c137sucks

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Rick didn’t bother fastening his hold around her when she pulled away— let her hop back as though she’d scored herself a win, stomp her little foot and all that parade. Lola was talking, sure, but Rick had already stopped listening about three insults ago.

A squint came upon him, the kind that stripped the skin off someone’s ego.

“Huh, here I thought you were the type who could take a little degradation and not cry about it. Guess I overestimated you.” He slumped back into the couch, one hand resting casually over his thigh, the other slung across the backrest— every inch of him still taking up her space. “Holy shit, you telling me this was actually about tea? Talk about a downer.”

A hand came up to run through his mullet, mussing it enough to make it look like bedhead without the bed. “Either I read you wrong, or you’re actively fucking with me here.” And there it was, that dangerous, spine-curdling stare.

Normally, Rick would press the wound, keep twisting until they bled pride. But she was supposed to be a highlight — Lola Bunny in the fur — and now she was playing hard to get after firing off all the green lights?

“So what’s the angle, carrots?” The storm in his stare sharpened into something between a smirk and a warning. “You make a habit of bringing guys home for herbal blends and chitchat, or am I just the special case?”

"Is callin' the girls you wanna fuck 'stupid', standard for you?"

He was off to a bad start. She had been with terrible men, and not only was this one terrible, but he was pushy. Annoying. It wasn't like she'd brought him over for tea and cookies ---- but she didn't go at anyone's pace, other than her own. Her body struggled against the hold she'd found herself in --- bright eyes narrowed, once full of flirtatious mystery and a sassy bite that she kept playful, replaced with loathing.

Dense fur stood on edge, and she could feel a heat rising throughout her ink. Boiling rage, mixed with a sense of panic. She knew it well. It was something she swore she would never experience, ever again. He had called her outright, with what she happened to be interested in. Her hands met his shoulders, a firm arm's length away. A distance he could easily breach, for no matter how strong she was, he was stronger.

"Get the fuck off me."

Who did he think she was?

"God, you edgy losers don't know when to take a hint," Lola snapped, jerking her body away. Stomping to the door, a paw landed upon the handle.

"Yeah, yeah, you're my worst nightmare. If you're not gonna respect me, then you can get. out."

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“…Really?” Rick’s tone landed somewhere between bored and pissed, as if this girl had just spilled coffee on one of his blueprints. “Dude, I’ve been letting the whole shadowing me and shanking anyone who makes eye contact thing slide, but this guy?” He jabbed a finger towards the body like it was a broken appliance. “I actually needed him breathing for another couple days here.” Most people would’ve gone for outrage, maybe horror.

Rick skipped right past that into the more pressing question.

“But seriously, who the fuck are you, anyway?”

@c137sucks started following you

The teenage girl was axed in hand standing over the dead body of a big burly dude blood splattered all over the frilly purple clothes she was wearing. She turns and her eyes meet Rick’s. She’s smiling cutely.

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Oh, so Pomni liked playing with fire. Cute. Rick let his stare track the lazy orbit of her hands over that compact frame, eyes running the glide like a weapons system logging heat signatures. Sure, there was probably a DSM-level kink label for this sort of thing, but his brain was too locked on how that sports bra gripped her to care. The way the fabric bit just enough into her skin—made the curves look like they were straining for jailbreak.

Calling her name was easy, as it sat on the tip of his tongue. And easy was cheap.

The calculus was whether she’d earned the currency or not.

“What’s the matter, Pompom?” And the way Rick said it made the little petname slide like a caress from his lips. “Getting romantic on me now? Asking me to use your name and shit?” It landed like a tease, but there was a warning baked in.

Whole reason he’d even hit her up was because she couldn’t sext for shit. Words were a foreign currency to her unless they were backed by moans.

“You talk a lotta smack for someone who spent the whole night dripping over me and then threw a tantrum when I didn’t show. Don’t kid yourself, babe… you’re not the only one pulling strings here.” Rick’s chin jerked towards the camera. “And I know exactly how bad you wanna find out what my tongue feels like buried in your sweet little cunt.”

