we’re gonna kill god

bp: “you are making it very difficult to concentrate.”

rick: “oh! oh my leg is broken. I will not live to see another winter or make more offspring. Guess I’ll do the death wriggle and drag myself off into the bushes to await death.”

bp: licks lips

rick: “sigh. guess I’m an earthworm now.”

So the school called her dad in (also autistic) to tell him what had happened and he just didn’t understand what was wrong and was like but she’s right??? She’s telling the truth?? You’re punishing my daughter for telling the truth??

Tell me that isn’t Rick and Beth (I bc that Beth is on the spectrum and it’s canon that Rick is omggg)

aFJDJLSKDSLJDF

First off sorry for seeing this so late but omg this is both so cute and so Rick and Beth you're so right omg your mind they are both on the spectrum yea

“He’s not really gay. He’ll just fuck anything because he’s been in space for so long it’s like a dopamine hit to try new things.”

Instead of asking me to put the TV on for her she just says: 👹CoCoMeLoN👹 in a weird demonic vocal fry voice until I do

She’s Chinese and frequently forgets which language she’s speaking and tbh I have a hc that Rick raised Beth to be bilingual in English and Spanish and was adamant that she could speak both bc she’s the smartest child ever and when she asks why people don’t understand her hes like “bc they’re dumb bby, it’s not you.”

Is obsessed with a Thomas the tank engine potty training book and makes me read it on repeat

Tries on my platform doc marten boots even tho she’s so tiny that they reach her knees 🥺🥺

Always plays the dad in house bc fuck gender roles

Just lies down sometimes and pretends to be dead. Not asleep, dead. Like eyes open, holding her breath dead and I have to pretend that I’ve found her like that and am mourning her death?? And she gives me notes if I’m not doing it right?? Cant tell if she’s a sociopath or a drama queen or both

aaaaAAAAAA thank you and I am enamored with this child ok !!! SHE IS THE MOMENT !!! 😍😍😍

Here's another art dump (I was gonna pick just my favorite but so many of these were my favorite lmao and all so very Rick and Beth so here) :

Rick Sanchez x Reader

Warnings: language, drug use, smut Word Count: 3.1k

Part 1 Part 2

AO3 Link

The first thing Rick sees is your bright red panties strewn across an overturned lamp. He clocks the alien hookah, your disheveled hair, the smell of sex, the fact that you’re one hit away from fucked up.

It’s the hologram wannabe Flesh Curtains that piss him off the most, though. Seeing you like that, freshly fucked, chest heaving over some knockoff him. He tries to conjure the most unsexy thing he can think of, but the image of your soft thighs straddled tightly around his lap is seared into memory.

Rick pulls out a freeze ray to zap the lookalikes, and you yell out in slurred protest as they crystallize before your eyes.

“You froze them,” you whine lamely, trying to lift yourself up off the couch.

“Y-you can’t freeze holograms, d-dip knob.” He scoops you up from the tangle of limbs, handling you by the armpits like you’re a petulant toddler in need of discipline. “And the low-lifes synced up to the holograms—the fuckin’—the Blade Runner 2049 uninspired holographic sex pieces of s-uergh-shit... they’ll live.”

You pout down at him, and he scowls back.

“Stop—” you try to wriggle out of his grasp, but his hands are firm. “—stop with the judgy face, I know what you’re... I can see it in your stupid...eyes…” you stammer, still too high to form a sentence. You prod a finger in between his eyes and his crow’s feet crease in amusement. Damn him, and his stupid eyes and stupid smirk.

He sets you down abruptly, then places his hands against his hip and waits expectantly for an explanation. The swiftness of the action sends a cool breeze you can feel underneath, an unwelcome reminder of the night’s events.

“Alright, genius,” he exaggerates, “What do I—”

“—you think I’m some kiddo, some… some killjoy who doesn’t know how to have fun and… who can’t handle herself when she tries,” you ramble on.

As if on cue, you start to sway on your feet. Rick notices immediately, his roguish smirk replaced with a flash of genuine concern.

“Ye-eurgh, yeah. That’s enough out of you, k-kiddo,” he ribs.

And just as the night had started, Rick whisks you up by the waist, carrying you through the portal despite your frantic protest.

“—Wait! My panties!”

--------

On the other side of the portal, Rick sets you down on the workbench of his garage so that your feet dangle from the ledge. He takes an appraising look up and down and averts his gaze when he notices you squirm uncomfortably in just a thin, clinging t-shirt. You’re cold, he realizes, shrugging off his lab coat to wrap around your shoulders haphazardly.

