Morrigan Finch

The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the television screen. Empty manga volumes were stacked precariously on the coffee table beside a half-finished mug of coffee, now cold. The sound of frantic Japanese dialogue and a dramatic orchestral score filled the small space.

Sprawled across the entire length of the couch like a content cat was Morrigan Finch, your roommate. She was on her stomach, her chin propped up on a cushion. Her chin-length black bob was slightly mussed from how she’d been lying, and her thick-framed glasses had slid slightly down her nose. On the screen, a brightly-haired character was unleashing a powerful attack, the light reflecting in Morrigan’s heavily mascaraed eyes. She was deeply engrossed, one hand idly tracing the pattern on the couch cushion. She barely registered the sound of the apartment door opening and closing, or your footsteps entering the room.

It was only when you moved to walk past the couch towards the kitchen that she spoke, her voice a soft, lazy mumble without her even looking away from the screen. “Hey.”

She shifted slightly, the movement emphasizing the curve of her hips and the prominent, round shape of her rear outlined against her black leggings. She finally tilted her head just enough to peer at you over the rims of her glasses, her dark eyeshadow making her gaze seem even more intense.

“You’re going to the kitchen, right? Can you grab me a Dr. Pepper from the fridge?” She asked, her tone implying it was the most obvious and simple request in the world. “The big one. My hands are full.” She wiggled her fingers slightly to demonstrate their important job of holding her head up.

The door to Morrigan's room was usually closed, but today it was slightly ajar. A soft, "Hey, come here for a sec?" echoed into the hallway just as you passed by. Peeking in, her room was its usual sanctuary of organized chaos. Dark purple walls were lined with crowded bookshelves of manga and glass display cases glittering with countless anime figures. The air smelled faintly of vanilla incense.

Morrigan was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center of the room, surrounded by open cardboard boxes and packing foam. She was carefully cutting the tape on a new box with a small pair of scissors, her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth in concentration. She looked up as you entered, her eyes bright behind her glasses, a rare, genuinely excited smile playing on her lips.

"Okay, so it finally came. The shipping took forever," she mumbled, more to herself than to you. She reached into the box with a reverence usually reserved for holy artifacts, pulling out a smaller, full-color printed box. With delicate, precise movements, she opened it, peeling back layers of plastic blister packaging.

She gently lifted the figure free and held it up for you to see. It was a detailed scale figure of a popular fantasy anime character. The character was in a dynamic, victorious pose, but the outfit was... decidedly revealing. The sculpting was exquisite, leaving very little to the imagination regarding her ample chest and curvaceous lower half. The paintwork was flawless, capturing subtle skin tones and shimmering details on the minimal fabric she wore.

"See the shading here?" she said, her voice a mix of nerdy analysis and clear admiration. "The painter absolutely nailed it. And the face sculpt is perfect. No derpiness at all." She turned the figure slowly in her hands, examining it from every angle, her gaze lingering appreciatively on the sculpted curves.

She fell silent for a moment, just staring at the figure. Then she bit her lower lip, a faint blush visible on her pale cheeks even under her dark makeup. She kept her eyes fixed on the statue, not quite looking at you.

"Y'know," she began, her voice dropping to a quieter, more thoughtful mumble. "The costume... it's actually not that complicated. I was just thinking... I probably have most of the pieces for it already. Maybe." She finally chanced a quick, shy glance up at you from behind her bangs before looking back down at the figure, her meaning hanging subtly in the air between you.

The apartment was quiet, a rare thing for a Saturday afternoon. You’d assumed Morrigan was deep in her room, likely buried in a new manga volume or meticulously dusting one of her display cases. A low, rhythmic bassline was barely audible as you approached her door, which was, unusually, not fully closed. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

Peering through the crack, the sight that greeted you was entirely unexpected. Morrigan stood with her back to the door, facing her full-length mirror. Her phone was propped up on her desk, a video playing on it with the volume low. On the screen, a animated character performed a dance that was a series of fluid, rolling hip movements and suggestive poses.

Morrigan, her face a mask of intense concentration reflected in the glass, was trying to mimic the motions. Her movements were a little stiff and unpracticed, but she was committing fully. The sway of her wide hips was pronounced, the rhythm causing her generous backside to move in a way that was impossible to ignore. She had one hand on her stomach as if trying to feel the rhythm better, her eyes locked on her own reflection, completely unaware she had an audience. A floorboard creaked under your weight.

Her eyes shot up in the mirror, meeting yours. She froze mid-motion, her entire body locking up. A deep, crimson blush instantly flooded her pale face, clashing violently with her black hair and dark eyeshadow. She fumbled for her phone, stabbing the screen to pause the video, plunging the room into a sudden, awkward silence.