⸺ ❝ Hoooome! I wisha I could .. stay home foreverrr. But nope. Gotta be a good girl and... things. ❞

There was a subtle purr to her tone as she expressed freely her mind, no filter to be had as her body leaned back again, head nodding off towards the ceiling now. She stayed that way for a bit, enjoying the way of how it made her feel lighter; like imagining herself being held up by a strong comfortable embrace that she didn't need to keep her own head up for. It was a dreamy feeling, the influence of a trash romance series was filling her head.

His voice brought her back from her mentally drunk induced fantasy that wasn't too far fetched to something she'd wish to have one day. But the man she kept finding herself entangled with and craving, it'd be nearly an impossible feat to obtain. She snorted at his statement, bringing her head back up using her elbow to dig into the couch's head to use a hand that lazily kept her own up. Pomni was messy right now, but she felt free. She was having the time of her life. Her voice grew low, suddenly.

⸺ ❝ Yeah? You'd like that, wouldn't you? ❞ Her pinwheels shifted darker; confidence filled every inch of her scleras as teeth met at her lip. Oh, she'd indulge that husky sound of his voice... if he was willing to meet her in the middle. ❝ Say my name, ❞ and her hand inched ever slowly, canvasing up her body until just at the hem of her sports bra. Her teeth released her lip and a curious tongue began to roll out, gliding against a few shows of her canines while doing so. She was simple; she just wanted this one thing. It'd be enough for her head to swim and for her to further lose her inhibitions.

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All he existed for? Rick’s brow edged upward like he was running diagnostics on that statement.

“Why? You got a deep, noble mission statement hiding in there somewhere, or is this just you trolling for pity points?” The words drifted out slow, almost conversational, but with a serrated underside. Angel wasn’t dead weight—at least not when the mood tipped toward demolition. When the guy decided to ruin someone’s evening, he was lethal in a way Rick could respect, if only for the style.

Hell’s biggest perk? Built-in respawns. You could turn a hellborn into vapor, scatter their atoms across nine concentric layers, and they’d still materialize a few days later—same smirk, same debts, same unfinished business.

Unless you got surgical with angel-metal, permanence wasn’t on the menu.

The flaw in that design was obvious: no real victories, no trophies to mount. You could pile corpses high enough to eclipse the skyline, and it’d only shuffle the game pieces. Turf wars bored him; carving out a corner of Hell sounded like prison politics. Rick wasn’t after territory. He wanted to kick the table over, scatter the board across a minefield, and watch the players realize they’d been conned into a game with a real ending.

A terrible one at that.

"Your words, not mine."

Angel knew what it was to be a favorite of a deranged freak and how even toys can be treasured right until they're discarded. There was no sentiment in Rick's visits with him, at least not directly, but Angel's existence did something for him that he wasn't getting somewhere else right now. No doubt that could change in a heartbeat but it's been months and he still came teleporting back to whisk him away.

Especially to that place.

"Gee. Not in the mood to fuck. WhatEVER shall I do. That's clearly all I exist for 'ere waiting for you to pop back up."

Don't act like you know me, prick.

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Fire and brimstone was more of a saying and less of a geological certainty, but Rick wasn’t about to burn calories correcting anyone’s misinterpretation tonight. The railing was warm under his forearms, Rick’s eyes like overcast gunmetal sweeping across the dance pit below. Air down here carried the tang of overamped pheromones, old perfume, and a yeast infection’s worth of regret.

Hell did olfactory overload better than Vegas.

“From one emotional war criminal to another? Graduate past that shit.” Rick’s stormy greys found a darkroom getting a lot of in and out traffic. He could practically smell the STDs from where he stood. “Easier to evolve into someone who doesn’t need that stuff than to get fucked by it every step of the way.”

The guy this girl was knotted up with? Rick didn’t know him. Didn’t give enough of a shit to run a background check either. Down here, everyone was wired into the same network of vice, petty vendettas, and the slow-turn spit-roasting of eternal suffering.

It was a small eternity after all.

Finally, Rick side-eyed her, lips twitching into a dangerous smirk.

“You reek succubus.” Appreciative. “Haven’t met one yet that doesn’t scream sex like it’s a TED Talk... So, what’s the twist? Native-born, or did you bomb your mortal midterms so bad you got drafted onto the home team?”