“N-neurgh-now put that on and d-don’t get frisky under there, I just had it washed.”

You sniff the coat, pleasantly surprised that the laundry scent is only slightly masked by booze. He grips you at the shoulders to steady you, and you try to shut up and stay upright. Your eyes are unfocused as he pulls over a cart and hooks you up to some sort of IV.

You wonder how you look now, wearing his coat with almost nothing underneath. Your legs slightly spread, already wet for him. How you’d look if he finished what you had started, if he fucked you against the workbench with just his lab coat on. He’d never call you kid again, you think. He’d also have to wash the coat.

You rub your thighs together and try to focus on something else. But then Rick presses his thumb into the crook of your elbow to insert the catheter, and the sensation is unexpectedly tender. It elicits a moan so indecent you try to cover it with your other hand.

“Ho-holy fuck, what did they give you?” Rick grunts. “M-murpp-ust have been good enough shit to get you wet over a fucking— from an IV drip,” he snorts. He reaches into his coat to grab his flask, but you shiver when his hand grazes the side of your thigh. If he notices your response, he spares you the embarrassment, instead taking a large glug from his flask.

You sit in silence, eyes trained on the fluid running through the tube. Some noises emanate from the machine, which Rick takes note of. When you start to sway again, he pretends to be annoyed then props you against his shoulder, leaving only inches between you.

“See this number,” he jabs at one of the monitors on his cart, “is how fucked up you are right now. Once it hits zero, you’re gonna—you’ll be totally sober. G-gonna have the worst hangover of your life, but at least you won’t be d-dead.”

He turns his unimpressed gaze back to you. “Think that makes you two for three on shitty choose-your-own-adventures.”

You try to string a sentence together. “This is—this is so fucked. How did I—” you burst into a fit of laughter at the absurdity of your situation, even more tickled when Rick joins in.

“I mean, really... a holographic sex orgy? With BP and Squanchy too!” you blush, holding your face in embarrassment. “I knew I should have stuck with Blips and Chitz.”

“H-how’d you manage to fuck a hologram?” he asks halfway through a belly laugh.

The laughter dies, and then he pries further with a measured tone. “W-were you... did you think you were fucking me?”

The question sounds like one he’s been waiting to ask, and you’re dizzied by the sudden change in tone.

“I-I don’t know.... it was just...” you trail off.

“I think you do know.” he leans in closer now. His discerning gaze pierces into yours, but the look in his eyes is bored, like he’s sure the admission of truth will come.

“I—” you stare back, scrambling to find a way out of this, but the confession spills from your lips anyway. “You were on stage, performing. And then you took me to the tour bus. And you wanted me, and I was so high…god, but I—”

Rick leans back in his chair, like he really enjoys seeing you make a fool of yourself.

“—but I did, I wanted—”

“I mean, shit, if you w-wanted—” he spares you at the last second. “—if you wanted the real thing so bad, you could’ve just said so.” He says it like a throwaway offer, legs spread exaggeratedly in his chair. You’re sure he’s taunting you.

“Best fuck in your life, n-no, best fuck in the multiverse. So I’ve—so I’m told.” He riffs an imaginary guitar and gestures indecently to really paint that groupie fuck fest picture in your mind.

“C’mon, The Flesh Curtains—” you spar back, “—still a stupid band name, by the way— they’re overrated. On stage, and in bed.”

“Oh?” Rick leans back in his stool, chuckling lightly. He’s too amused by your annoyance to bother with a comeback.

“What, no defense? Not gonna blame it on the hologram dudes?”

“Mm-mm.” His eyes dance lazily across the ceiling, nonplussed.

You groan internally when you realize the dumb game he’s playing. He wants you to sound out the questions he knows you have. You check the monitors. God, you wish you could sober up quicker.

“If they were holograms, how’d I… how’d they…” you’re struggling to put to words the lascivious actions of the past few hours, and you fight the urge to bury your face into his lab coat.

“—How’d you fuck them?” he offers.

“I-I didn’t...”

“Yeah, it hardly matters now, sweetheart. Th-they’re just regular dudes synced up with the holograms. Like a host-parasite relationship. They’re paid by the hour, so don’t go—”

“—He sounded like you. He… he even acted like you,” you murmur, half hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“You liked that, huh?” Rick smirks. “W-well it’s probably an advanced AI, I did fuck just about everyone back in the day. The body— the host’s just in it— just there for the ride. The rest is all me, baa-by.”

You blush again, unsure what to do with that piece of information.

“So... everyone? As in you and Birdperson.. and Squanchy, right?” you ask.

