a pathetic attempt to pry his grip off of your neck.

His red eyes speak of his murderous intent as he seemingly looks into your soul. Eyes redder than blood, pooling with primal hunger.

“Stupid girl,” he growls, opening his mouth. His sharp fangs glistening red from his meal.

“I-I can help you!” you beg desperately. When he seems unfazed by your words you continue, “I can give you blood! Wh-whenever you want! I have tons of it!”

He narrows his eyes at you, and quirks his brow curiously before looking around the room. “You… you work here?” he asks, sounding almost like a normal person.

You nod frantically as his grip around your neck tightens, restricting you from speaking further.

“Fine,” he growls, releasing you from his grasp and throwing you to the floor, “Give me blood whenever I ask and I’ll allow you to live.”

You hunch over on your hands and knees, coughing as you catch your breath. “Y-yes,” you pant, “I can do that, no problem! And I-I won’t tell anyone about you.”

“I know you won’t. You aren’t that stupid,” he snarls, looking down at you with an expression of uncertainty.

You sit there instilled with fear, looking up at this undead creature. Unknowingly making an eternal pact with an unholy force.

Finally, he averts his predatory gaze away from you. Grabbing the blanket you put on him previously and tying it around his waist. And without another word he opens the window and climbs out, disappearing into the night.

And just like that the morgue is silent, almost as if nothing happened. You feel a strange combination of dread and relief wash over you. But you know this isn’t the end.

You get a feeling you’ll be having a visit from the vampire again very soon.

#gyutaro #gyuutarou #gyutaro x reader #gyuutarou x reader #gyutaro x y/n #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #vampire x reader #vampire au #gyutaro shabana

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b33zlebubz · 1 month

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER SIX

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks “Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10TH 2016 NORWAY, 2100 HOURS

"You watch yourself, Riley. Because the next bastard you work under ain't gonna be as forgiving of your attitude."

Was Walker's final biting comment as Simon stood in his office, towering over the other's desk with barely restrained frustration as his hands clench into fists. He was being dismissed—a simple wave of the hand shooing off Simon's entire argument. While normally, he was used to it, but when he knew that he was right—well—it was a different story.

He knew there was only so much he could do to defend you on your behalf. He still had people to answer to, people whose opinions mattered more than his, and he knew that. He could snap at every soldier who sent an unprofessional remark your way but, at the end of the day, if the captain did nothing about them—there was nothing Simon could do, either.

Your situation becomes much clearer over the course of the week as he starts to oversee drills and training. You're struggling, that much is clear. Your strength is lacking despite your rigid commitment to the job and although the torment from your peers spurs you on—your anger is explosive. Fragile. Prone to snapping, as the prick Captain who laughed when some Private tripped you would say. Some humbling from the others would do you some good.

It's clear something happened before you went on leave; something that couldn't be so easily forgotten. He swears he could recognize the signs trauma on anyone, nowadays, and perhaps the reason Simon was suddenly so hellbent on helping was because he saw himself in you.

It took him ages to get back on his feet, after Roba—to fully dig himself out of the metaphorical and physical grave. It took months to convince his handlers that he was fit to re-enlist to begin with, he couldn't imagine how it felt to be back on the field mere months after whatever happened to you—not that he knew what happened at all. And yeah, maybe he was playing favorites. Sue him.

He storms out of Walker's office without another word, and a few days later he's sitting at the bar; checking the time on his watch for what feels like the fifteenth time in twenty minutes.

There's only one pub on the whole base. It's relatively small compared to the ones he grew up with in Manchester; but the energy is the same. Neon signs, grimy countertops, overpriced drinks and Slavic rock on the speakers—it feels almost adjacent to home.

Simon can't remember the last time he was stationed anywhere that was stable enough to have a bar, and he's sure the other soldiers around him probably think the same thing. Still, it's early in the night, early enough that it's still relatively quiet so that you and him could speak in private.

If you show up, that is.

He sits at the very end of the bar, away from other people as his eyes sweep the small, dark building. He swirls a glass of whiskey in his hand, barely touched since he's sat down. It isn't until the very second his watch ticks 2100 hours that the door opens again, and you step in.

It's different seeing you in civvies. It gives Simon a glimpse of what you may be like outside the world of uniform camo and clipped professionalism—winter jacket swishing over a dark, fitted sweater and jeans as you shrug it off upon entering. The bruises on your exposed collar have pretty much fully healed, Simon notes, as your gaze meets his from across the dimly lit room. Your eyes flicker with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint before you cross the area to meet him, and Simon adjusts the jacket on his shoulders.

You slide in beside him with your brow furrowed before you talk in a low voice. "What do you want?"

