lala

my love,

And we all still die

“c’mon baby, y’know i didn’t mean itttt” he drawls out his words and mumbles them into your ear, whispering so you know its only meant for you.

“y’so sweet… ‘know i don’t deserve you.. sweet- sweetest girl in t-the entire galaxy” he groans, coaxing his head into the crook of your neck.

leaving soft, slow kisses up and down your skin- unlike his rough, sobered up, messy kisses that he gives to you usually. ‘take it’ he would you tell you through tongue and mouth.

he gets drunk every-time you argue. part of it being so he can apologize to you and then blame it on the alcohol the next day- with his dignity still intact. (it never was in the first place)

he wraps his lanky arms around your waist, his inebriated body heat oozing out of him and coursing into you.

“t-tell me im a horrible person, a shitty fuck-buddy, o-or partner, w-whoever the fuck we are to each other. jus’ please don’t- don’t leave. b-be mad, jus’ p-please don’t leave.” he would coo into the soft of your neck. teasing and biting down your weak spots to emphasize his point.

you shake your head, yet you extend your head back to give him easier access.

he’d smirk and bite harder, kiss longer.

“y’know you’re my girl- y’know that..?” he continues, spilling his guts into the swell of your collarbone.

“i know” you acknowledge. soft and calculated. too many times has this happened, you roll your eyes and let him talk, and flirt, and kiss, and moan, and fuck, and grind into you til he wrings himself out.

yet, you wait for the next time you both buttheads- which is often. you wait, and you comfort him, and you come back to him each time.

brief. feeding his god complex

rick fills his free time with inventions and fucking his sweet girlfriend—his sweetheart who laughs at all his stupid jokes, patiently listens to his endless rants, cringes whenever he makes a joke about their sex life around his family and adores his cranky moods cause she likes to be fucked silly while he goes on about his day.

“and oh, baby—the way i shot their heads off,” he drones on, barely paying attention to his own words as he watches your wetness cling to his pubs. he always does this, so consumed in the way your pussy is pulling him in, your hole so sloppy and wet that it’s damn near disgusting, that he barely remembers what he talked about after. you’re no better than him with how foggy your brain gets. he hears you hiccup, the soft sound snapping his focus back to you.

“are you uurrp listening?” he slurs, narrowing his eyes at you, the smugness in his voice impossible to ignore. it takes you a moment—almost too long—to nod, your breath shaky as you cling onto his lab coat. but he’d put up such a stubborn fight that you finally let him win. it doesn’t help that last time, he refused to wash the damn thing for weeks, claiming it smelled like you (not like he does anyway), and he wasn’t ready to lose that like clingy dog and its favorite toy.

“good,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his lips. “’cause I’ve got some news that’ll blow your tiny little mind.”

you hate this part—hate how he always demands a reaction to every word, every sound he makes, even when he’s completely wrecking you. it’s not like you can form coherent thoughts when he’s like this, but that doesn’t stop him. no, he thrives on the power trip, on making sure you’re there for every word he spits out. and when you tell him to tone it down, to maybe not be so loud for once, he just sneers, his voice dripping with arrogance. “i can do whatever the hell i want, babe. i’m rick fucking uurrp sanchez. let ’em hear.”

and you let him. you always let him because he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he knows it. besides, if you don’t, he’ll draw this out for as long as it takes, leaving you dangling just out of reach. “mm, w-what is it?” you stammer, barely able to form the words. he grins, pushing himself closer, deeper, so you can feel every word reverberate through you.

"y'know, word on the cosmic grapevine is you've got the best uurrp pussy in every universe—at least, that's what all the other ricks won't stop runnin' their mouths about." he chuckles, the sound rough and guttural, before clearing his throat, his tone dropping lower. his hips move in deeper, slower rolls, and your eyes follow suit, fluttering back as he pulls every bit of control from you.

“but they don’t know what the real one feels like, do they?” his teeth grind slightly as he mutters under his breath, “amateurs.” you almost laugh at how ridiculous it is—him getting jealous over his own clones—but the thought barely takes root before his hips snap into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

through glossy eyes, you look at him, your voice trembling, thick with need as you reply, “no, no—you’re my god, rick.” you know it's what he loves to hear most, no matter the situation.

he looks back at you with bloodshot ones, his smirk widening as his ego swells with every shaky word you manage. “that’s right,” he huffs, his voice dripping his smugness. “means something coming from you, sweetheart. don’t let it go to your head.”