#even my downtown during my shift tomorrow with be FILLED with activity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

f0xwrite · 5 years

Note

for the stricklake prompts - hot cocoa date downtown?

Barbara bundled herself against a heavy breeze coming in off the mountains, scarf flowing like a blue banner behind her steps. The morning radio had warned of a rare “Canadian Clipper” that was to drift from the Pacific into Arcadia Oaks, and as predicted, the temperature had dropped from balmy to bracing within the span of hours. Despite donning a coat, she found herself shivering against the sudden chill, closing her eyes until the blast ran its course. Walter, at first, had prompted that they stay indoors at their usual cafe, but the small space and crowded line dissuaded the notion. With barely over an hour before her shift, there had been no time to wait.

“I’ve another old haunt around the corner,” He’d suggested, green eyes glimmering like snow-frosted blades of grass. “They’re not so good at tea, but they’ve hot chocolate like you’ve never known. It’s just a shack, however. No seating.”

Trepidation loomed in his voice as he eyed her reddened nose and cheeks, but it had been a week wince they’d last seen each other, and she was going to be damned before she let the weather get in the way of their tea date.

“Lead the way,” she hooked an arm around his elbow, smiling when his chest puffed as they walked along the sidewalk.

Minutes later, the doctor watched his long legs stride away from the serving window, feet pointed in her direction as he rolled his steps to ensure that no liquid spilled over the edges of the two paper beverage cups he held aloft. Two matching blobs of whipped cream jiggled over the tops, trying earnestly to stay in place.

“So,” he sat down on the edge of the bench, gingerly handing her one of the cups. “Are you ready to try the finest cup of cocoa this side of the Atlantic.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she chortled, “It can’t be that good.

“I’m serious.” He admonished. “The Blackbird Cafe has been in business for some time, and they’ve perfected the art. They use powdered chocolate, not cocoa, and it makes a world of difference.” His voice lingered richly on his words, dipping just so. “You’ll notice the homemade marshmallow cream on top. “It’s an absolute delight.”

“Alright, well. If you’re wrong, you owe me a bubble bath later.”

The sudden thought of her nude form peeking out from beneath the waterline sent all manner of thrills.

“In that case, you’re going to hate it,” he amended.

An elbow to his rib-cage found him chortling alongside her, revelling in a moment that was so very far removed from his other life—his true life.

“Okay, okay.” She said, trying to suppress giggles as her lips journeyed towards the rim.

“Do take care.” Walter warned from her periphery. “It’s quite hot.”

“You or the cocoa?

“Hmm?” he intoned, half-distracted with his own cup before he caught the coyness in her eyes.

She made a sizzling “Tcssssh ” sound as she pressed a finger to his forearm.

“That was awful, Barbara”

“Woo,” she sucked her finger, feigning pain, “I might have to check into the burn unit when I get to work.”

“You’ll have to have a proper sizzle, first.”

“Oh, will I?” She raised a brow, to which he laughed.

Revenge came with the glint in his eyes, and the tilt of a challenging smirk.

She merely sipped her chocolate, tongue darting out to catch any lingering cream. “Mmmmmm,” she intoned, voice lingering richly on the note, to which he nearly dropped his cup. When their eyes met again, his pupils were blown.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, attempting nonchalance, “how does it rate?”

“Barring any sentimental attachment I have towards Jim’s recipe? Pretty darn good. It’s not tooth-achingly sweet, and the marshmallowis amazing. We’ve always used the store bought puffs.”

“Those have their place. You can’t exactly roast this off of a bonfire.” He sipped his cocoa, and then smiled down at her. “Do you know I once ate an entire bag?”

“No way, Mr. Fancy-pants.” She shook her head, leaning her shoulder against his. “Next you’re going to tell me you eat frosted cereal.”

It was all sport.” he carried on, “part of a pep rally. What they didn’t know was that I was part t-” Confound it! “Uh—troglodyte.”

She raised a brow, “Err, well I bet Jim would have laughed his socks off at that one.”

“He did. It was during his first year. I believe I gained his respect that day.”

With the words, his face went sour, memories surfacing of that troubled creature near the edge of his classroom, scrawny and unnaturally kind. Those days, he’s wanted so badly to levy the child’s worries, and had even taken a proactive role in filling the gaps a deadbeat father had left. Now, in the end, Atlas only carried more weight.

