When kids do good, you gotta reward them.

by DexterJemima

Chapter 2: My complicated feelings for my grandson

Summary:

Rick can't help himself and decides to pay Morty a visit, it brings up old memories.

Still set between season 2 and 3, Rick just does some sci-fi shenanigans that i had to barely explain to make this make sense.

Notes:

I AM VERY SORRY IT TOOK 2 MONTHS FOR ME TO UPDATE!

Breathe.

Rick sucks in a sudden breath through newly formed nostrils, feeling the fresh air enter his oesophagus that’s just been exposed to something other than the sterile fluid of his pod. Jesus, does it burn .

He forces himself to gulp down another mouthful of air, clutching at his bare chest as he ticks down the seconds until his body rewires itself and adjusts to actually living outside of that glass vat.

His eyes shoot open after his breathing dies back down to normal, his vision a fuzzy, black mess that veils everything around him in dark, as if someone’s holding a bag over his head.

His temporary blindness finally dissipates and he’s greeted to the harsh ground of the sub-basement littered with glass, all slippery against his palms with the synthetic amniotic fluid. He gropes mindlessly at the floor, trying to get his footing and stop his head from spinning.

Fuck. Shit. Ow.

Droplets of blood drip down his finger, staining his white skin crimson as it flows down his wrist, before breaking off as a bead into the puddle beneath him. Pain stings through him as he leans back on his haunches, wincing as even more glass digs into his naked knees, attempting to pick out the fragments from his wound.

Wait… Glass? 

“Garage?” Rick’s voice is still hoarse, cringing as he physically feels his vocal cords vibrating for the first time, a sound that reverberates up his spine and rings in the neurolink he's lodged deep, deep in his skull. “Garage?” He questions again.

The glass, the… everything , should’ve been cleaned up immediately. The automatic sequence should've been put into effect the moment Earth’s satellites got the signal all the way from the prison. Providing him with a seamless transition from one body to the next and then discarding all the waste from the broken clone pod. That is, unless…

Stupid fucking Jerry!

Rick stumbles up onto unsteady legs, almost slamming back down onto the practical death trap of shards beneath him as he attempts to balance himself. God, how do you even walk again?

He feels boneless, limbs shaking under his weight after months of being immobilised, packed claustrophobically one-by-one in those tiny cells, cuffs shackling his joints. It’s as if he’s a kid learning to walk again, stretching his limbs and practically hearing his ankles pop as he steps one foot in front of the other. 

Rick grits his teeth together once he hears the crunching sound of glass, digging deeper into the untouched flesh of his soles, sinking into that pink tissue and he prays to whatever higher God out there (There is none, of course) that Jerry hasn’t thrown out all of his gear.

He has arms kept out in front of himself, eyes straining as he tries to wade his way through the pitch black room; the darkness acting as a blindfold to his already depleted vision.

What more should he expect? Has Jerry trashed his spaceship too? Of course, this goes badly! With his luck, the mere sound of the glass breaking from the pod would have woken them up by now. His whole plan foiled in the first opening seconds.

Jesus, Rick’s half expecting to hear the sound of pounding footsteps above him, greeted to a whole army of galactic foot soldiers pointing guns at him the moment he pops his head out of the entry hatch.

Focus. He needs to focus. He’s eating away at the already limited time he has with this whole mess and he can’t afford to waste anymore.

A shiver runs up Rick’s spine, spreading goosebumps across his skin and he’s suddenly reminded of the startling fact that he’s still stark-naked; covered in fluid that’s dripping down his back, pooling messily around his feet.

Okay. Find the watch. He doesn’t need to be dressed for this anyways.

Feeling like a fish out of water as he makes his way to the steel length of his desk through pure muscle memory alone, hands skirting across the desk, groping wildly like a blind man. Where the hell is it?

His red inked fingertips graze over something in the dark, immediately clutching at it and drawing it near to his face. Thumb brushing against a button on the side of the object and instinctively clicking it, letting out a silent blessing as the watch interface flashes on.

 

“ A̴̡̱̠͇̥̱̮̦̝̻̓͋̿̿͌̇͋̐ḩ̷̡͓̻̣̬̱̜̞͕̹̇̓̌́̀̓̀̆̿͋̈́͠j̶̲̦͈̞̹̰̙̈́̿́͆̊͆̑̐̍̌̕͘k̴͉̖̃̓ǩ̴̙̮̼͇͔͎̜̘͕̠͔̃́̏̆͂̐͆̈͆͘̕!̶̫̙̓̆̽̾̈̇̊͂̍̊̚̕̕͝ ”

 

Rick’s head throbs , physically feeling his brain swell and press against the confines of his skull, his gyri spreading out into the grooves of his organ, his cerebrospinal fluids squelching wetly and God, can he feel it. Practically hear it.  Sending his eardrums ringing all on their own, his vision faltering before failing entirely. His eyes automatically flutter closed, trying to block out any speck of light which just sends his optic nerve pulsating like an unending migraine.

He knew that this neurolink thing was shoddy work. With the whole rushed surgery in some dingy, ice cream-shop, bathroom that had a broken mirror and a barely working light, not to mention having the galactic federation breathing down his neck so hard the air was beginning to fog. No one ever talks about how hard it is to connect two pieces of technology that are quite literally the whole length of a galaxy apart.

Performing DIY brain surgery on the lam is bound to have its consequences, and he just hopes he hasn’t triggered a seizure in his true body while mucking around with his neurons.

