Two versions of a piece I've thought about doing for a while. And old photo of Tailor Rick and Diane from the 70s, early on in their relationship. Tailor was smitten! 💔
Taddaaaaa rough sketch of tatto rick who is a hippie and punk and is a vet!!! After my discord group and I had s chat we decided to come up with an OC and I’m glad lol not mant ricks out there!! These are old drawings I had time to post today thanks for @porkchop-ao3 for letting me use her rick tailor rick!
Hinting to tailor that his kitty had to lose weight
Barkeep has her sights on Tailor Rick. Spoiler alert: she’s got her work cut out for her.
Extra thanks to @porkchop-ao3 for letting me play with her character! Due to some references made in my story, it is set after her great Charlie Foxtrot (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7).
Mature.
⁂
It was a hopping busy night. You ran back and forth between patrons, supplying fresh drinks, clearing empty glasses, making small talk and filling server’s orders nonstop. Something major must have happened on the Citadel, because there were more Ricks patronizing the place than normal, and more of them than not were focused on getting plastered. But when that uppity Rick who’d burst into the Bar months ago, the one who’d wrecked your chances with Ice Cream Rick, you vowed to yourself to spend some time with him.
He was as well-put together as the time you’d seen him before: a smartly fitted teal suit, an equally fitted shirt with the faintest hint of a baroque pattern woven into it, an expertly knotted tie, and--here you leaned over the bar to look--the same leather wingtips polished to a high shine. You also didn’t miss how well his trousers fit. They had to be tailored, to support and emphasize the bulge at his crotch.
The color of his suit didn’t do much for you, but the way his blue eyes seemed to dismiss most of his surroundings did, and you grinned to yourself at the challenge he was going to be. It’d be an extra sweet victory to get him into your bed.
He moved smoothly through the crowd, twisting so he didn’t touch any of the other patrons. He steadfastly ignored them too, whether they cursed him when there was an accidental bump or called to him in recognition. It was obvious his goal was a seat along the table built into the side wall, where he’d be able to look over the crowd, but someone else slid into it before he could get there.
Knowing you were going to regret saying this, you called, “Rick!” just over the buzz of the bar.
The noise level dropped immediately as so many of them swiveled their heads to you. Pointedly you ignored them but kept your gaze directly on your target. He grimaced. Not exactly the response you were hoping for, but you smiled at him anyway and tapped the bar in front of a lone stool.
With a resigned sigh that you could almost hear, he made his way over.
Normal sounds of the bar--the crack of pool balls, bragging, laughter--started up again as he sat down.
“Hey,” you said in greeting, setting a napkin in front of him. “Nice to see you again, Rick.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said, looking over the crowd instead of at you.
Even though he grumbled, he sounded sophisticated. You hadn’t forgotten he was one of the only Ricks you’d met with a British accent.
It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that “Rick” got his attention a moment ago, but you let it slide. “Okay. What do you prefer? Richard? Mr. Sanchez? Daddy?”
That got his attention even faster. He spun around with a startled expression that melted into a snarl of distaste when he saw you grinning at him.
“Did I get one of them right?”
He ground out, “I’m called Tailor,” in a definitive tone.
You shrugged. “Whatever you’d like. I would have expected Mr. Sanchez. Or maybe Sir Richard Sanchez, habadasher to the Queen--”
You cut yourself off with a chuckle.
“Your mirth is misplaced, since you obviously have no clue that word has different meanings in England versus the Colonies,” he interrupted coldly. “I do more than simply sell clothing. I design and create high fashion for men and women. Therefore, Tailor. Not that I expected you to be familiar with even that word . . .”
He finished by making a show of looking you over, taking in your standard work outfit: a tank top and jeans. He couldn’t see your feet, thank god; he’d probably have a heart attack if he saw you wearing clunky server’s shoes! With the least amount of self-consciousness you could manage, you slipped your thumb under your bra strap--it had slipped!--to situate it properly on your shoulder and under the strap of your tank again.
He waited expectantly for your reply.
You narrowed your eyes and decided you couldn’t wait to fuck him. You’d win when you both were yanking each other clothes off. You decided maybe you’d keep one of his jacket’s buttons as a souvenir.
Laughing out loud, you said, “Tailor, I like you. Let me buy you a drink! What’ll it be?”
Tailor didn’t return your laughter. He simply told you he wanted a whisky on the rocks. You made it a double in a more expensive brand, and let your fingers linger on his as he accepted it from you.
He didn’t jerk back or scowl again, so you figured that was a chink in his armor.
Leaving him be for the moment, you decided round one was yours.
⁂
There were plenty more Ricks to flirt with; just because you had your eyes on someone specific tonight didn’t mean you wanted to close the door on others who may be back later. Most seemed more interested in drinking steadily, but some flirted back. Any other night you’d have taken one (or two, or three) home, but your sights were set on Tailor.