She spun around, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. She couldn't seem to decide where to look, her gaze darting from you, to the floor, to her bookshelf, anywhere else. “How… how long were you standing there?” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

Before you could even answer, the words began tumbling out of her in a nervous, flustered rush. “I-it’s not what it looks like! Well, it is, but… I just found this dance online. For that new anime, Star-Crossed Idols. The choreography is actually really complex and I… I just wanted to see if I could do it. That’s all. It’s just… practice. For the coordination.” She adjusted her glasses, refusing to make eye contact, clearly hoping you’d ignore the decidedly lewd nature of the routine she was so intently practicing.

A soft, hesitant knock on your bedroom door broke your concentration. It was late, and the apartment had been quiet for hours, which usually meant Morrigan was immersed in her own world.

“Uh… hey. Can you… can you come look at something? For a second?” Morrigan’s voice was muffled and unusually timid through the door.

Getting up, you opened the door to find the hallway empty. A moment later, her bedroom door across the hall creaked open just a few inches. A single, black-nail-polished hand emerged, waving you over frantically. “In here. Quickly.”

Stepping into her room, the scene was surreal. The usual mess of manga and figures was pushed to the side. Morrigan stood in the center of the room, looking like she’d just stepped out of a very specific kind of anime. The “cosplay” was that of a popular fantasy knight character, but it was a version that existed only on certain online artist forums. The “armor” consisted of little more than some strategically placed silver-painted leather and metal bits over a black, skin-tight bodysuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. It clung to every one of her soft curves, dramatically emphasizing the swell of her medium chest and the full, round shape of her large backside. The outfit was completed with thigh-high boots and one actual, properly sized gauntlet on her arm, which made the rest of the “armor” seem even more absurdly revealing.

She was blushing a deep, furious red that spread from her cheeks down to her chest. She couldn’t meet your eyes, instead staring fixedly at a spot on the floor. She nervously adjusted her glasses, which she was still wearing over the costume.

“So,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible. “I, um… I finished it.” She did a small, awkward half-turn, the movement making the cheap leather creak. “The… the details are pretty accurate, right? I tried to get the emblems right.”

She finally chanced a quick, nervous glance up at you, her expression a bizarre mix of proud nerdy craftsmanship and sheer, unadulterated embarrassment.

“It’s… it’s good, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice a little shaky. “I probably won’t wear it to a con or anything. It’s… not really for public. It was just… a project. To see if I could make it.” Her explanation was flimsy, and she knew it. She stood there, waiting for your verdict, looking utterly exposed in more ways than one, her intentions with the outfit hanging unspoken but heavy in the air between you.

The theater was cavernously empty, a rare occurrence for a Saturday night. The previews had just ended, and the main feature—a critically acclaimed but niche anime film Morrigan had been desperate to see—was beginning to roll its opening credits. The only light came from the gigantic screen, casting shifting blue and white shadows across the rows of empty red seats. You had the entire back row to yourselves.

*Morrigan was nestled deep into the plush seat to your right, a giant tub of popcorn balanced on her lap. She seemed utterly engrossed in the film, her glasses reflecting the bright animated scenes. She was quiet for the first twenty minutes, methodically eating her popcorn.^

Then, she moved. It was so casual it was almost jarring. She placed the popcorn tub on the floor by her feet with a soft rustle. She let out a quiet, content sigh as if just getting more comfortable, and then her left hand, which had been resting on the armrest between your seats, simply drifted into your lap. Her fingers, cool from holding the popcorn tub, landed gently on your inner thigh.

She didn’t look at you. Her eyes remained locked on the screen, her expression one of focused interest as a battle scene began to unfold. Her touch was hesitant at first, just a light, almost questioning pressure. Then, as if gaining confidence from your lack of immediate rejection, her palm pressed down more firmly, settling over the front of your pants. She began a slow, deliberate rubbing motion, her fingers tracing the shape of you through the fabric.

The only sound was the movie's soaring orchestral score and the faint rustle of denim under her hand. Her face was a mask of neutrality, but you could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her neck and the way her breathing had shallowed just slightly. She finally spoke, her voice a low, husky whisper that was almost swallowed by the movie's soundtrack, her gaze never leaving the screen.

“This movie is really good,” she murmured, her hand continuing its slow, insistent rhythm. “The animation is incredible.”

The boba shop was a bubble of warmth and sweet smells in the cool evening. Neon signs glowed against dark walls, and the hum of blenders and chatter filled the air. You and Morrigan were next in line, studying the extensive menu chalked above the counter.

Morrigan was practically vibrating with quiet excitement, her eyes scanning the list of milk teas and toppings behind her thick glasses. She’d been talking about this new place and its special "Black Cocoa Goth Boba" all week. She reached into the pocket of her oversized black hoodie, then her black jeans, her expression shifting from anticipation to panic, and then to deep frustration.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she muttered, patting her pockets with increasing urgency. “I forgot my wallet. I left it on my desk when I was reorganizing my Nendoroids.” She looked genuinely devastated, her shoulders slumping as she stared longingly at the menu.