He’s just in this clone for a temporary amount of time, he has to remind himself of a simple act of switched consciousness. This isn’t freedom, just a taste of it. 

Prying his eyes open, he’s met with the grating, abrasive light of the watchface glaring back at him. Biting his tongue as he bears through the pounding in his retinas and swings his arm back round, crimson covered fingertips sifting through his scalp for the bumps from his homemade stitches, and then skirting lower towards the nape of his neck.

His fingers graze over the seam of his wound that guards the entrance to his brain stem. He must’ve butchered the homemade surgery on this clone while playing doctor no doubt, either lodged the chip too deep or too shallow.

It’s not like it matters… Necessarily.

This clone is set to disintegrate into ash once the biological timer is up, half an hour in this case  - or seep into the carpet like oobleck - Rick’s not entirely sure how this clone will react to radioactive levels so high that it’ll erase his chromosomes from existence, a mini chernobyl right in the family garage. But, his consciousness should be fine though, unimpacted if this goes correctly. Unless his actual body is suffering total organ failure right now…

He’ll deal with it later. 

Thirty minutes. That’s all the time he has. 

 

~

 

Please don’t wake up. Not yet.

The stairs creaked too loud, the hinges of the door squealing out, the handle squeaking as he closed it behind him. His breathing feels like a foghorn, blocking out his own hearing and zeroing in on the steady thump-thump of his heart that’s shot up to his throat. 

Rick missed this, in a way. The adrenaline of it - the shaky hands, ears on alert; the gnawing pit in his gut that persists like a stubborn weed, simply refusing to die. His legs feel unsteady beneath him, feet sinking into the green carpet and masking his movements.The vignette around the edges of his vision casts a shadow that encircles the room, compelling him to ignore everything other than the single thought plaguing him. 

Rick’s already on borrowed time. His eyes hastily flew to his watch: 26 minutes and 34 seconds. He can’t wait, not when he’s held off for so long, practically starving himself from this. A man has needs.

It’s silent apart from his own movements, the house eerily still. Empty from sound as if Rick’s been sealed within a vacuum, frozen in a time that he can still picture clearly despite it being months ago. The obvious reason dawns on him slowly.

No one woke up. No one heard the shattering glass. No one has been staying up late to wait for him. 

(He doesn’t so much as acknowledge the stab of loneliness in his heart, the dagger twisting as he opens Morty’s door just to find the boy blissfully asleep.)

That’s good. Interruptions would waste the already limited time he has. It’s easier this way, to be unnoticed. It’s the best outcome.

( He simply ignores the exbibitionist in him that was begging to be caught; to be left paralysed in place as he attempts to climb the stairs bare-naked before hearing the slurred ramblings of his daughter )

His logistical brain knows that. 

( Or: if he was about to open Morty’s door and instead he heard Summer’s creak open. )

It’d be too risky otherwise…

( Or: being welcomed to the pristine view of seeing Morty unable to sleep, waiting for him even after so many months. )

But—

Seriously, no one’s awake at all? Not even Jerry?

It’d be stupid to want conflict. Rick reminds himself of that; pessimism is a perverted disease.

The curtains are drawn and it leaves Morty’s room encompassed with dark, obscuring the orange glow shining from the street lamp outside, muddying the clouds a dusky grey. Rick’s grateful for that slim act of modesty and he bites back the nausea eating away at him - swallowing the bile that’s corroding the back of his throat - knowing what this looks like to an outsider. The cliche ‘old man sneaking into his grandson’s room under the cover of night’.

He would never hurt him. Morty’s just so pure, and it evokes something within him that he can’t name. Or more frankly, doesn’t want to. The innate urge just to ruin him. It’s the snow compressing and compacting in your driveway, the want building up on each layer of itself until it’s blocking your door and you can’t even step outside no more, boxed in with no way to escape. Rick’s always been a weak man to his whims and Morty exploits that, targeting that soft spot in him with each Please Grandpa at time.

Really , Rick’s the real victim here, being tempted like this, by some fucking seductor. Morty knows what he’s doing, all those bashful glances and blooming red cheeks, that drowsy look in his eyes which just makes Rick lose himself, delving further and further into depravity until he’s beyond repair since the first day he saw him. There’s no way Morty’s that oblivious, that he’s that much of Jerry’s son. 

Yet, He’s already preempting the guilt that settles in his stomach that he’s become so used to, freezing over and sinking, sinking deeper and deeper like lead into that unending pit in his gut, the one he keeps desperately trying to fill. Rick tries to repeat that blatant fact he’s become accustomed to, chanting it like some kind of mantra:

He wants it. He wants it. He wants it. He wants it.

And if he doesn’t, it’s not like he can fight back anyways… Not like he’d even remember it happening in the first place…

Jesus– 

Maybe he really has lost all humanity? 

Rick’s not going to hurt him. He really wont. His choices just don’t matter any more, not the constant cycle of abstaining and the indulging and the refraining just to end up right back here where he started, looming over Morty’s bed under the cover of night. Nothing holds any importance when he can just erase the idea that it was even done in the first place. 

What he had going: The whole stash of memory guns hidden all throughout the house, the detailed schedules of everyone in the family, the sound-proofed walls, the locked doors - it was never going to last. They would find out eventually, or the memory gun would malfunction at the most disastrous time, or whatever else on the list of possible dangers Rick’s got himself in for once he started thinking with his cock instead of his head. 

The rifle would fire no matter what, the safety would fail and the hammer would be dropped; leaving Rick caught with his pants down. Literally.  

