Hey! I love your angst fics! Are you able to write one where the reader is like maybe Beth’s child? Like just I wanted a concept where Beth had a child that became a bit similar to rick? Maybe spiraling out of control into other vices. Not a romantic fic at all, just like family platonic love
Glad you like them! Angst is probably my favorite to write, so I hope this satiates you! It was fun to write and sort of spiraled away from me as I tried out a different style of narration.
You are born with blessings on your back: You have an older sister, Summer, who will never abandon you, an IQ far surpassing all of your immediate family members, and finally, a love for science that few truly understood. When you come into the world screaming and red, a tiny thing with large lungs, you are met with smiles and celebration and so much love it fills the room and spills into the hospital halls. The oxytocin that is released when Beth holds you is immense, you’re sure of it.
Your life has barely begun and already, the universe has planned your future footsteps.
Your father, you realize at the tender age of seven, is an absolute fucking moron. You resent him for never being the kind of man you, your mother, and your sister need. You resent Jerry Smith for the half of your DNA that is him. That you have the desperate “Hungry for Apples!” in your blood, tainted and greasy and pathetic––Like him. You swear you would rip out all of Jerry within you if you could. He never helped mom with the house, much less could remember a single sport you played or what grade you were in. He was used space and everyone knew it.
Within your youth, you idolize your mother as she swells with her third child, a boy. Beth is the strongest woman you know, a beauty and a surgeon, and a wonderful cook. Her odd fixation with horses has never made sense to you, but she is your mother and so that molds even the weirdest of her into a beacon of success to you. For mother’s day that year you craft her a miniature horse sculpture out of metal scraps. Beth loves it and places it ever so delicately in the foyer of the home, where all visitors can see and ask about it. When they do, she shows you off as if you are the pinnacle of her success. Summer says Beth obsesses over the extraordinary and that was precisely what you were. Extraordinary.
Morty Smith is a healthy baby boy born into your life soon after that mother’s day. His screaming mimics yours those several years prior, like a fleeting memory reborn right in front of your eyes. You hold Morty gently and vow to never hurt him; although, you can’t help but think of all the ways you can use him, bring him along into the schemes Summer is far too busy for.
You walk in on one of your mother’s binges after receiving a late phone call from Morty. Beth had forgotten to get him. Again.
Your heart aches as Morty walks across the field to you. You got your license for this reason most of all and as Morty kicks off his cleats, hops in the car, and tells you all about the bruise on his knee––You realize you were alone in this world and had a responsibility to make sure Morty never would be. You both make it home in record time with McDonald’s and sodas as a treat on you. Morty’s chatting is replaced by hunger and you flip on the lights in the kitchen to find Beth with an empty wine bottle and a half full wine glass. She’s partially slumped over and the chill of winter permeates the kitchen from the open window. Morty throws a blanket over her shoulders while you are seething in anger, barely able to even enjoy your food. This is the first time you feel true disappointment and it haunts you.
In high school, when Morty is well into middle school and Summer has left for college, you have your first shot of alcohol. Its from a cheap, plastic bottle of vodka. The corner store down the street from your school sells it and when you walk in to purchase it, the greasy man behind the counter doesn’t even ID you. Or your two close friends. You go back to one their houses and spend the Friday after the math exam drinking until the ceiling moves and your lips are numb. Its the best feeling in the world and now you understood what has Beth so preoccupied in the evenings.
Within the next year of your life, your grades tumble into the dirt because you know you can play catch up at the end of each semester with your intellect. You skip class, join a band, find other things in life that color it worth living. You’ve begun experimenting in the science classrooms, sneaking in late at night and testing the boundaries of your body coupled with science. You’re caught once, then twice, and the third time by your chemistry teacher. In hushed whispers you’re promised access to the labs so long as you fix your grades. Your teacher sees potential in you, and for a while, it works.
It matters.
The drug you create becomes popular in your senior year of high school. In this time, you have not only improved your grades to keep everyone off of your back, but have also created a name for yourself within your city. Peers paid you to do science sheets, to give them answers on exams with elaborate hand signals, and to distribute the heavy sedating and light hallucinogenic you’d mastered. Mimicking acid by being transferable to little sheets or tabs to take, your drug was certainly a party drug and had only led to some near fatalities––But no real ones.
Your genius far surpasses your peers and while the world becomes more boring, as Beth begins to drink more, and Jerry loses his job...Everything truly goes to shit the night you have to sit up with Summer and take care of her shivering, overdosing form. You’d both, by chance, been at the same party across town and closer to her college. You weren’t as well known that far away, but you were aiming to expand your brand name anyways. Somewhere along the line you’d realized that your intellect made you the perfect candidate for testing the waters. You could be anything, anyone if you truly wanted.