You kept him plied with drink and tried to carry on a conversation with him when you had a free moment. His answers were curt at first, but looser after a few glasses. You got out of him that the correct name for the color of his suit was Caribbean Blue, not teal; that he had designed gowns for the Queen and several other Royals as well; that his assistant was a nice woman but much too smitten with someone he called Mr. Whippy; that he usually didn’t come to places like this but he’d been in the neighborhood and--
Tailor, who’d not once given you full attention even as he tipsily spilled some of his guts, broke off his own sentence. Glancing in the direction he was looking, you saw a few members of the Council of Ricks enter the Bar: Riq IV, Maximums Rickimus, and Zeta Alpha Rick. The door almost closed again when Rick Prime came through as well. They were easily recognizable, even in new outfits you’d never seen before.
Tailor threw back the remainder of his drink and asked for another without turning to you.
He wasn’t the only Rick who’d stopped and stared at the Council members as they came in. For the second time tonight, the Bar fell oddly quiet.
“Where’s the rest of the Council, assholes?” someone shouted. “Too afraid to show their faces after that farce?”
“Suck my dick!” Riq IV spit back indiscriminately to all the patrons. Then, reverting more to the politician he was, his gaze seemed to meet every single person’s--including yours--in the place, like he was talking to everyone personally. “Our ruling stands. If you don’t like it, fucking run for Council yourself. For everyone else who’s not a complete fucking idiot, a round of drinks on me.”
A cheer went up. Whatever went down on the Citadel, free alcohol could smooth things over. You called a couple of servers over to help pull taps for the crowd, while you poured another double for Tailor and set up a vodka martini for Riq IV, who accepted it from you with a nod before heading to the table the other Council members had taken over.
You carried the new drink to Tailor, who was staring hard at the Council.
“Some Ricks seem a little anti-Council tonight,” you said conversationally.
“They better not get sloppy in those suits,” he groused, not taking his eyes from them, and not in the least replying to your statement.
Your gaze drifted to them again. You had to admit their new outfits were less obnoxious than the previous ones; they still declared “official” and “high-standing” but with subtlety, without the over-the-top gild and frippery that you were accustomed seeing on them. Or in the case of Riq, on your bedroom floor.
“What are they thinking, wearing those here? They could have worn burlap sacks and everyone would still know who they are! That fabric is hand woven and bloody expensive! If they fucking spill beer on it, who’s going to be the one getting the call to have it cleaned properly? Goddamn me, that’s who!”
It dawned on you that Tailor was muttering angrily to himself.
“So those are your designs?” you asked.
He shot you a look that advertised he couldn’t believe how stupid you were. “Of course they are! I’ve been after them to allow me to redesign those horrors they’d been wearing--they finally let me, and now they’re parading them around in a shit hole like this?!”
You took a second, then said, “I like them. They’re not so ugly. And it looks like the fabric is more substantial. Those other ones were pretty thin.”
“Yes they fucking were--” Tailor replied automatically, then cut himself off to appraise you with a keen eye. “How do you know the weight of the fabric from their old monstrosities?”
“Oh, you know. Just a guess,” you answered mildly, waving your hand. You knew you had a reputation among Ricks, but you weren’t sure if this particular Rick would be more disgusted than eager about it.
“You know them?” he asked sharply.
You nodded. “I’ve met a couple.”
“You’ve met a couple, and were able to feel how thin their robes were,” he said, as a statement of fact.
You shrugged and smiled, but didn’t elaborate.
Calculations were going on in Tailor’s head. You could tell. You had no idea what they may be, but you were called away again before he could say anything more. You hoped whatever it was burned him up, and he’d be more excited when you returned.
⁂
Typically with a Rick that you had your sights on, you’d flirt, you’d play up your cleavage. You’d joke and flatter; Ricks tended to eat that up. Occasionally, you’d be more up-front, but with your reputation and Ricks’ standard willingness to get down and dirty that wasn’t common. This Rick, however--
Tailor was either obtuse or a eunuch. Those were the only two explanations you could come up with for him repeatedly brushing you off. You dismissed the idea he may be gay; you supposed it could be possible but you’d never met a Rick that didn’t swing at least a little bit both ways.
So you turned on the charm. You were flattering, you were witty, you continued to ply him with doubles and made sure to lean far enough over the wooden bar to display your boobs whenever possible. He remained steadfastly annoyed with you.
The rest of the patrons seemed to loosen up regarding the Council being there--free booze helped--but Tailor continued to stare them down with laser-like intensity. The Council themselves seemed to be having a grand time laughing and swaggering. Several times Riq IV caught your eye; he raised his eyebrows and smirked at Tailor too. He also elbowed the Council members near him and made it obvious he was talking about the Rick at the bar. Each time that happened you noticed Tailor scowled and took a bigger mouthful of alcohol.
You decided to try and use whatever hatred Tailor was feeling towards them to your advantage, and once more struck up a conversation with him when work slowed down a little.
“So those new Council outfits. Tell me about them.”
He replied with only an eyeroll, to demonstrate how little he thought of your attempt to engage him.
Undeterred, you continued, “Did you have to take individual measurements, or could you just work from one of them?”
That ridiculous ice-breaker of a question made him pause and gulp for some reason. You thought maybe he didn’t hear you, or you didn’t phrase it correctly.
“I don’t know much about sewing,” you continued. “I thought that for tailored clothing all these measurements had to be taken, to get all the seams or whatever right. With Ricks, though, most of them are pretty much the same body type, so maybe it’s different? You could even just take measurements of yourself and work from it, right?”