Morty is curled up in bed asleep, entirely oblivious with that blank, empty look all over his face, looking almost lifeless with his eyes closed and mouth open, drool edging its way down his chin. Rick can practically taste the mint on his tongue from here, wanting to lap at every last drop until he’s licking at the backs of Morty’s teeth and digging his tongue into those premolars.

He won’t remember .

It’s not like he’s drunk now. He’ll be more careful. Not as rough. He can promise that at least. He doesn’t want it to hurt. 

He won’t remember no matter how rough you are.

If he’s honest, Rick forgets as well. Every one of these nights he slinks between the gap in Morty’s door, he forgets a little more. His old age blurring together each small fist to pump into, each wet mouth to fuck, each breathy gasp against his lips into a vague jumble of limbs moving and sweat. The memories fragmenting into one another like some demented picasso painting, a P-Please stop Rick! there and an I’m close… here until they refract into one another. 

But, there’s always a fraction of a second after the trigger is pulled, where time seems to move at a doubling pace, and Rick’s eyes are always drawn to Morty’s face at that moment. Always. Zeroing in on the nanosecond after the white flash of light fades where he can physically see the soul bleed out of Morty’s eyes. The memories erased from him. No matter how many dozens of times he does this, he always remembers that.

In this dark room, Rick’s eyes immediately latch on to the sight of Morty. His skin is porcelain white like dark sunshine from the full moon and Rick’s hands are itching to touch.

These early stages, the preamble -  the constant straining of the ears just to listen for a simple change in breathing, or a creak that’s really just the branch smacking against the window - it’s like heaven. That build up of uneasy, blissful anticipation in your stomach till it’s weighing you down to your knees because that’s how heavy it is, it makes him come back time and time again. 

His dick is already throbbing , body kicking into overdrive like an addict whose brain is fried from the constant dopamine, every single one of their cells screaming for poison. Jesus, he feels like an addict… He barely has enough resistance in him to deny the depraved desire he has to corrupt Morty all over again, The need within him simply won’t let up, and he finds himself stumbling forward, closer and closer until he really can’t back out anymore. 

Don’t–

 

~

 

“I- I... I knoUUuoOuGhh you’re w-watchin’ me, MooUUurty,” Rick squints over his shoulder, already knowing who’s there. 

The wave of heat hit him with a vengeance, overflowing his senses and flooding every pore with sweat until it’s sticking to his clothes like a rigid suit, practically drowning in it. He never noticed the sauna that this room had become until Morty opened the door, but the fresh wash of cool air spilling into the room offers him a slight moment of relief.

Morty has always been conspicuous, it’s just who he is. Always just a paltry second too short to duck behind cover, always lagging behind Rick whenever they’re running from God knows what, always accidentally elbowing the closet door they’re hiding in and tumbling out right in front of whatever alien they’re evading, always speaking out the moment the room goes silent.

Rick could probably know the kid’s footsteps simply from sound alone by how hard and loud Morty slams his heels against the floor. Not a single ambiguous bone in that body of his. 

“I- I didn’t… I didn’t mean to disturb you,” The door creaks once Morty closes it behind him (loudly, of course because what else should Rick expect?) and seals all that stuffy heat inside, “It’s uhh.. warm in here.”

Rick takes a moment before actually moving, basking in the heady bath of alcohol that’s still being held over his head, then reluctantly rolling over to face Morty and sitting up with a stifled grunt to be somewhat level with him.

Why is he here? It’s normally Rick stumbling into Morty’s room late at night, not the other way around. 

Does he know?  

Rick’s holding back the urge to ask him what he’s doing and bites back the building heat in between his legs. He wonders if he himself looks this pathetic when he ambles into Morty’s room some nights. The boy’s face is cherry red, the bottom lip taken between his teeth, and Rick is suddenly reminded of how little self-control he has. 

He peers up at the kid to find a meagre glint of anything in those eyes, but all he finds is Morty’s shyness. He’s unable to even meet his gaze and Rick isn’t sure if the blush blooming in his grandson’s cheeks is from the heat or pure nerves… 

Or shame. 

Does he know?

“I like the… t-the heat,” Is what he finally slurs out when he’s reminded that Morty actually said something, breaking their impromptu staring contest after realising this seriously isn’t going anywhere. What is he doing?

Morty doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know anything. He can’t, Rick checked the gun’s calibrations every single, Goddamn time. Dear God, He can’t know.

“You’re… Y-You’re going to die from heatstroke in your sleep…” Morty chuckles nervously and it fades off into the awkward silence that fills the room. Is that seriously all he wants to say? 

If Rick knew the amount of turmoil he’d be putting himself in every single second he’s around Morty - this constant knowing and not knowing, that unbearable uncertainty of it all that never lets up- he’d have never stumbled into the kid’s room for the first time almost a year ago. There’s never a single moment he doesn’t think about it, always glancing over at Morty in a desperate attempt to read his thoughts, always doubting his own instincts, always double-checking the memory gun as he stands outside of Morty’s room right before stumbling right in.

Sometimes, just sometimes; he catches glimpses of something unnameable in Morty’s eyes when the boy is not looking. Maybe it’s some arcane way he’s just staring blankly or the slight tense up in his jaw or how his eyes are filled with malaise but it just screams out to Rick, in an undeniable, terrifying sign that he knows.

–And then Morty looks back, smiles, and Rick calls himself stupid for even imagining that horror show. 