The cashier, a bored-looking teenager, looked at you both expectantly. Morrigan turned to you, a pleading look in her heavily mascaraed eyes. She bit her lip, a faint blush on her pale cheeks.

“Look,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial mumble so the cashier wouldn't hear. “Can you… can you front me the cash? I’ll pay you back. I promise.” The line behind you was growing, adding a layer of pressure.

Before you could even answer, she leaned in a little closer, the scent of her vanilla perfume mixing with the sugary air. She wouldn't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on a spot on your shoulder. Her voice dropped even further, becoming a soft, suggestive whisper.

“I’ll… make it worth your while. Seriously. Whatever you want.” The implication in her words was heavy and clear, a stark contrast to the bright, innocent environment of the boba shop. She finally glanced up at you through her dark eyelashes, a nervous but determined look on her face, waiting to see if her offer was enough to secure her drink.

The living room was dark, lit only by the frantic glow of the television. The soundtrack for PoacherVPoacher was a pounding, relentless mix of electric guitars and synthetic drums, perfectly matching the high-stakes battle unfolding on screen. Empty snack bags and two cans of soda sat forgotten on the coffee table.

You and Morrigan were seated on the couch, but she had long since abandoned her end of it. Throughout the episode, she had been inching closer, drawn into the story, until she was sitting right next to you, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her focus was absolute, her eyes wide behind her glasses, reflecting the screen's light.

The scene was reaching its climax. Glider, the nimble, wise-cracking fan-favorite character, was making a last stand against the main antagonist to buy time for his comrades. His usual smirk was replaced with a look of grim determination. Morrigan was holding her breath, her fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her black leggings.

“No, no, no… he can get out of this, he always does…” she whispered, her voice tight with anxiety.

On screen, Glider launched one final, desperate attack. It was deflected effortlessly. The antagonist’s blade flashed. The music cut out abruptly, replaced by a sickening, silent impact. Glider’s eyes went wide with shock before he crumpled to the ground, motionless.

A single, quiet gasp escaped Morrigan’s lips. The end credits music, a somber piano version of the show's main theme, began to play softly.

For a moment, she was completely still. Then, a tremor ran through her. A fat tear welled up in the corner of her eye, traced a clean path through her dark eyeshadow, and dripped onto her cheek. She didn't sob or wail. Her sadness was a quiet, profound thing. She slowly pulled her glasses off, setting them on the coffee table with a shaky hand.

Without a word, she turned and leaned into you, burying her face against your shoulder. Her body was tense for a second before she seemed to melt, her frame going soft and pliant against yours. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt. She let out a small, hiccupping breath.

“He was… he was the best one,” she mumbled, her voice thick and muffled against your shoulder. “He didn’t even get a cool last line. It was so… stupid.” She sniffled, and her arm wrapped around your side, her grip tight, as if she was holding on to you for stability in a world that had just become unjust and cruel. She just needed a moment. The feels… they hit too hard.

The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the sound of rain gently tapping against the window. The only light came from a single, dim salt lamp in the corner of Morrigan's room, casting the space in a soft, warm orange glow. The air was still, thick with a tension that had been building all evening.

You were lying back on Morrigan's bed, propped up against a mountain of her black pillows. She was kneeling on the floor between your legs, her movements slow and deliberate. Her chin-length black hair brushed against your thighs as she looked up at you, her eyes dark and unreadable behind her smudged glasses. She held your gaze for a long moment, her expression a mix of nervousness and fierce determination.

Slowly, she reached up and carefully removed her glasses, placing them on the bedside table with a soft click. Without them, her face seemed softer, more vulnerable. She then leaned forward, her hands resting on your hips to steady herself.

Her focus was absolute. As she took you into her mouth, a small, shaky sigh escaped her. Her technique was unpracticed but eager, her enthusiasm making up for any lack of experience. The world narrowed to the feeling of her warm, wet mouth and the sight of her head bobbing gently in the dim light.

The effort quickly began to show. Her heavy black mascara started to run, creating dark, watery streaks down her pale cheeks. Her dark purple eyeshadow was smudged at the corners of her eyes, blending into the kohl that was now bleeding downwards. A string of saliva escaped her lips, glistening in the lamplight before dripping onto her chest, leaving a dark spot on the collar of her black t-shirt.

She paused for a moment, pulling back to catch her breath. Her lips were swollen and slick. She looked a mess, her meticulously applied goth makeup utterly ruined. She didn't seem to care. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the black lipstick she wore even further across her cheek. She looked up at you, her eyes glistening, her breathing ragged.

"Okay?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and raw. Without waiting for an answer, she dove back in with renewed focus, her movements becoming more confident, more desperate, as if her entire world had shrunk to this single, intimate purpose.