“Hey,” her voice cut through him. A small hand found his shoulder. “We’ll get there again, okay?”

Finding the hand, he brought it to his lips.

“Let’s hope, love.”

A strand of silence found them smiling at each other. She sat back and nursed her drink.

“This is definitely taking the edge off the chill,” she said, just as the frigid fingers of a draft swept by. She curled into herself, trying with one hand to tug length out of a scarf that had already reached its maximum amount of wraps while balancing her cup with the other. ”Okay, I spoke too soon,” a hand shoved itself into her armpit. “How is it you’re only wearing one jacket?”

“A cold heart doesn’t require much heat.”

“Walt, seriously,” she narrowed her gaze, the doctor shining through. “You’re going to freeze.”

He pecked her on the cheek. “You’ve been in California too long, darling.”

“Walter” Her pout sparked laughter, and he suppressed the urge to kiss the wrinkles it made around her nose.

“Here,” he spread one side of his jacket open, wrapping both it and his arm around her. The proof was in the pudding. “You’ll find that I am plenty warm.”

“What are you, part furnace?” Her arm came around his waist, sending shivers up his spine. They amused themselves with watching the passers-by, as well as a stray blackbird that seemed intent on chirping at them from the ground.

“We must be near her nest.” Barbara yawned languidly from somewhere near his armpit when it wouldn’t be shooed away. It fluttered off for a moment, only to return to lay a berry at her feet. Two more rounds saw a stick and a feather joining the display, before it resumed its chirping.

“Strange,” Walter tried again to shoo the creature with his foot, reluctant to move from their cozy roost.

“I see where the cafe gets its name,” she said as her own foot joined his. “Go on, birdie,” Again, it flew off; this time not to return.

“All creatures listen to you.” His voice was low, speculative.

“Except teenagers.” The feeling of her forehead nuzzling against his chest sent sparks. Lazily, she sat up and downed the dredges of her cocoa. Then, grabbing his wrist, she checked his watch. “Ugh, I thought so.”

“Never enough time,” he admonished.

She puffed her cheeks in frustration, but then looked up at him, eyes alight with the spark of some thought.

“Hey,” she pointed to her upper lip, “You have some marshmallow.”

His tongue darted out to save the day. “Gone?”

“Not yet,” she bit her lip.

Next, his sleeve had a go. “What about now?”

Her red hair shook. “Here, let me.” Without warning she slid her mouth against his.

The changeling’s moan of surprise melted quickly into delight. A blast of air swept past, whipping her red locks out of their moorings to mix with his salt-and-pepper strands. It drew them closer, and he grasped her jaw to deepen the kiss.

Without checking her handiwork, she withdrew and smiled. “Got it.”

He huffed in exasperation, though his traitor mouth tugged upward. “Was there even anything there in the first place?”

“Was there?” She raised her brow coquettishly.

“What a rascal.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

She laughed, bell-like, as he brushed his nose against hers. Settling in to steal another kiss.

Click, came a sound from somewhere close, click

“Ha!” came a sound from behind the bush, “That little butt-snack is gonna pass out when he sees this! Oh, yeah, Steve. Who’s the man?”

With the force of a provoked tiger, Walter spun around, eyes threatening to start wildfires as he scanned for the imp whose voice he recognized. Surely, the teen wasn’t this idiotic. Surely, there was homework to do. Surely, any number of activities sparked more interest than peeping on one’s principal. Surreptitiously, what was left of Walter’s cocoa found its way onto his pants. He squeaked.

“Oh!” the doctor shouted. “Oh! Are you burnt?”

As if the warm liquid trickling down his manhood wasn’t enough; enter Barbara dabbling at his trousers.

Walter rose with a yelp, dashing away from the hand before assumptions could be drawn, and then spun around to face his perpetrator with an unholy scowl. “Mr. Palchuck,” he crossed his arms, though it was difficult to look intimidating with splashes of cocoa on his trousers. “Are you spying on me?”

“Oh no, dude,” Steve failed to hide his snickering. “Uh, Sir, I mean, principal. I was totally not spying on you.”

“Then what are you doing?” His finger tapped against his elbow.