Morty doesn’t remember. He isn’t coming here to confront him, or to expose him to everyone in the family… or to sink down to his knees and spread Rick’s legs open with trembling palms, that innocent face pressed between his thighs right before taking his cock into his—

He doesn’t remember. 

“W-What do yoOOUuh w-want? C-Can you not.. Not leave an old man to drink alone? R-Real Trooper, Morty.” Rick finally breaks the silence, rising off of the bed and now it’s Morty who is looking up to him. His hand reaches out, wracked with a drunken tremor that has seeped into his bones through years of habit, all to cup Morty’s face and feel that clench of teeth once he forces Morty to look. He’s scared. “You.. You can’t even look at me. Jesus..”

“Aw Jeez. I- I was.. I just.. I..” The worlds warble together and fold into one another in Morty’s mouth as if his cheeks are full of marbles, eyes wide and full of something that Rick chases after. He attempts to wriggle away and out from Rick’s grasp but he just holds on tighter “M-Mom told me to.. To check on you..” He eventually whispers, that tone of voice which is almost begging Is that the right answer?

“You didn’t come to dinner..” Morty continues, and his eyes relax a little bit more, actually bearing to keep his grandfather’s gaze. All of the sudden, Rick is incredibly glad that Morty can’t glance down right now, “We were just worried.. That’s all.”

That’s.. All? He squints his eyes, trying to make out Morty’s face through the dark. That’s all?

Rick has to physically remind himself that he doesn’t know where the memory gun is at this very moment, that Beth is probably waiting for her son’s return and that it’d be suspicious if Morty was gone for too long, that he has to control himself for once.  

Morty really has ruined him in a way, in a way he’s the one that suffers the most. At Least Morty gets to forget. Rick’s stuck coming back, unable to cum without it.

Rick nods and begrudgingly lets go of the caustic grip he had on Morty’s chin, seeing the red marks left behind on those already blood-filled cheeks from his fingers. “Well.. I-I’m fucking fine, Alright? Go.. Go tell your Mom that and pray your.. Your… y-your wimpey ass dad doesn’t have a panic attack over me not having dinner.”

The cot creaks beneath him as he sits back down on it, the springs worn down from countless nights of having Morty in here, although not like this - it’s normally Morty who’s the one stomach first on the bed.

He pinches at the bridge of his nose before letting his back hit the mattress with a quiet thump, eyes scrunched closed. Clearly a wordless hint for Morty to get lost and traipse out of the room. He can feel the unrelenting hardness between his thighs, pressing right up against his zipper and tenting his pants. Silently praying that the darkness is enough to cover the semi he’s sporting right now. 

And yet, his ears do not perk up to the sound of the door opening. 

“M-MoOOuUghty..” He belches, dragging his palm across his face, his patience waning at the second, “Can you not tell I’m t-trying to get you.. You to leave over here?” He can sense Morty’s presence even with his eyes still closed, the boy looming over him lamely, looking down at himself, shifting his weight to each foot - almost as if he’s building up the confidence to do something . 

The uncomfortable silence dredges on like glugging footsteps through mud that keeps on trying to draw you deeper. But, Rick doesn’t open his eyes, his own stubborn attempt at defiance, hoping that if his eyes stay closed he’d be able to convince himself to go back to the same wallowing state he was slowly, and gratefully, killing himself in before . 

“Ri -hicc- Rick” 

That’s the only thing that makes him fold.

“I-hicc-I need to.. To tell you s-something…”

Rick props himself up on his elbows, staring up at his goddamn grandson standing before him. Crying , of all things. Morty’s arms are tense with locked elbows hanging by his sides, hands clenched into fists as he struggles to keep the trembling of his lower lip under control, letting out these pitiful sobs that sound like he’s choking on air with each shaky breath .

God, what did he do now?

“J-Jesus. Morty.. I-” Rick stutters, and now he’s the one choking on air, “ Fuck, W-What.. Eh.. What’s wrong?”

“Rick.. I-.. I-...” No words get out of Morty’s lips, barely even getting past his tonsils before they turn into a gasping wail, almost turning into those incoherent screams that infants make; his fists grounding into his eyes are he desperately tries to wipe away his tears but they just keep on coming. “I’m.. I-I’m sorry.. I-.. Rick.. I…”

Rick nervously gets up onto his feet and there's this second where he’s just standing there with his arms lamely outstretched in front of him as if he’s lagging a moment behind, mechanically drawing Morty closer because that what he has to do - feeling the tears and snot on the kid’s face press right against his breastbone and seep into his shirt to leave a wet patch that marks his skin. He’ll probably have to wash his shirt once he’s done here anyways. 

“It’s.. It’s fine..” Rick attempts to comfort despite the knot tightening in his throat, arms wrapping stiffly around Morty. He’s so, so close to him, he can feel each expansion and contraction of his diaphragm, each shaky breath grazing the already soaked stain on his shirt, that face buried into him out of embarrassment. Morty can probably feel him against his hip too... Self control, he reminds himself. 

“What’s.. What’s up, buddy? What’s got your panties all in a twist, hmm, M-Morty?”

Morty lets out another choked out sob, his voice muffled and broken up by creaky breaths as he mutters, “Rick.. I- I.. There’s something wrong with me..I- I didn’t mean to.. I didn’t mean to.. I- I’ve been having these…” He cuts himself off.

These… what? 

