Rick

rick’s wrist was aching.

he felt like a horny teenager.

he had been fucking his fist for god knows how long- head spinning and arm tingling. he held his phone in one hand, volume up almost to the max (fuck it, nobody else was home), eyes pinned to the screen. your voice rang through his ears: moans and whines coming from the speaker.

he hadn’t seen you in weeks. you were busy with work and as much as he wanted to portal over to your apartment and fuck you stupid, he liked you enough to respect that boundary. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be annoying as shit about it.

every time he felt like he’d come, he’d slow his movements, abs tensing each time he did it. it turned him on- but what sucked was that you weren’t here to do it.

his cock was aching and he was losing feeling in his arm. rewatching the same videos of you and him were nice, but it was making it harder when he had to go back and rewatch them. he knew what would happen and what he’d say- what you’d say- and he was really feeling the need for something a little more real.

swiping out of his camera roll, he paused his movements, huffing.

it took him a few tries to click the message icon but once he did, he was typing as quickly as he could with one hand.

\ come ovr. \ now \ [IMG.png]

read 11:26PM

he felt like a child sending those messages- begging like a loser. you read the message immediately, though, and it made his heart (and cock) sing.

he sent another quick message before putting his phone down and dropping his head on the back of the couch.

\ couch sex?

read 11:27PM

shameless bastard.

he let out a throaty groan when his hand started moving on his cock again and he used his free hand to lift his shirt up a little- he didn’t want to stain it. his cock was leaking, making slick sounds echo throughout the space.

“fffuck,”

rick heard you pull into the driveway, heard the slam of your car door, and his head was spinning.

fucking finally.