“Uh, duh. I was spying on Jim’s mom! Dude, he’s like, my arch-nemesis, and he’s such a mama’s-boy. What better way to get at him than by doing it through his mom?”Walter opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. Could he really scold this boy for committing the same crime. He shared a glance with Barbara before he shut his eyes to hide their glow. The Janus Order was different. There were lives at stake–his bretheren’s lives. This was simple adolescent bullying; an entirely different venue. Entirely, he thought, despondent.

“This is absolutely inappropriate and uncalled for!” He finally growled, pointing in emphasis. “After school tomorrow, detention. I’ll be stopping by for a little chat.”

“Hey, you can’t do that!” The boy whined, eyes desperate. “I’m not even at school!”

“Oh, yes I can.” The cold breeze running against his trousers did nothing to stave his annoyance. “Now hand me that phone.”

Steve tucked his phone behind his back. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“You took pictures of us. You’re bullying Jim! I think you’ve done quite a bit.”

“What do you care?” The boy sniffed indignantly. “Lake doesn’t like you anyways. In fact, as amazing as it sounds, I think he hates you even more than he hates me.” He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. “Which is, as I said, amazing. I saw it myself when we were in your office.”

“Again? Barbara blinked, taken aback, and then palmed her forehead. “Ugh.”

“The bodily function jokes, Barbara.” Walter clarified before protests mounted. “We discussed it.”

“Oh, right.” She said, shoulders unclenching.

“Phone.” Walter opened his palm to the boy, jaw clenching. “Now.”

The boy crossed his arms, turning to the side with a dramatic flair. “Make me, old man.”

“Hey!” Barbara shouted before Walter could boil over. “Okay, okay, calm down.” She placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Steve, isn’t it?” Her blue gaze found the boy’s. “Yeah, sweetheart, come here for a second so we don’t violate any HIPPA laws.”

She led the teenager a few paces away; out of earshot by human standards. Walter, of course, wasn’t human. “Remember that time a couple of weeks ago,” he overheard her, “when you came into the clinic because you’d eaten too many beets and didn’t realize what it did to your poop. I let you out without writing up a chart, or billing anything, and we even agreed that your mom didn’t have to know about it because it wasn’t a concern.” “Now, I did you a big favor that night, and now I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor now by letting me delete those photos. Will you do that for me?”

His eyes darted to Strickler and back, then his shoulders sunk.

“Sure,” Steve handed her the phone.

All creatures Walter thought.

“Thank you,” she fiddled with the phone for a few moments before handing it back. “There, now I’m sure Walt-uh Principal Strickler will be glad to forget giving you detention tomorrow as long as you promise not to do it again.”

“Really?” he lit up.

She looked to Walter, who heaved a sigh. “Fine, but I expect you in my office before school starts tomorrow. We’re going to set up a meeting with your guidance counselor. I’ve a feeling I know why you’ve been acting out even more than usual.”

“Okay, Mr. Strickler.” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Try to stay out of my ER, okay, kid?”

“Yeah, no promises,” he grinned, and then strode away.

“Guidance counselor?” She asked as they both watched the teen disappear into the throng of buildings.

“Ah, well,” the changeling finally felt his muscles relaxing. “Jim isn’t the only one who’s been slighted a good father. Unfortunately, Mr. Palchuck is still dealing with his. He and Jim have more in common than they realize. Each sees traces of himself in the other, even if it is subconscious. Jim is sympathetic, while Steve resents.” He looked down at her, the corner of his lip tugging skywards. “I’m impressed, you know. You have such a way with others, and you handled that far better than I did.”

“Well, I had selfish motives,” she pulled out her phone before sitting on the bench. He followed.

Pulling up her photo gallery, she scrolled through the pictures. “I took a moment to send them to myself before destroying all the evidence.”

“Have you considered a career in espionage?”

“Nope,” she said, placing a kiss onto his neck before settling back against him, “I get enough excitement in the ER.” She continued to scroll. “These are cute. Ha! It must have caught the reflection in your eye in this one. You look possessed.”

Green eyes looked down to the yellow ones on the screen, and he cursed himself for his lack of control. What, precisely, did he intend to do if he ever slipped entirely? Protocol demanded that he take her life but that was…out of the question. Would he imprison her, threaten her, resort to blackmail, do any number of things he done to any number of innocents in the past.