Rick clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and is entirely, completely, definitely ignoring the root of paranoia sprouting in the back of his mind - awaiting the inevitable moment that seed blossoms once he catches a glimpse of Morty’s stare, and then suddenly, his skull is a lush garden full of it. 

Rigidly, letting his hands stroke up and down Morty’s sides, trying to stop them from shaking that’s practically possessed the kid, before skirting up to his shoulders and forcing Morty out of the burrow he’d dug in his chest. 

Morty’s face is slightly puffy, eyes red and lashes wet with tears and he’s gazing up at him, terrified and desperate all at once. Does. He. Know?

“T-Talk to me, Morty…” 

“I’m.. I-I’m so.. So fucking weird, Rick. There’s.. God, there’s something wrong with me, I keep having these - hicc - dreams. I’m trying not to think.. - hicc- Think a-about it. I.. I promise it doesn’t mean anything! I swear. It’s just.. God …” 

Morty can barely look at Rick, head bowed down like a weight is hanging off his spine, “Please fix me…” His voice cracks between hyperventilating breaths before dying out altogether and withdrawing deep inside of his chest.

Can Rick really resist a plea like that?

Rick pulls him close once again, his arms wrapped around his back and pressing into the centre of his shoulder blades, feeling each vibration of his lungs that wracks his frame like a rushing tide. He tries, he really does, to ignore the intrusive thought that in a weird way, it feels like sex. The two of them become one, with Morty falling into him and having no escape from Rick’s intimate arms. This seriously isn’t the time..

God, He looks even younger like this; he looks even easier like this. It’s almost as if Morty’s receded back to being a kid and Rick likes to imagine that this is what he used to look like: tiny and shrivelling and begging and so tempting, sobbing into his mother’s breast.

With Morty still in his arms, he sits back, pulling the kid onto him and he just sinks into it, feeling the heated, wet-with-tears flesh against his neck and each sob that Morty lets out, “Hey, H-Hey.. It’s okay, It’s okay..” Rick tries to comfort, knowing damn well that his cock is pressed up against the boy’s inner thigh,  “You don’t need to talk about it… Just- Just stay here for a little while, o-okay?”

Where is that memory gun?

Morty pulls out of the alcove of Rick’s neck and leaves a big wet patch on his skin, eyes still blurry but trying to shake his head free of them, to run away from the burning cocktail of disgust and embarrassment that’s just begun to settle like a pool in his stomach that always comes from saying something you seriously shouldn’t, “A-Aw Jeez... I- I should.. Mom is gonna.. w-want me back for dinner.”

“W-With your eyes still red like that? Jesus, they’re either gonna think I’m either abusing you or letting you on to my stash. Just.. s-stay here for a bit..” Rick shuffles back and his hands are on Morty’s hips now, still skinny with that thin skin stretched over the bone that he wishes would never change.

Morty sniffles, blinking through the vaseline filter blocking his vision and there it is . Morty freezes and Rick relishes in the feeling of it against his hands, when all the vertebrae in the boy’s spine locks, snapping in place and paralysing him. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s kneeling over his grandfather like a hooker with his goddamn hands on his hips of all things, or the fact that it was Rick that put him in this position. Or most likely: it’s the throbbing thing that’s pressing into the crease of his thigh that Morty knows isn’t just a belt buckle. There it is.

He knows now.

“But.. M-Mom’s gonna.. Gonna be wondering why I’m taking so long though.”  Morty tries to pull back and Rick swears he can hear his thoughts just through that whiny, desperate tone, Rick doesn’t mean anything by it right? He’s just drunk. He’s old, can he even get it up anyways? This position doesn’t mean anything… God, It’s my fault I even started crying. It’s probably just the drink. It’s the drink. Please, be just the drink.

“C’mon.. Morty..” Rick breathes out and it wafts on Morty’s face, his nostrils flaring at the scent of alcohol. The kid tries to lurch away again but he just tightens his grip on those hips, hoping to maybe even bruise bone, “B-Beth.. She loves me. She’s not gonna.. G-gonna think anything about it.. Just stay here.”

His voice is barely audible now, just that low rumble, that desperate begging that he doesn’t want to actually voice because then it’s real, leaving it all between the lines, “But.. You.. you just said that she’ll think I’ll be.. T-taking drugs or something if I go back to her–”

“Jesus, Morty!” Rick spits and Morty practically jumps out of his lap, “Stop being such a fucking pussy. Y-You think I’m.. I’m gonna fucking hurt you or something? You think I’m that awful, huh, M-Morty? You think.. What.. I’m some kinda monster?”

Morty shrivels back inside his shell and Rick can feel the tension in those thighs against his own, building up the innate urge scramble back and onto the floor, to get out of his grandfather’s invasive hands that are on his hips, his thighs and who knows where else in the next few moments.

“Grandpa…” he whimpers, “Y-you’re scaring me..”

Rick lets his hands relax and slide off of Morty’s hips once he hears that dulcet tone in his voice, begging and scared and ductile, rising up the kid’s sides to rest on that waist of his, “ Fuck .. Hey. I’m sorry, Morty..” His words do little to comfort him, “I’m just.. J-Just drunk.. You know that, C’mon.. Don’t look at me like that.”

He knows that his time is limited, that he’s eating away at this sweet spot he’s found himself in, where he hasn’t done enough to send Morty screaming but just enough to have him terrified and immobile because of it, to make him know . He’s done this countless times by now to time it perfectly, to calculate the precise, right amount of intruding hands with that tone he’s mastered to replicate it again and again. Rinse and repeat with each flash of the memory gun. 