“Well Squanch mostly jacked off l-like David Carradine, y’know— the guy w-with the rope…” he clarifies.

“B-but, yeah… Y-urrp-yup.”

--------

The conversation eventually reaches a dead-end. At some point, you become more sleepy than high and you feel your eyelids droop.

“Jesus fuck—no, here…” Rick nudges you back awake. He rummages through his pants for his wallet and pulls out a picture.

“Th-this is us. Ignore the stripper in the background, they were a b-uergh-bad lay,” he recalls. “If you stay awake, we can take another with you in it, instead.”

You glare in mock offense, but stare at the photo anyway. Meanwhile, Rick strums his fingers impatiently, checking the monitors. Your sobriety is taking forever, turns out, and he directs his attention to appraising your state.

Draped around your shoulders, his lab coat hangs open just slightly, enough for him to notice your nipples peeking through the thin fabric of your shirt. And then he can’t help himself but notice everything—the rich stain of your swollen lips, your tousled hair, the faint bruises on your thigh where hologram Rick had gripped you, hands on you that weren’t his own.

“I’m sorry I ruined your night.” You look up from the photo, breaking him from his reverie. “I was sorta hoping you’d fix things between BP, but now I know it’s not as simple as I thought,” you say with genuine remorse.

He’s half-relieved that you misinterpreted the intense depravity on his face as grief, and half-upset that you’re right. Birdperson had left the party early, citing parental duties. Rick was far from accepting it, but he couldn’t get the band back together, at least not in the way that he wanted.

“Turns out Senthol Di- isn’t BP’s hallucinogen of choice anymore,” he muses, trying to keep things light.

You laugh at that, agreeing.

“He’s also got a kid to take care of too..” he trails off, not really sure why he feels the need to share any of this with you.

“So the band’s broken up?”

He nods.

“Well they all do eventually,” you offer. “Even the best ones…”

You offer a sad smile and return the photo to him. “What’s that thing you’re always saying… about relationships being chemical reactions... M-maybe think of this as chemical equilibrium, y’know, how it just—” you gesture vaguely, “—fizzles out inevitably…?”

He’s charmed whenever you try to cheer him up with science talk. It’s the way you are—overly attentive, always sharp. You know which tools he needs and will check his math before he even asks, same as how you always remember to restock his cabinet with Foamies beer and wafer cookies. It’s that same quality which makes you a competent sidekick, that he guesses, would make you a good lover.

He’ll never admit to it out loud—never, god just the thought of it is domestic and gross. A whole life he’d lived and lost and vowed never to revisit. But sometimes the loneliness and want is so unbearable that it drives him crazy, invades his late-night dreams with the thought of you and him.

Vivid visions of him eating you out, pleasuring you a million different ways right here on this workbench. You rake fingers through his hair and sing for him as he kisses bruises into your supple skin. Lick the hollow of your throat to find your throbbing pulse, pull wave after wave of pleasure from your body, mark you as his.

It’s the strongest chemical impulse he’s felt in forever, one that he decides to shove in the deepest, darkest drawer of his twisted mind.

“Rick…?” you wave a hand in front of his face, trying to get his attention.

He hums, and the soft look on his face hardens.

“You alright?”

He takes a lethargic glug from his flask. Then he bursts into laughter, spitting his drink everywhere.

“What?” you counter defensively, completely baffled by his behavior.

“Nothing… j-just funny to see you like this,” he explains, trying to bite down a grin.

“Like what?” you question, wary of the mischievous twist in his eyebrow.

“Like—like talking science shit one second and then… then fucking yourself on a hologram me.”

You’re horrified. You decide you don’t want to spare him the hard questions you’ve been holding your tongue with.

“And what about you? Party too boring, you figured you’d stalk me?” you snap back.

“I-I mean a threesome? He swerves the question entirely, spinning around in his stool, overly amused with himself. “Didn’t know you were like that. Nn-othing wrong wit— nothing against sexual liberation, but wow...”

“Don’t deflect!” You jab a finger in his face and straighten up to reach eye-level. “How the fuck did you know where I was?”

“—one second you’re passing me a screwdriver in shitty— in baggy sweats, the next second you’re trying to fuck all three of the Flesh Curtains.”

“Rick!”

He grumbles, getting up from his stool to pace around the garage.

“Ok-ay…” he starts. “So you have a tracker on you. It’s a thing they do these days...T-to protect assets. La-di-da, can we move o-on?” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair in irritation.

“Asset?” you shout. “Oh so I’m just an object—a-a fucking possession of yours?”

