rick's had a horrible day.
morty fucked up another mission. like always. a thousand other problems stacked on top of it, and rick has no desire to sort through those.
and then there was jerry. jerry’s dumbass alone was enough to ruin anyone’s day, and rick had the misfortune of seeing him nearly every day.
so the moment rick stumbles through the door, the first thing he does is grab you and shove your back against the wall.
his mouth is on your neck, sloppy and wet, alcohol heavy on his breath. drool slicks down your skin as he mutters curse after curse, drunk and pissed and kissing you like he needs it. like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t.
not at you. never at you.
he’s just angry. exhausted. overstimulated. and you’re there. you’re pretty. you’re his.
his fingers hook into your panties, shoving them aside, moving fast and sure over your already soaked cunt. you gasp; the fabric is damp before he even touches you properly.
“today went fucking shit,” he slurs into your skin.
“th-the fucking—urrp—mortys fucked everything up.”
his fingers rub rough, careless circles around your pussy, before he pushes two of them inside you. you clench immediately, needy and tight around him.
rick groans, low and almost surprised, pressing you harder into the wall with his free hand.
“fuckin’—s-so greedy,” he mutters into your shoulder. “y’know all the other ricks talk about it. how your pussy gets so desperate for a rick. gets all needy when it finally has one.”
you let him talk. you always do.
because you know it’s true. you’re wrapped around his finger. and he knows it too.
you still whine, soft and pathetic, and it makes his cock strain painfully against his pants.
“mm—rick, come on,” you breathe, hands sliding up to his shoulders, nails digging through his lab coat.
“don’t be mean. just fuck me. it’ll make you feel better.”
your hips roll, riding his fingers, chasing and begging for some type of friction.
rick chews the inside of his cheek, mouth faltering against your skin. he lets out a short grunt because—yeah. damn it you’re right.
he knows everything shuts off the second he’s inside you.
he flips you without warning, pushing you face-first into the wall. his mouth is rough at your neck, kisses messy and bruising. he fists your hair, tugging just enough to turn your head so he can crash his mouth into yours, and kiss you properly, the kiss sloppy and spit-filled.
you moan into it, and he swallows the sound whole, eyes dark with a look he only ever reserves for you.
your panties are shoved aside again, this time by the thick, aching tip of his cock. he drags it through your folds slowly, teasing, and sticky with pre-cum, circling your folds until you're shaking.
then he thrusts in, no warning, exactly as planned.
he always makes sure you’re ready — using fingers first, to work you open for him.
rick grips your hair with one hand, your hip with the other, holding you at the perfect angle as he fucks into you hard. rough. rude. fingers digging into your skin, teeth nipping at your neck, his cock slamming deep into your slick cunt.
it feels so good you bite down on your knuckle to keep from crying out.
rick scoffs as wet, obscene sounds fill the room, finally slipping back into his drunken rant.
“don’t think i let a bad fuckin’ day get me,” he mutters. “nah, y’should’ve seen it. i blew all their fuckin’ heads right off.”
his hand leaves your hip long enough to make finger guns, muttering “pow, pow,” with stupid sound effects, as he laughs in an almost manic state.
your head goes hazy. everything blurs. your body feels limp, all you give him are broken, filthy moans.
he wants you listening. reacting. worshipping.
he fucks you harder now, almost cruel, hiccupping with a wet, disgusting noise. “babe—are you—urrp—are you listenin’?”
your ears ring, your head throbs, and all you can think about is him fucking you harder until you can’t speak, or walk.
you barely register his voice until he slams deeper, your walls clenching hard around him, milking him.
he groans, strained, fighting not to spill.
"cause y’know i’m rick fuckin’ sanchez,” he slurs. “and i can do whatever the hell i want.”
his tone drops, threatening almost. “just like i can stop fuckin’ your pretty pussy if you keep ignorin’ me.”
he stays buried inside you. waiting.
your head bobs weakly before you manage a soft, breathless, “yes—”
that’s all it takes. you don't even get to finish your sentence.
before he snaps back into motion, thrusting hard, cock twitching at the sound of your voice. you’re gone, babbling, eyes glassy, tears prickling as your body gives him everything.
rick keeps bitching about his day the entire time.
when he finally finishes ranting, and filling you until you’re leaking with him, he turns you around, hands gentler now. as he presses soft kisses along your face, voice still rough but threaded with something warm.
“you’re my good girl, yeah?”
“so fuckin’ good for me. takin’ all of me like that.”
his eyes stay on yours. the intimacy is strange. heavy. rick’s always like this after.
he’s greedy. selfish. a narcissist.
but he does love you. he just.. shows it wrong.
“y’my—urrp—my girl,” he murmurs. “my sweet girl.”
his head drops to your shoulder, fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair, subtle enough that if you called attention to it, he’d scoff and deny it.
it’s just enough. for him.
then, casually, too casually, he says it, like the words didn’t nearly cut his mouth on the way out.
“that world you wanted to go to,” he mutters hoarsely. “the stupid candy one—urrp—yeah. i’ll take you there. whatever. anything for you, baby.”
the truth is, rick comes to you after days like this because he wants to open up, wants more than just angry rambling.
he just doesn’t know how to be vulnerable.
so instead, he does what he knows best.
he fucks you, gives you filthy praise, and lets that be his confession.
and secretly hopes it's enough to get you to stay.