“I didn’t.. I didn’t mean to yell, Buddy. C’mon. You’re just scared, o-okay? You’re looking too far into it. Just lemme hold you.. C’mon. Morty,” Rick grips his hands around the kid’s waist, his grandson’s waist , and forces his frail body down on him, driving those skinny hips to rock and rub against the insistent straining in Rick’s pants. 

Morty flails for a moment, his body a lingering second behind his brain, taken aback by the sheer suddenness of his mother’s father touching him like this. In a way he shouldn’t. Before, his arms reach out to grip onto Rick’s shoulders even though he’s trying to desperately scamper away from him - like he inherently knows the familiarity of this situation. 

As if the countless amount of times Rick has erased his memory doesn’t matter,  leaving Morty’s brain damaged and weak, easily letting things slip through the cracks; such as the learned motion of Morty grinding against his grandpa’s cock. 

Rick can feel it in the twitch in those hips, subconsciously taking over to rock back and forth, to want it. Like it’s built into Morty now, all the things that Right has taught him are inseparable to him like some flawed, second nature; and there’s no way, no matter how much screaming and crying Morty does, that he can undo that. 

There’s no chance he doesn’t want it , really.

“Rick,” Morty’s crying again except now it’s for a totally different reason, it escapes as a drawl into his words, drenching the phonics of it. Rick loves the sound of it, and his own hips join in too, grinding against his grandson’s ass, “Rick.. W-What is.. Is that.. T-thing?” 

Rick can barely answer through the breath that feels like heavy smoke escaping his lungs, “W-What.. Mm.. What thing, buddy?”

“The thing against m-my thigh…” Morty whines, his hands are pathetically trying to push at Rick’s shoulder but he has him now, caged him in and thrown away the key.

He knows that Morty knows the answer but Rick indulges anyway. 

“You never seen a boner before? N-Now I know that’s a fucking lie..” He drags his thumbs across the crease to Morty’s pelvis, feeling the thumping capillaries beneath thin flesh, “I’ve.. I’ve seen your search history, you really don’t hide it well. Goddamn goldmine t-that thing is. You t-tryna.. Tryna say you never got an erection before? Or are you just shy?” His hands move too fast for the kid to react and suddenly deft, skinny fingers are undoing his buckle and fly, yanking down the zipper with a crack, “L-Let’s see what you’re sporting, huh?”

“ Rick !” Morty yelps, and his body finally wills itself to move, yanking backwards and out of bed with a thump, barely registering the hit he’s taken to the base of his spine because he’s trying to crawl back and away, “W-What the hell are you doing?”

Rick sinks down on his knees to join him, grasping through the blanket of dark that covers the whole room to fish out his hips once again, tugging the jeans the rest of the way down until they’re bunched up denim by his ankles. “You know what I’m doing. Don’t.. B-be an idiot, Morty.”

“N-no, stop!” Morty gasps, his legs kicking feebly, trying to wrench away from Rick’s hands that are edging closer and closer to his crotch, attempting to roll over onto his side to hide himself but he’s just tugged right back to where he was before. The door is right there, his family is right there, yet Morty can’t escape. 

“Shh. Shh… Be quiet.. I’m not gonna.. I-I’ll be gentle. I’m always gentle..” He slides his hands up Morty’s skin, skimming across the caps of his bare thighs, simply taking his time before he makes his way up to those boxers, with worn-out elastic and that faded white-now-grey fabric that doesn’t even complain to the barest of a tent that’s poking through the crotch of it. Holy fuck. He’s hard.

Rick’s eyes widen, so do Morty’s. 

“W-What’s this, huh?” Rick can feel the smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth, running his fingertip across the head of Morty's cock, pressing into the slit and feeling precum ooze out, wetting his skin even through the fabric. “Y-You get hard from feeling your grandpa’s dick?”

Morty desperately shakes his head, choking out a last ditch “No!” through the snot dripping down his upper lip, the tears running down his cheeks that blind him. “I.. I didn’t mean to! I don’t know why–”

His words lose all meaning once Rick’s palm presses against his dick, rubbing the heel of his palm alongside the underside of it in this grossly, disgustingly, perfect way and Morty squirms, legs twitching at the simplest of contact. Needy.

“R-Rick.” Morty whimpers, trying to push away but his tiny cock just throbs, leaking more and more precum onto Rick’s hand, “Grandpa-” His voice is weary as it croaks out, trying to appeal to Rick in some awful way, “Grandpa.. P-Please.. Stop..”

He knows what to do. It’s been instilled within him again and again, and it doesn’t take as much as a second to tug at Morty’s waistband, snapping it against his skin simply to watch the boy twist, to watch the resignation cast over his eyes.

He may not want it but he’ll get it. He’ll get it as Rick slides his grandson’s boxers down his hips, getting caught on the boner that's standing up parallel , before with a yank, he tugs it down all the way and his cock springs out.

It’s hard without Rick even touching it and pitifully small, pink at the tip and all wet, glistening with precum that’s almost begging for him to lick it off. To wrap his lips around that tiny, fucking cock until Morty’s coming undone beneath him. 

Rick knows it by memory now, like how a blind person reads braille, he knows that as he wraps his hand around Morty’s cock and gives it a little squeeze that he’ll jolt; watching as his own fist dwarfs that shaft all except from the head that pokes out, anticipating the twitch even before he presses his thumb to the ridge alongside it. 

“God,” He breathes, eyes skirting back up to meet Morty’s, “Y-You’re a fucking pervert. Aren’t you?” 