“O-oh what? So you’d rather die?” He’s livid now, because how dare you try to make him say this shit out loud. “Don’t get offended by d-dumb—stupid, semantic shit.”

You respond in measured silence, jaw clenched shut, and he knows he’s in trouble.

“Al-alright I-I’ll level with you. There are infinite versions of you—”

“—I know...” you interrupt.

“And therefore, infinite replacements of you. But none without an amount of w-eurgh-ork that would ultimately defeat the purpose... S-so I planted a tracker that monitors your vitals and whereabouts, and in return, y-you get to live. ”

He’s met with deafening silence. He fidgets under your gaze, avoiding eye contact completely.

“I-I-It means you’re not an object… B-because I care a-about… about whether or not you die,” he stutters out. “H-h-happy now?”

He pulls his flask up to take another swig, but feels your hand suddenly rest on his arm. “H-hey!” he protests.

The lab coat slips off your shoulders when you lean forward, delicate fingers wrapped tight around his wrist. He can see just about everything from this angle, standing above you. Your thighs squirm together tight from the cold draft, and maybe arousal. The smell of sex still hangs in the air, which now that he thinks of, is probably imparted on his coat.

He clenches his jaw at the thought, trying to fixate on something, anything that’s not the sheen of sweat on your sharp collar bones or the long line of your neck, exposed. When he reluctantly drags his eyes up to your face, he can see clearly now that you are aroused. Eyes pooled black with want, lips slightly parted.

And then you reach for him, soft delicate fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. He shudders, almost imperceptibly, at your touch. You trace the tips of your fingers on his lower lip, then outline his cupid’s bow. Your eyes flick up to his own and then back down. Before he can remove himself from your hold, you press a soft, chaste kiss to his cheek.

He feels you pull away, to pause and gauge his reaction. But he’s petrified, unsure of what to make of you. So you plant another one closer, test him again, this time at the corner where his lips meet. You’re close enough now that as you hold the kiss, you can feel the rise and fall of his chest quicken in pace. He can feel you too, lips twisting into a smile against him, firm and unyielding in your pursuit.

With a newfound steadiness that hadn’t surfaced all night, you pull him in again. This time, hand palming his undershirt, brushing your lips to his so tenderly, with a palpable longing. He grips the edge of the workbench with both hands, knuckles white from restraint, because there is no way you are kissing him sober. But lust clouds his better judgment, and he feels his arms reach up to pin you down and kiss you proper.

He’s surprised when you suddenly pull away before he gets the chance, placing your palm to his chest to create space.

“Thank you,” you say. “F-for caring… and for being a good nurse,” you offer a soft, apprehensive smile, which he completely ignores.

He panics instead, turning away from you to check the beeping monitors. When they show that you’re completely sober, he tries to find some rational explanation for why in the everloving fuck you’d ever kiss him with that look, that sentimental, soppy bullshit look in your eyes. He checks the IV drip, switches on and off the machine to recalibrate—because surely something must be wrong with you.

But nothing turns up, and you sit on the workbench, eyes half-lidded and a content smile on your face, patiently waiting for Rick to figure you out.

He turns around to face you, a dumbfounded and boyish look in his eyes. Just in time to feel you pull towards him for another kiss.

But your momentum stops halfway, and you keel over. You slump over his shoulder with heavy, slumbering breaths.

He lets out the breath he’s been holding in, a long exhale that ends in a groan of frustration. He keeps you there, nestled into his neck, then watches your pretty face as you sleep. All the while contemplating the troubling predicament on his hands, that is you.

When you wake up, the first thing you realize is that you’re in your own bed. Your head rings painfully when you prop yourself up. Then you remember the night before. The trippy drugs and sex, and you kissing Rick. The memories of the Flesh Curtains are smeared and faded, but the kiss—the kiss with Rick is more vivid than any of the countless iterations you’d dreamed up in your hopeless little mind.

You stretch and lift yourself up from the bed, full of nervous anticipation for what adventures with Rick mean from here on out. You’re not naive, you know that last night probably meant nothing for someone as volatile and flighty as Rick.

Then you notice it, hanging on your lamppost, tinging the whole room a pinkish-red. The outline is distinct, there is no doubt about it. Your red panties from the tour bus, freshly washed and mysteriously returned.

Sitting atop, a handwritten note—from the only man in the multiverse who would ever dare.

--------

A/N: Aahhh so I left this open-ended because I’m a sucker for slow-burns, and I want to write these two more when I get the chance. Hope you enjoyed this, it was so fun to start and finish a fic for once! As always, comments and kudos are fuel for my lonely little writing soul <3