Shifting to look at her, Walter noted the blue gaze full of weariness, that unassuming smile, this ragged creature whose existence demanded only that he commit the most heinous crime a changeling could commit.

He shifted uncomfortably.

“You okay?” her soft voice rose past a swallow.

“Yes,” his nose was running against the cold, and he wiped it crudely with his sleeve, dredging his mind for an excuse. “Wet trousers are dreadful things.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” She looped her scarf around his neck, pulling him closer. I know exactly how to treat those.”

“After work, then?” He squeezed her hip.

“Yeah,” her smile went lopsided, “but…here.” Gently, she grasped his jaw and guided it towards her own. “Just a small dose to get you through.”

“Tcssssh,” he hissed when their noses bumped together, delighting in her laugh. And as their tongues met, he forgot why he was ever disturbed.

***

Also read/comment here:

Hot Chocolate - FoxLight - Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro [Archive of Our Own]

#trollhunters #stricklake #Barbara Lake #Walter Strickler #Steve Palchuck #askbox #requests #tales of arcadia

30 notes · View notes

hoopdiddies · 5 years

Text

Rashes (J. D imagine)

A/N: I've added a few touches since I got carried away by the fluff @deakysgurl! Thanks for the request! I hope it's good enough.

14 +49. Road accidents + when they're injured

Warnings: Just mentions of a road accident and some rashes and a bucket load of fluff

Word count : 2k+

Xx Masterlist xX

Here you are, out in the terrace enjoying an egg sandwich in the middle of a heavy, evening downpour– something you ought to question yourself later on. After popping what's left of the sandwich in your mouth, you dust your hands together and make your way back into your room, coming to hear five frantic knocks echo from the front door.

Who could that be in this hour?

"Y/N! Y/N!"

"Please open up! It's us!"

The familiarity of those calls gets you rushing down the steps leading to the door and you hurriedly grapple the knob, swinging the door open to the lads dripping wet from running from the other side of the road in the misty storm with their arms draped around John who appears to be in an utterly bad shape.

"Boys! What happened? Thought you were doing a gig," You assist them in settling John down on one of the couches, paying no mind to the wet mess their soaked clothes are leaving on the tiled floor– and certainly on the couch.

You immediately go by John's side and kneel to check what went wrong. Nothing afflicting his head, that's swell considering the dangers that would have caused him although he's got his forearm and leg wrapped in dressings, hinting that they might have taken him to a hospital to get treated prior to parking at yours.

"He's got nasty road rashes– one running from the side of his left forearm down to the point of his elbow and the other from his knee down to the middle of his leg." Replies Brian who's got his arms crossed at the unfortunate events.

"What happened out there?"

"Motorbike accident. Right after the gig, he rode downtown on one of the sound engineers' bikes to fetch a few parts to fix two of his amps," he kneels down beside you and you tell Freddie and Roger to fetch the first aid kit from one of the cupboards, feeling John's temperature rise with your hand on his moist forehead– he's getting a fever from the rain.

"And?" You get up and settle down beside John, wiping his face free of sweat, combing his damp hair back to calm him down.

"A sudden halt. A man ran recklessly down the pedestrian and caused James to swerve. "

"Bastard," You mutter irritatingly and ask John how he's feeling. So far he's only shaken his head which gives away the obvious. Freddie and Roger return promptly with the kit, a damp cloth and a glass of lukewarm water to ease some heat into John's shivering body.

"Deaky, you'll be fine." Freddie coaxes softly in his ear to alleviate him of his current uneasiness, accidentally nudging his afflicted arm and earning a quick grunt from John. You tell the boys to dry themselves in the bathroom while you take care of him from there.

Some time later after letting him take an antipyretic to reduce his fever and mopping the slippery floor, John insists that the boys go ahead as they have a hectic studio session to push through tomorrow. You've assured them that you'll take care of him and they leave him under your unrelenting watch to which, of course, John cocks a slick eyebrow at in amusement.

Since he's feeling quite under the weather, you'll have to conjure up an activity to keep yourselves entertained through the evening deluge as the night is barely young and neither of you can sleep.