Verosika glanced over at the non-hellion. Or rather, still living future resident with the way the universe tended to treat souls. Most human souls ended up in Hell sooner or later. So the way she saw it, he was just checking the neighborhood out early. Nothing too bizarre about that other than the fact that he could choose to do it. But after being around longer than most succubi ever would be, she had heard and seen of things most wouldn't.

"I could tell," she answered him honestly. "Most sinners have something that reflect their vice in life. A kind of 'branding'," air quotes "as they used to call it. Transforms you to look a little more like us. The hellborn. And we don't all smell like fire and brimstone, you know? That's more of a Wrath ring thing. Volcanos aren't as active all over Hell."

She gestured to an assistant who was walking around the party making sure passed out guests were off the floor and there was safe walking space for everyone. As that succubus drew near, she answered Rick's question, "Blitzo's claim to fame? Being the biggest manwhore in Hell. And that says something considering we're in the Lust ring. Everyone here? Someone he's screwed over."

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Fandoms stopped being a fun escape from reality when people started spreading the belief that you should prioritize purity over pleasure and the art you create must be a reflection of your moral standards at all times.

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Rick’s eyes tracked the way Pomni stretched, taking her time with it. She was comfortable now—too comfortable. Different from before, when he’d first seen her cornered, brittle, perfect. Vulnerability like that was rare in his world. Rare and delicious. The kind of thing you didn’t just notice—you filed away, knowing exactly when to pull it back out and use it for sport.

“Not much point in calling when I can be anywhere I want, whenever I want.” And it was true. Whether she knew that yet was irrelevant. “Just didn’t feel like leaving home tonight.” His shrug wasn’t an apology, it was punctuation.

The only thing on Rick besides bare skin was the wristband—navy, with that single vertical pink stripe. A little pop of color that did nothing to soften the rest of the man, but it sure made him appealing.

“I’m gonna go ahead and assume this is another first for you.” Rick leaned forward just enough to pinch the screen, zooming in on the hard nubs pressing against Pomni’s top. The corner of his mouth tugged. “So why don’t you start feeling yourself a little for me, mm? Doesn’t gotta be the way I’d do it…” His voice darkened. “I’d be biting into your nipple so hard right now, I could draw blood. But hey—let's start nice and slow, yeah? The way you do it when you’re home alone and really need it... Y'know what I mean.”

⸺ ❝ Nooo, I'm Pomniii. Silly. ❞

A small lax and yet girlish giggle left her, like it was the most unbelievable thing he could have ever said to her. She wasn't drunk, nooo, not in the slightest... she was simply vibing.

Her body stretched backwards past the cushion behind her and she sounded off a huge moan of relief the moment she heard a few needed pops crack from the bones of her spine. God, she didn't realize how much she needed that. For a moment, only the top of her ribcage and small portions of her chest were in frame. It mildly caused a hiccup of a manic laugh before she brought everything back in.

Pomni shifted back comfortably, her arms opting to stay angled above her head, her lidded gaze looked back to him on her lap to shine a toothy grin before it returned to her reality show.

⸺ ❝ Mmmhyou never call. I didn't expect calling cards. ❞ She meant to say "calling to be in the cards" but hey, close enough. Her voice was uncharacteristically low, not really trying for her typical flair of tone and speech.

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The intimacy of “i can handle you”

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Rick wasn’t even holding the damn phone when the feed came alive. One arm bracing the back of his head, his other hand drifting across a hologram interface that floated just out of frame. The only thing Pomni could see was the bare stretch of his upper half—lean muscle over sharp bone, each line defined like it had been etched there on purpose. Late thirties if you judged by the skin. A hell of a lot older if you knew how to read the weight in someone’s gaze.

He didn’t look at her right away. Kept his eyes on the glowing work in front of him instead, as if he’d already gamed out that she wouldn’t pick up, and was a breath from ghosting the young lady for the night without a second thought. Then Pomni said it, whatever throwaway comment she thought was safe to spill, and Rick’s eyes slid toward the camera first. Not the rest of him, just the eyes. Stormy, disinterested, and sharper than a knife left out in the cold.

Then his head followed, slow enough to stir discomfort.

And there she was, heavy lidded, mouth tipping into an easy half-smile, pulling the air just a little tighter between those lips. And, christ, she was all flushed already...

“You’re drunk.” Rick clocked it immediately. 

