Rick Sanchez X Reader (Oneshots)

Rick X Reader X Evil!Rick

(NSFW)
By: Keepitschwifty

•—•—•—•—•—•

"Wh-what the fuck are you doing? Have you not been getting my texts?"

Rick throws the door open with little regard to how loud he's being, letting it bang against the wall and slam shut behind him as he poses his question. He marches over to your desk, grabbing at your papers. You slap his hands away and shield your sketchbook from his prying fingers.

"God, do you - stop touching my shit! - do you ever knock?"

Rick lifts a brow and fixes you with a look, like he's summoning every bit of his patience to deal with you. Dickhead.

"No? And what're you doing? What's so, uh, important that you can't, fuckin... text me back?"

"Oh. I'm..."

Drawing your cock. Sketching my throat with bruises in the shape of your fingers. Reimagining our last fuck but with more Ricks.

"Just... working on some album sketch ideas. You've got a single coming soon and all."

"Whatever. Let's do lunch, I'm in the mood for something expensive."

"All you ever have for lunch is tequila."

"Expensive tequila. Wait in the car, I gotta take a leak."

The ride to lunch is as strange as the days that follow. He isn't fucking you, and while this isn't necessarily cause for concern - given his groupies - it feels intentional. He still licks his lips at you, or gives you heated, open-mouthed kisses between sets. The promising kind, the kind that makes your legs weak with anticipation, which is where he leaves you.

He still twines his fingers through your hair on his way to gigs, in the backs of cabs, but now he closes his fist and yanks back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. He runs his lips up and pauses over the very center, teeth bared and ghosting over your flesh like he could take a bite right out of you. Just for a beat, just long enough for the fear to sneak in... then he releases.

There are other things - he leans in doorways and watches you change. You begin to suspect that he's sabotaging your dates, always seeming to need something from you when you're busy with a potential hookup. This is all before things truly escalate.

He grabs you after a show, sweaty and starry-eyed from the rush of a set well played. He corners you and snakes one hand down your jeans while the other clutches your neck.

"Fuck, Rick, first of all hello, good gig, nice to see you,"

you hiss, pulling at his vice-like fingers.

"Sh-shut up, kid. Let Daddy inside."

Fuck. He's never used that title before.
He wastes no time in forcing his fingers to the second knuckle, fluttering expertly against a spot that makes you whine against his shoulder.

You take the metal chain on his coat between your teeth and he moans.

"You shut up, Rick, I'm not - fuck, do that again - I'm not one of your little groupies, you can't just... do this."

Forming and communicating thoughts becomes less simple though the fog in your brain. You're forced to release the chain, lest you chip your teeth with the force of your bite; you go for his shoulder instead.

"That's right,"

he growls, "you-you're not a groupie. You're mine. You're my good little girl, right?"

"Fuck."

You tighten around his fingers hard enough that it hurts and he strokes his thumb over your clit with such efficiency that it brings tears to your eyes.