"Want to watch a film?" You crouch carefully between his legs, your elbows propped up on either of his thighs.

"And a cup of tea too, love." He smiles and you rise up to kiss him chastely before heading to the kitchen heat up the kettle.

Halfway through having it whistle, a clap of thunder followed by a power outage seizes all your chances of going through a movie night and you hear John scream briefly from the living room at the sudden spread of darkness.

He's always been that jumpy– and it cracks you up in the slightest.

The kettle whistles and you grab a lamp from under the sink to light up your space as you make John a cup, figuring it would be a hassle if you'd include one for you.

Speed walking to the living room with the lit lamp and his cup in your hands, you worry that he might've jerked his leg and disturbed the wound, rushing to him hastily and panting upon stepping foot into the space.

"John, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Lifting up the lamp to shed some light on him, you find him hugging a throw pillow with his head down, nodding.

He's so vulnerable like this and his position just craves for your hold. A tender smile forms on your lips as you position the lamp next to the couch and the cup on the coffee table within arm's reach.

"I didn't startle you with my fiendish screech, did I?" He looks up at you bashfully through his fluttering lashes, the light spilling from the lamp emphasizing the build of his nose and the refined curves of his lips.

Albeit a little frightened, his soft features outstands the weak shadows cast by them against the low light; giving him a delicate yet fascinatingly heartwarming image that just thaws your heart from the bottom up.

You shake your head and take the space next to him crossing your legs and weaving your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles. "Nothing's ever fiendish with you, Deaks."

He turns his head to you and smiles back, his lips pressed firm together almost in a pout. "Hmm, thank you for taking care of me. I'm sorry that I had to come home like this. We would've had an easier night, you and me. Don't worry though, a few days and I'll be able to get back out there."

"I'm sure you will and don't be sorry, the important thing is that you're home to spend this gloomy, powerless night with. Besides," you shift in your space and turn your body towards him, the distance between your faces sealing, "despite your rashes, I could use some body heat."

As tempted as you are to do some things with him that don't involve making him scream out bloody murder at the nudge of his dressed rashes, the corner of his lips rise and he shifts closer to you, planting a long kiss on your lips. You giggle into it as he begins chewing on your bottom lip and tugging playfully on it, his hands creeping their way to the back of your neck to draw you in deeper.

"Mmm, John- baby, not tonight. You're badly hurt and with a growing fever." You remind him as you pull away but not far enough to not feel his hot breath fan against your lips.

"You said you needed some body heat."

Your throw your head back in a giggle. "Not in that manner, silly. I'd love to but I don't wanna add to your injuries."

He pouts and his eyes narrow to lazy slits, sighing in defeat. "You're the best kind of medicine for me."

You cock a brow at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, lover boy. We could go for a quick round but for now," you rest your head carefully on his lap and gaze up at him from that angle, his eyes gleaming in a pale glow against the low light as he peers down at you, his hand tangling itself in your hair, "why don't you sing us a little song to lighten the mood?"

Knowing very well that doing so was never his strong suit, he gives you an implying look yet you softly encourage him to go for it– with you being the only one who's going to enjoy the first-hand privilege. You know he can sing, he just doesn't have the confidence to push it out of him. His talking voice is already soothing, how much more if it were his singing voice?

"Y/N, come on. You know I can't-"

"John."

"But I have a fever, as you said."

"You do but you sound fine. When did an injury ever stop you from playing bass?" And you're definitely referring to the time he stuck his hand through a glass window drunk and had to get a few stitches afterwards. He stares down at you as he contemplates on it, drawing a deep breath in to start.

"Tonight the darkness seems so deep and silent stars watch as we sleep. The drifter cross the sky, never stop to wonder why," he has his eyes shut during the first line but as he goes on, his eyes open to you in awe at the sound of him finally singing.

"Million eyes could never weep, she lies dreaming like a child. Here beside me all the while. She'll just dream away, until the break of day and gently wake me with a smile." The touch of his warm palm against your cheek as he loses himself in your eyes as he sings sends you up high in cloud nine. Here you are, hearing his mellifluous singing cut through the sound of the harsh storm, unable to believe that this man is actually yours.

"She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. She brings down and takes me high. She fills my life and makes it real. No matter what she does, she makes me feel." And you are his. The air hangs thin between you both as he swallows upon finishing, just anticipating for your reaction. "Y/N?"