For now, the guitar playing and pill popping genius was your card to play and you were going to give it your best shot.
But, when Summer had stumbled up the stairs and nearly collapsed against the wall, you pulled away from the boy you were trying to seduce. You crouched beside her and with pupils like nickels, Summer threw up promptly all over your shirt and jeans. You drove both her and yourself to her apartment with an anxiety that threatened to kill you. You dragged Summer up the stairs with frustrated tears, and made her grilled cheese while the surge of weed and liquor rendered you silent and confused, but most of all, scared.
You had never been scared before. Not truly scared. Not shaking hands, hyperventilating, and heart attack scared. Like what-if-she-dies-and-its-my-fault scared.
Calm down, you gotta calm down.
It could have been anything. How do I know it was my shit?
When you changed Summer into a pair of her pajamas, a plastic baggy fell from her jacket pocket. In sharpie was the smudged, yet distinct pattern that told you the bag was none other than one of yours. You considered calling your mom, asking Beth––No, pleading Beth––to come and help. Yet, the realization that your mom was probably in a drunken stupor by this point on a Friday night was like a wash of cold water.
Mornings were your favorite time of day. They were quiet, personal, and introspective. No one bothered you nor could ask stupid questions about what you were working on. You could disappear and no one would be the wiser, like a specter in the night. You had left Summer’s apartment once her breathing had evened out and the trek home was made short with an Uber. The morning fog hung low over your town and the cool air snapped at your ankles the whole jog up to the house.
You packed your things, few and far between, and only chose the most prized items alongside your science tools. Well, the ones you could carry at least. Within the hour, you scribbled out a small note and signed it with sloppy ink. You left it on Morty’s dresser. The words I’m sorry and I don’t know when I’ll come back and even a I’m just fucking toxic, Morty were all over the page.
Beth and Jerry received nothing. You felt that was fair.
You sneaked through the front door on quiet feet and exited into a bitter cold sunrise, a hoodie drawn tight over your head.
You weren’t really sure you were ever coming back.
If you’re ever like “but what do fic writers even WANT.”
a book report
They want a book report.
They want you to get 9th grade English up in their shit.
Remember having to write ad nauseam about the symbolism of that stupid conch in Lord of the Flies? They want you to do that about Steve Roger’s shield and Emma Swan’s jacket.
WHoa seriously?? People WANT this?
Holy crap, I always thought I’d be really rude to leave an overly long comment on something, or it’d just be super creepy for me to babble a load of emotional attatchment I had to their product, or all my wild fan theories which are probably wrong…
I mean.. I know if I ever created something I’d wanna see comments like that, but I’m a weirdo and I haven’t even created anything anyway so what do I know?
Umm.. yeah.. so… at my followers and friends and stuff: does anyone agree with this? Do I have permission to really ramble embarrassingly and honestly when I like your stuff, or would you prefer short and semi-rational comments?
I always LOVE knowing that readers understand why I chose certain ways of getting things across! I also love seeing which bits OTHER PEOPLE liked best! Since I’m the author, I’m biased. I either think my work is brilliant or I have crushing doubts.
So - whichever you want, or feel comfortable with!
Yep, co-signed. I try to drop a lot of symbolism and deliberate symmetry and I always wonder if people catch them.
Not that I don’t appreciate all the OMG YOU MONSTER YOU MADE ME CRY’s because it’s real privilege to make people feel something with nothing but words.
Yep, book reports are good. Long, rambly comments are good. Mention whatever went through your head as you were reading! Did one sentence in particular just strike you the right way? It might have been one of the ones where I literally spent an hour picking and discarding words and rearranging them in different orders just to get that sentence exactly right. Was there a specific moment that made you laugh/cry/get turned on? Did you start thinking about other ways the fic could have gone? I’d love to hear your ideas! Did it remind you of something that happened in your own life? Share the story!
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.”
I’m working on a Rick x Reader crossover sort of ficlet and let me tell you, looking at the script from an episode and trying to incorporate it into a chunk of fiction is mildly difficult to do.
I imagine a problem for reader with Rick’s just teleporting to the apartment whenever he feels like it would result in reader’s dog attacking him a lot. Like, imagine if you had a dog and Rick (a stranger to the dog at least for a little bit) just spontaneously popped up at weird ass hours? I think it’d be hilarious and just like a “Then use the door like a normal person and this wouldn’t happen” sort of thing
origamiaround
gummygunk
jacobvanloon
janainaart