Tailor closed his eyes for longer than a blink and his lips moved a little. You swear he was counting to ten. When he finally turned back to you, you could tell he was trying to keep his cool.
“Working from a mannequin or my own personal measurements doesn’t take into account variations of individuals. Yes, we’re all Ricks, but we’re not all the same. I’m sure you’ve been able to note the differences between the multitudes?”
It was meant to be a stinging shut down, and truthfully, it did hurt a bit. But eyes on the prize! It wasn’t enough to make you wilt.
“I have,” you admitted, leaning in close. “So you’ve had your hands on at least the Ricks that make up the Council members. Wanna go back to my place and compare notes?”
In the middle of a dismissive sip of whisky, Tailor choked. You laughed while passing him a handful of napkins, plus a glass of water; you always liked to be able to catch Ricks off their guard. You rubbed his shoulder soothingly as he caught his breath.
The slight commotion he caused made a few other patrons, including the Council, look your way.
“You okay?”
Even though his eyes were watering, Tailor managed to pull himself together and radiate distain. He slapped your hand away, not caring he was in front of an audience.
“I-I-I’m fine,” he stuttered in a croak.
There was an aura around him now, something dark and angry and it dawned on you there was a line you weren’t aware of but crossed. You get the sense he wanted to storm away, make a scene, but with people still looking over he cleared his throat and slipped off the barstool with a grace you knew he had to fight for due to how much he drank. Once standing, he pulled at his jacket to straighten it, and tossed a handful of folded bills on the bar.
“Good day,” he told you, barely moving his lips, in a tone that inferred the opposite.
He grabbed his tumbler and stalked away.
“Huh,” you said out loud, mostly to yourself.
Apparently it was loud enough for some co-workers behind you to hear; they were twittering, and more than one of them lay a hand in mock sympathy on your shoulder. Bruce, the bouncer with a mouth as full of teeth and wide as a shark’s--you couldn’t pronounce his real name in whatever his native language was; you just nicknamed him Bruce after the mechanical shark in the movie Jaws--even came over to whisper how disappointed he was you didn’t take Tailor home. He had money riding on you that you’d succeed.
You knocked him in the shoulder. Even a light punch made your knuckles ache.
Oh well. They can’t all be winners, you consoled yourself. Licking your wounds, you continued to flirt with the increasingly drunk Ricks still seated at the Bar, but none of them were going to be good companions for the rest of the evening.
As the night wore down, the Bar started leaking patrons. Maximums Rickimus--whom you had a hard time talking to after how your evening ended with him the last time you took him and Riq home--left. Other Council members peeled off their original group to speak to other people. You caught sight of Tailor sidling up to and chatting with a Council member you only knew by name. Rick Prime. You watched him straighten the other Rick’s jacket across the shoulders and swipe his hands down the other man’s back to smooth the fabric. You didn’t miss him giving a subtle squeeze to Rick Prime’s ass, and it all became clear to you why you couldn’t close the deal with Tailor.
Growling obscenities to and at yourself, mindless that there was still a bit of time till last call, you set yourself up a gimlet and drank half of it in one go.
“Not just downing a s-shot?”
“This is classier,” you snapped at Riq, who’d made his way to the bar. “And it’s bigger than a shot, so I get two swallows out of it.”
You proved yourself right by finishing it off with one more drink.
“Much classier,” he remarked drily. “Get me-set me up another vodka martini, so you don’t have to drink alone.”
Grumbling, but quietly, you complied. You didn’t give Riq his glass until your next gimlet was prepared. When you finally passed his over, he lifted it in a silent cheers to you, and took a sip. You took another large mouthful of gin and lime, staring daggers at Tailor and Rick Prime, who seemed to be sharing a private joke at the moment. Tailor hadn’t taken his hand from Rick Prime’s lower back.
Riq’s eyes slid over to the object of your attention, and he grinned.
“Ah,” he said in what sounded like sudden understanding.
With that one syllable it suddenly struck you that Riq had watched you all evening trying your damnedest to get with Tailor! You dragged your gaze away from Tailor back to him, and you exclaimed,
“You knew all along! You knew I was wasting my time!”
Riq’s grin widened, and he agreed easily, “Yes.”
“Goddamn it!’ you pouted, but it was more towards yourself than him. He heard that.
In faux sympathy, he put his gloved hand over yours. “I’m sorry you struck out with Tailor. I would have been happy to tell you he only hooks up with other Ricks, and that he’s been itching to get Rick Prime in bed . . . but what fun would that have been?”
“Oh, you’re a prick.”
“I’ll drink to-to that. Let me buy you another, and I’ll fill you in on all the shit that hit the fan today on the Citadel.”
Whatever victory it was that put him in a chatty, generous mood, it was fine by you. Anything to take away the anger at yourself for not realizing you were barking way up the wrong tree with the British Rick known as Tailor.
Decided to do a quick little genderbend thing for fun. Tailor Rick and Ice Cream Rick as their Erica counterparts! Tailor Erica is kinda hot ngl... She takes no shit.