With no words to describe what he's made you feel all over again with his singing, you lift your head up to meet his lips and hook your arms around his neck to haul him in deeper. His skin flushed against yours feels heated, literally and it could be from his high body temperature. He whimpers into your mouth and shuts his eyes as he adjusts himself gingerly to feel you better while avoiding grazing his afflicted arm and leg against a surface.

You break away slowly with barely any breaths slowed down, his smile further radiating as he caresses your cheek lovingly through the temporary darkness enveloping you. "You make me feel."

"God, John... I love you so much."

"I love you too, Y/N."

"And I promise, the mark of your singing will remain sacred in this house." You put your hand up as a sign of swearing and he chuckles softly, brushing his thumb delicately over your cheek. "I honestly sound better when I'm looking at you. You really are my best medicine."

With his attention firmly set on you for the night, there's no way in the world he's going to touch the now cooling tea on the coffee table.

#queen #borhap #john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon imagine

56 notes · View notes

schwiftit-blog · 6 years

Note

Hiiiiiiii! I was wondering if you could do an image where Rick finds out the reader has depression/suicidal thoughts. Thank you!

Major trigger warning for suicidal contemplation, “casual” suicidal thoughts, and over all harsh topics. This fic is pretty long too, so hopefully its still what you were looking for. Enjoy and thanks for the request!!

>>>

You’re what the kids are dubbing now as casually suicidal. Well, more specifically you were depressed with casual suicidal thoughts. You couldn’t believe the term when you googled your symptoms: The constant just do it, you can end it right now paired with the delicate why not? why not just jump off the edge, put your hand on the burner, throw yourself out the car, grab the knife, slice––

These intrusive thoughts would be less worrying if they came at appropriate times. They surfaced after a normal day, while you ate dinner, or when you were driving. They popped out during the most normal of times and that was when you realized you were beginning to normalize them. They were as part of everyday life as was brushing your teeth or even sleeping.

And somehow, you always managed to ignore these…Urges. These babbling, compulsive thoughts that, at the time, don’t seem too abnormal. Until you start scrawling down how many of these particular thoughts you’re having a day.

The journal is worn out, something you snagged from the discount bookstore from downtown. The front and back are an mottled light brown. There’s a small drawstring that slips around it so you can tie it up. There was no spiral spine, the paper a bit thicker than printer. It fit in the palm of your hand, almost mimicking the small size of a planner. The journal was a few bucks, a cheap steal really. You picked a blue ballpoint pen to go along with it and thus began your journey of journal keeping.

If you just ended it now, you won’t have to deal with traffic ever again. 2

Why not just do it to…Do it? 1

Each time you had one of these thoughts, you would quickly jot it down when you had the chance. Next to it, you’d rate the level of motivated you felt to actually commit the action. Most of these thoughts stayed within the 1-4 range of “seriousness”. However, some days the thoughts were blunter, harsher, and you found yourself jotting down a 7 or an 8. Never had you had a 9 or 10 thankfully.

Once you began filling pages with these thoughts, you realized just how in deep you were.

Somewhere along the line you decided telling Rick about these thoughts would be a Very Bad Idea and therefore, plan Very Bad Idea was marked off the list of “things to do about this issue”. You knew you needed to take action, to be properly diagnosed, you even had the journal to show you were actively taking part in recognizing these thoughts.

However, at some point, the journal became something too personal to ever share with anyone and so, began the real mission: Keep the Journal from Rick.

Rick Sanchez was an extremely nosy person, for that you were certain. The genius was not only a master of deduction, but also a mastermind at observing the little signal people shared about their lives. So, it is when you are sitting in your apartment, knees curled up to your chest and journal out, that Rick of course decides to portal in. Unannounced.

Completely unannounced.

You scramble to throw the book under your covers, but before you can Rick is stumbling forward with his flask in hand and coat whipping wildly behind him whilst the portal shrinks away. You know you look a deer in headlights and Rick decides to just––

“S-Shit babe, you seen a ghost or what?” He asks, words slurring and feet unstable. He collapses on the bed, face in your lap and long limbs dangling off the edge of your bed. He kicks off his shoes with squirming difficulty, a sure sign he plans to stay a while and bug you. Probably even sleep over if he’s drunk enough to pass out.