“No.. N-No, I’m..” Morty can hardly breathe more than creaky whimpers, let alone speak through the tears running down his cheeks, eyes red and ruined, scrunched shut and turned away so he doesn’t have to see what Rick is doing to him. Rick takes that as his opportunity to yank Morty’s shirt up to his neck, sliding his hand up his side and feeling each shaking breath. “Please.. I- Please be a-another dream.”

He lets out a sharp exhale through his nostrils and smirks, barely even registering what his grandson said, “All.. All real, buddy. This is happening.”

Rick presses his thumb against Morty’s nipple and he jerks, lips parting to let out another beg before Rick swoops down and silences it with his lips. Pressing his wet with liquor mouth against Morty’s, forcing his tongue that he knows smells of bad beer past his lips and licking into his mouth, tasting the lingering sugar of Morty’s half eaten dinner still on his taste buds. 

“Mmphh!” The words get lost muffled between their lips and Morty tries to pull away for a moment even though he knows it's futile - like staring up at the sun green and flickering, breaking through the surface of the water yet knowing that it’s just out of reach as you sink lower and lower. Morty’s too far gone and Rick’s his only lifeboat.

He’ll make him want it.

Slowly, Morty starts to kiss back, like he’s finally realised there’s no escape, that he has to let Rick do this, that’s the only way he’ll come back from this. All that resistance dissolves in his bones and leaves him limp against Rick, timidly moving his lips and trying to imitate what his grandpa is doing; exactly like a teenager does.

God, nothing beats that. That clumsy, half-assed but also overeager attempt at kissing that everyone has built into them before they even so much as hold hands, that’s perfect.

“Pervert,” Rick whispers between breaths.

Letting out a heady breath against the kid’s skin, Rick drags his tongue against Morty’s before pulling back to graze his bottom teeth over his lip. There’s this moment as he pulls away where Morty is still leaning into him, not yet realising the loss of contact, head arched up and lips agape and waiting, until the realisation - that not only had he let that happen, but he was actively participating in it - quickly hits him like an oncoming wave and all of the nausea that had been left bubbling, simmering at the base of his stomach comes rushing up to his throat, ready to spew. 

Is it really that awful that he wants to be the best Morty has ever had?

 

“Shh… It’s okay. I-It’s okay you’re a little creep,” Rick’s knees sink further into the stained carpet, leaning over to cup Morty’s face and wipe away his tears but he just lets out another hiccuping sob into his grandpa’s palm. The kid tries again to say something through the film of salt and water clogging up his sinuses but he just chokes on it.

“Stop..” Is all Morty gets out, falling further and further into the floor until he’s trapped within the claustrophobic woollen fibres and Rick is blocking the only escape he has, “I- I don’t wanna....”

Morty turns his head to face him, to beg, eyes barely creaked open and his cheeks swollen and stinging from the salt on his skin. He’s not fighting back anymore, at most he’s letting out those pathetic whines every time Rick drags his thumb across his cockhead or circles his nipple, but still desperately holding back his moans that just end up escaping as rasping sounds from his throat. 

Rick can’t help himself. “Y-You don’t wanna? ” He doesn’t hold back the chuckle, “Jesus, I- I must be daydreaming cause.. I swear to G-God that you were just letting me slip my tongue into your mouth seconds ago.” He can physically see the disgust settle on Morty’s face, before it quickly fades once he puts just a little more pressure against his hardened nipple, twisting it just enough to cause a chain reaction that starts with Morty’s little spasming spine and works its way to his hips.

“ Liar, ” He hisses, leaning down again to kiss him.

Rick roughly picks up the pace on his dick, pumping up and down until the kid is keening beneath him, hips bucking and pushing into him, wanting it. Fuck , he’s gasping now, unable to control his breath and panting against Rick’s lips; frantic, heavy sighs that he just wants to swallow up.

Rick knows, as much as he hates it, that Morty would never beg for it and that this would be the closest he’d ever get to that. Wordless, stifled pleas that get more and more pathetic the closer Morty gets to cumming. Heaven .

A wet, squelching sound fills the room with each harsh jerk of his fist like some goddamn porno, smearing the precum that’s leaking out of the tip of Morty’s cock across his length, then giving him a little squeeze at the base just to feel him throb before sliding all the way back up to the top and doing it all over again. Morty’s close, Rick knows that, he feels that with each twitch of his cock. He’s not surprised, Fuck, that’s what he wants. The kid’s only fourteen and there’s no way he’ll be able to last with the demanding attack of teeth, tongue and hands that he has on him right now. 

Rick’s own face is becoming wet with Morty’s tears, smearing across his own cheeks the further and further he slides his tongue into the kid’s mouth, until he’s licking at the backs of his teeth and trying to dig out every last part of Beth’s homemade dinner from them. The dinner that's steadily growing cold, that’s more like an unofficial ticking time bomb looming over Rick’s head, ticking down the seconds until Beth gets enough of the ever growing, suspiciously long time that Morty is gone for and then—

Fuck. Where is that memory gun?

“God.. You look pretty when you cry. Fucking–” Kiss “Fucking love when–” Kiss “When you look like this.” Rick pulls back just to look at Morty, to take in the sight of him sniffling and crying, pitifully trying to turn his head to the side and bury it in his elbow at a bashful attempt at hiding his face, of robbing Rick the pleasure of seeing him like this: with his shirt hiked up to his chin and his jeans taut around his thighs, the literal first picture that shows up if you search ‘whore’ in the dictionary.