She'd drunk at least half of the bottle by this point and god knows she purposefully didn't eat shit so she could enjoy it to the fullest. Alone in the safety of her four walls, she was a giggly drunk, mildly sloppy if she wasn't paying attention but Pomni did her damnest to not be. She hated the bruises that came from her slips up being drunk and dealing with a sore body in the morning.

From her comfy spot, she readjusted more to sitting up, curled into a ball with her head casually leading against the comfort softness of her couch when a constant vibration lulled inside her palms. Oh shit, he's calling her. And video at that too? She didn't overthink it, hell, she could hardly think as it was before a stupid grin spread across her face and answered the call.

The phone laid at her lap against her thighs, fully displaying her alabaster chest doned with a basic black sports bra. She wasn't prepared for this, she just wanted the edge off. And he'd see a side to her she didn't normally allow exposed.

⸺ ❝ Oh you're stupid hot, ahahhh, I forgot... ❞ her gaze peered bringing the screen closer to her face momentarily before lifting it back down to her legs, peering away suddenly, resting once again against her arm as her eyes danced with the lights of the reality show still playing in the background. Her body lax, a smile still heavily present and on display. ❝ Hiii. ❞

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Since Steff already made the announcement, I’ll happily piggyback and share that I’m the lead writer for Rick Prime in the same project! So, alongside my usual OOC responsibilities, I’ll be diving into this as well. I’m beyond excited, and I’ll do my best to juggle RP with this amazing opportunity!

FUN LITTLE ANNOUNCEMENT TIME

My work here might be a little limited in the upcoming few months, because I've been chosen as the lead writer for the Rick Sanchez Dating Sim.

The team is really talented and it's got people experienced with making interactive games and platforms alongside coding. They've already conquered one chapter for Sailing With Stans which is the GF counterpart and are moving towards CH 2. Highly suggest checking it out.

That being said, I may start being a little more laser focused on certain threads here when I'm not helping spearhead the writing portion of a project, as college also starts up for me again.

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Rick let the message linger, thumb idling over the keyboard as he watched the little Pomni is typing float on screen for a bit. First, there was a smirk, then it melted into a scoff. There was no part of Rick that believed Pomni was actually naked… Yet. 

But hey, cheers for the attempt.

Not that he’d expected her to fold so easily. Compliance wasn’t Pomni’s strong suit unless he was there to force her into submission, and neither was seriousness apparently. She thrived in that maddening middle ground between mockery and indulgence, where every answer felt like a dare. And maybe that was the point… to keep him guessing which way she’d tilt next.

02:39 [text] Christ, you suck at this

He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, Rick let the thought settle, the way you’d savor a taste you weren’t sure you liked but kept sampling anyway. Effort. If you could even call it that... He’d seen worse.

A breath. A decision. His thumb hovered. And then—click.

Rick is calling…

Not a courtesy call, or the kind you could duck behind an excuse. It was the kind that bared teeth and pulled curtains open.

Rick was inviting Pomni for a video call.

Sheesh, pushy.

It was kind of hot though, if she spent too much time focusing on it. Degrading, being pushy. But it also made her realize she had almost zero standards when it came to men. And at the thought, her gaze veered and allowed her phone to slip onto her chest before reaching for another long swig of sweetness. Liquid courage, if you will. Hell, a bottle of wine was probably the closest thing she'd ever get to experiencing anything remotely close to sweet.

And she thinks she accepted that fact. Pomni picked up her device and finally, she conceded in trying to get into the mood of this.

02:35 [TEXT] I'm nearly naked at this point... it was just too hot to keep wearing clothes.

02:36 [TEXT] My boobs are sooo soft, I should grab them more.

Alright, the alcohol is hitting a little more, a buzz and she's at least smiling a bit now. Maybe if she could imagine him as anybody else, she could get into this fantasy a little bit better; he's hot, don't get her wrong. But she wasn't trying for her feelings to grow deeper for someone who probably wouldn't reciprocate them. The guy on the television was kind of cute... if she squinted. Good enough.

But her hand did obey at breaching just under her sports bra to hold and play with the weight just underneath. Wow, she really did have nice enough boobs for herself to hold. Heh, score. She didn't indulge in these kinds of things too often, and she's realizing now maybe she should do so more.

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People unpleaser

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shame...