Do drunk comas count as sleepovers? You’d like to think so.

The book is plastered to Rick’s cheek and somehow he is still unaware of it, or rather simply, he probably doesn’t care. With a calm motion you run your fingers through his hair and hope you can slip it from his face and slide it to the edge of the bed.

Operation: Out of Sight, Out of Mind is a go.

Your fingers graze the edge of the pages.

“No, but I am seeing sorosis right in my lap.” You counter, tugging not even an inch of the book out.

He shifts.

“Oh, one of those moods, huh ba-babe?” Rick rolls his eyes, then meets yours with a drunken grin spattering his face. “I know just how to fix that up.”

Long fingers begin to scour your stomach, lightly leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You squirm, unable to move due to the journal and Rick’s weight on you. He sits up a touch, craning his neck to press a kiss, then a bit to your lower abdomen. You suck in a harsh breath before he sits up and––

The pages stick to his cheek and then plop onto the sheets. Rick’s eyes land on it and you know its downhill from there. In half a heartbeat the mood in the room shifts from sexually-tense to stressfully-tense. Rick reads over the words, the numbers, feeling the thickness of the filled out pages.

“What is––What the fuck is this shit?” He asks you, half serious, half kidding. Like he thinks this is maybe a college project or perhaps a coding system for one of your other more obscure hobbies.

“Its, uh, well I mean…” Your hand goes to your neck and that is a definite sign to Rick that this is what it looks like.

“What do the numbers mean.” It isn’t a question, but rather a demand. The words grinding out and, most alarmingly, without a stutter.

You hang your head in shame for a moment, eyes not daring meet Rick’s again. “How…Close I got to trying out whatever thought…I had?” The words get stuck coming out, but they eventually do.

Rick’s quiet and you hear the constant flip of pages before a bony hand is lifting your chin. The grip is firm and near painful leaving you no choice but to look up. This was turning out to be just as painful as you thought it would be.

“Op-Open up,” Rick mumbles, his other hand grabbing something you can’t see. Cool metal is pressed to your lips a second later and not too long after that the searing burn of whiskey is choking you. You take the drink in stride for a moment before sputtering, residual alcohol slipping down your chin and your sinuses on fucking fire. “Thats it…G-Good girl, alright, alright, enough. I can’t take your sniffling, its just a-alcohol. Sheesh.”

You sat with your back against the wall, your hands fisting the sheets while you waited for Rick’s next move. Already you could feel the liquor in your toes and the warmth was spreading from your chest.

“I’m not gonna––There’s no magic lesson here, alright?” He leans back on one hand, drinking more from his flask with the other. Drool settles on his chin and you watch it as he leans forward and points at your chest. His finger just continues on until it is jabbing you right where you think he thinks your heart is. Rick is only a little off, to cut the guy some slack at least.

“But you can’t be––Y-You can’t obsess over this shit. People, their brains, trust me. Sometimes they’re fucking just not working, you know? And we have––There is t-this whole fucking universe spanning around us, and yet…W-W-We have thoughts against ourselves like that.” Rick was becoming slightly more animated as he spoke, beginning with gestures and eventually shifting so he was in your personal space.

You nod for lack of words to say, your shoulders slowly losing their tension.

“And the fucking benefit to it all is b-babe, you’re with Rick Sanchez!” He finishes off, like it makes any sense. “Y-You wanna ge-get these feelings out of your system? W-W-Well we can. We fucking can and with no fucking repercussions because I just want to give that big ol’ fuck you to the universe. Loopholes bitch, now th-thats what we’re all about.”

“I don’t…Understand?” You ask, voice apprehensive.

“Tonight, we’re gonna lay low. Eat that pussy, get you all boneless and relaxed. Tomorrow we’re g-going to head out to one of my favorite spots along the galaxy. You’ll see. Trust me.”

And you do, because if Rick was good at one thing, it was earning people’s trust.

“Now here, t-t-the only real cure for this shit is liquor so…Drink up.”

#rick sanchez / reader #rick x reader #rick and morty #rick sanchez #myfic #superwhoteen #this is not proofread sorry!!!!

50 notes · View notes