He smirks a little under his balaclava, smug with the fact that his little idea had worked—without the uniform, you were more open to talk without rank getting in the way. "A conversation."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, you couldn't have done that out on the shooting range?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you have talked?"

Your mouth opens and then shuts again, left without a response. You seem to realize, in that moment, his intentions; getting you somewhere you felt safe speaking. Without the watchful eye of your superiors looming over your shoulder and without the difference in rank to shut you down.

"Thought so," he says, leaning an arm on the bar as he studies your indignant expression. "Legend has it you got into a fight here."

You huff, rolling your eyes as you sit back in your seat. "Walker's been running his mouth, huh?"

"Affirmative," he replies. "But somethin' tells me there's more to you than just insubordination."

A moment passes where you just look at him. Then, your eyes narrow, "you've read my record."

The edge of his lip ticks up in a slight smile, "fantastic observation, Angel."

You scowl at the nickname, and he realizes he likes this—getting a rise out of you. Picking your brain to see what makes you tick. Seeing what buttons he can press to slowly break down your thick wall of discipline, revealing the person underneath.

"Just cut to the chase, will you?" You lean in a little, impatient. "Why am I here? You do realize what this looks like, right?"

That gets a low chuckle out of him. "It looks like a concerned Lieutenant and his rowdy subordinate havin' a discussion, love. That's all."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Over drinks?"

He hums. "Over drinks."

"People are gonna talk, sir."

"People wouldn't dare to," he reasons. "Not about me, and not about you—if you hear me out."

Your tone hardens, stubborn. "I don't need your tutoring."

"'Course you don't," he lifts his mask up to sit on the bridge of his twisted nose. “I’m just curious…”

Not once do your eyes wander to his exposed jaw as he raises his glass to his lips. With his off hand, he gestures to other soldiers across the bar—part of your regiment and just a couple of the many giving you trouble. Your eyes flicker to them as he talks over your shoulder.

"Today; that cunt tripped you," he says quietly, gesturing to the drunk Private at the very end. "Why'd you let 'em?"

He watches your eyes darken on the group of soldiers at the other side of the bar as he drinks, and your hand on the table tightens. You don’t answer, not verbally, and he doesn’t press—watching each small shift in your expression. You swallow thickly.

"I don't know," you answer.

He raises an eyebrow, curious. You're strong—strong enough to win against someone in a fist fight, obviously—so why did you do it?

He wants to ask, wants to pry and figure you out just like another problem that needs solving, but he knows better. So he doesn't.

“They can torment you all they want but as long as they don’t throw the first punch; the fight’s always gonna be your fault.” he tells you lowly, eyes narrowing at you as you chew on the inside of your cheek in thought. He places a hand on your shoulder and you tense, eyes shifting back to him.

“So let them throw the first punch, Angel," he tells you, gaze darkening. "But don't let it land."

His words hang in the air for a moment, your expression resolute. He watches the gears turn in your head; watches you mull over his advice. Watches you study him as deep as you can through the mask and the leather and the cocky bravado.

Then, finally, you ask: "why?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you so interested in my progress?" You press, brushing his hand away. "I'm a complete stranger to you. Never mind a lousy-ass soldier."

"You are far from lousy, Sergeant."

"But I'm not half of what I was, right now."

He hums in agreement. Your question stirs something in him he can't quite explain. He sees himself in you, obviously; sees the potential hidden behind anger and frustration. Looking at your record tainted with bar fights and psych evaluations felt like looking in a mirror, in a lot of ways, and it struck something in him. Something that drew him to you.

But, like most things, he shoves that feeling deep into the back of his mind, tacking his sudden interest in you to the simple fact that he knew you could be better with just a bit of encouragement. Directing that anger of yours into work rather than a feud with your colleagues. His mind wonders, for a moment, what you could've been like before whatever happened to you. Were you just as fiery? Less so? More so?

"'Cause I've been there."

You raise an eyebrow at his answer, "been where?"

"Rock fuckin' bottom," he answers. "There's nothin' else to do but dig your way back up, but it's damn hard to do so on your own…hm?"

For a moment, it looks as if you're about to argue—to deny his accusations. He watches as you realize it's no use, that he's read your file and he watches you chew on your cheek as you glance away; ashamed, maybe.

Then, after a moment, you nod.

"Maybe…" you sigh, rubbing the side of your neck sheepishly. "Maybe I could use the extra help, yeah."

He hums. Satisfied, he sits back again, dropping the subject for now now that you've agreed. Instead, he picks up his glass and downs the rest of it before turning back to you.

"Good," he says. "Now what can I get you to drink?"

@crazy-phan-girl13

#simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #cod ghost #simon riley

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