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“You really take me for a fucking idiot, don’t you?” Condescencion drips from his words, slow and poisonous in that way where you can’t quite tell if he’s joking until it’s far too late to laugh.

And there it was. The undercurrent. Somewhere in the chaos of chasing his own destruction, in between the theatrics of pretending rehab was anything but a bad joke, Angel Dust had gone and done it—started to care. About people around him. About them. Pathetic in its inevitability.

Rick folds his arms across his chest and sighs, his voice leaning into something almost conversational.

“By the way… not in the mood to fuck tonight. So whatever you think biting me’s gonna do? Well, it won’t.” Maybe it would, but Rick wasn’t about to encourage that when he wasn’t in the mood for something.

Maybe that's who he used to be. He wouldn't and couldn't argue that. There was a time he didn't give a fuck about just about anybody, only his next fix.

... But he says that and Rick will just take whatever and whoever he loves away. No matter how his mouth wanted to pop off, he had to reel it in. Sighing in defeat, his lip curls in disgust.

".. Yeah. That's the brand. We done goin' over facts?"

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“Huh, rough.” There was no real emotion to it.

Rick leaned an elbow on the bar counter, lackadaisical in his poise but never in the way his eyes stripped a guy bare.

“Can’t say I’ve done the whole being chained to someone who makes you their lesser thing… Not lately, anyway.” There was a distant look to Rick’s eyes for a second as recollection came through. “Only two things ever tied me down? Marriage and work—in that order. And I nipped that shit in the bud a long time ago. Can’t imagine that being an option for you though.”

Something caught his attention. Amber bottles refracting light all wrong in a place of healing… Rick’s stare ran over the shelves, scanning labels as if he was casing a crime scene.

“Wait a minute—rehab hotel with a fully stocked bar?” He dragged out the words, half of his brow climbing higher with every syllable. “Doesn’t that kinda blow the whole moving on narrative outta the water?” He gestured lazily at the bottles, the faintest sneer curling his lip.

“Booze might not be a cardinal sin as far as I recall it,” and he didn’t recall much, “but you slam enough of it and suddenly you’re on society’s naughty list, being stared down by god’s little jury of misfits.” A second passed, then Rick’s stare swung back from the lined bottles to Husk. “Alright, so the spider’s an addict and his blood’s poison. Girlfriendless chick over there used to be an angel... Now, what’s your story, pussycat? Something to do with gambling? I mean, you’re practically branded with the stuff.”

why was it only ever the various ricks that ended up here before their deaths? maybe they were just the only ones who'd ever been the right combination of smart, reckless, & hedonistic enough to hack their way into actual, real-life hell. it didn't matter much to husk — his fellow rotten old boozers were some of the only quality conversation he got, around here. nursing a bottle of some irish beer — he was trying to cut back on being completely blottoed while actively on the clock, so sue him — the tomcat followed rick's gaze over to alastor.

the question was met only by a shrug. there were a lot of things that husk could 'unpack' about the radio demon... in private. here & now, with other people present, the shackle around his neck felt just a little too tight for him to speak about that. ❝ search me. it ain't the dancing monkey's place to talk about what the organ grinder's deal is— y'know what i'm sayin'? ❞

maybe not. maybe he was still a little too drunk for coherent metaphors. boss-lackey confidentiality, was what he meant, something a free agent like rick wasn't likely to understand.

❝ some of the others are makin' an attempt, at least. me— i just work here. mr. smiley over there roped me into it. between you & me — now that we're both chemically compromised — ❞ husk waggled his bottle, with a sardonic little smile, ❝ i think the opportunity for this whole 'redemption' thing passed me by a long time ago. but, it's the best gig i've had in a while, so— i'll help out, best i can. ❞ all that was what he told himself, at least. a gambler like him knew to hedge his bets.

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“Oh yeah? And what’s the verdict, nibble me ‘til I’m hard and keep me from your precious little princess?

Careful, Dustbunny… people might start thinking you actually give a fuck. But that’s not you, right? You’re the slut who doesn’t care about anything or anyone. Isn’t that the brand?”

Rick doesn’t forget the way Angel once stopped mid-fuck in a club just to shoo Charlie out... Couldn’t have her see him like that.

"THINKIN' ABOUT IT."

It wouldn't kill him - but it'd be distracting.