He knows that Morty doesn’t, that he’s just traumatising him again and again, but that’s the fun, isn’t it? To relive the first time again and again , to see his hopes fall again and again , to finally watch him give in and cum again and again .

“Always.. Always love the face you make when we do this.” His mouth is too loose from the drink, or the bated breathes against his lips, or the cock in his hand, or the insufferable, fucking heat of the room, but the words are rolling off of Rick’s tongue before he even has time to process them - tripping and falling out of his mouth like cascading dominos; falling over one another into a slurred mess, “I love it.. Y-You know, I do. You’re always like this. You cry.. A-and put up a fight at the start. But you want it, deep down you.. You want it and I know you do. I’ll show you.”

“W-What are you talking about, Rick?” 

The words hardly process in Rick’s mind, let alone the way Morty’s head perks up like he’s just heard something important, or the way he’s just spilled his guts all over the floor and doesn’t even care to pick them back up. 

Instead every single part of Rick is begging for more touch and that’s the loudest voice in his head right now, overwhelming all over senses and rational thought until he’s just acting without thinking. His hand slides off of Morty’s cock and the kid whines, instinctively lifting his hips to try to push back into Rick’s hand, but he’s already unbuckling his belt and stripping it off its loops, hearing the metal of his buckle clang against itself once it drops to the floor, before his clumsy hands work on his fly next.

“Rick.” Morty’s eyes are wide open, his brain finally rising above the nebulous cloud that Rick forced on him and waking up, “R-Rick.. What are you–? Stop…”

The jeans get stuck on his boner that's been insistently throbbing against his zipper for the past few minutes, before he yanks the chaffing denim down and pulls his briefs alongside it. Morty jolts back at the sight of his cock, eyes plastered wide like he has toothpicks holding them open, muscles tense and ready to scamper back because it's so, so much easier to justify a handjob rather than having to take your grandpa’s cock up your ass.

Rick can see the moment it dawns on him. That pure terror etched across Morty’s face, ingrained into every one of his muscles as the realisation sets in, the simmering squeak at the back of his throat, peeling back any hopes that Rick will just be happy with some lazy handjob to let it hit Morty all at once. 

“C-Calm down, Jesus. You act l-like I’m.. I’m gonna split you in half,” He chuckles, grabbing ahold of Morty's knees and hoisting his legs up, folding the kid over so that his kneecaps are brushing against his chest all while his back is still flat against the carpet.

“Stop!” Morty yells, his cock betraying him and leaking a pool of precum onto his stomach, his abs tensing beneath that thin layer of baby fat as Rick slides his hands from the backs of his knees and skirts them across his thighs, dragging his thumbs across the sensitive skin lining his inner leg and getting closer and closer to his hole.

He really is some kind of pervert for dragging this out for so long, huh?

“R-Rick! Rick! G-Get off me, please!” 

Rick’s never gone all the way with him before - at most he’s grinded their cocks together when he was drunk and his hands were too tired to do the work - maybe at some foolish attempt at preserving any kind of Morty’s innocence, of giving Rick one last failsafe for his conscience to fall back on when its late and his lips are too relaxed like times like these because sure, I molested my grandson but atleast I didn’t rape him!

But here Rick is, his thumb pressing against Morty’s rim, dragging his perineum down and watching as his puckered hole flutters, contracting and relaxing and fucking tempting him. His cock is hard and heavy between his thighs and Morty is right here . 

And their family is waiting for them right there outside the door. 

He didn’t want Morty’s first time to be like this, forced on the dingy carpet of his heat-soaked room with his legs cramping above him and his mother waiting for him a few feet away, so close that Rick’ll probably have to clamp his hand over the boy’s mouth so he doesn’t moan too loud, but Rick’s desperate. Morty’s desperate and knowing the kid, he’ll be willing. Shit, Maybe he could make him cum untouched?

“Hey. Hey.. I’ll make it good, alright? Yeah, you’re gonna.. Gonna feel so fucking good, I- I promise It’ll–”

“ What the fuck?”

You know, at first Rick thought he imagined it. It wouldn’t be a long stretch considering the dense cloud of inhibition he has over him right now, alongside his dwindling hearing. And then, for a split second, he thought it might’ve been Morty, if his voice suddenly leapt out of that before-voice-drop, squeaky lilt. Then, his brain raced to the last possible option.

“Dad, what the fuck is going on here?”

Rick’s head snapped up, immediately cocking towards the noise so fast that it felt as if neck was going to break. He could feel the wash of adrenaline gushing through his system, making his already over-pumped heart triple its beats per minute and he can hardly breathe, his lungs being crushed by his own rib cage, feeling it fall concave in itself, watching in slow motion as everything that he had built up over the past few months crumbles right before his eyes.

It’s beth.

When your body goes into shock, there’s two options: either flight or fight. However, Rick’s mind entirely skips those two and immediately runs head straight first into freeze, all of his old joints locking up, leaving his hands still cupping Morty’s ass and his cock out, all in front of fucking Beth.

His daughter. 

She looks terrified, and it's clear she’s paralysed too. Eyes wide and mouth fallen open, staring at the sight of her own son on the floor sobbing with her dad above him, pants stripped down to his thighs and hard. 

Fuck.

Finally, she snaps out of it and practically leaps towards the both of him, grasping Morty by his bare shoulders and tugging him backwards. Rick’s hands just slide off of him, his body unable to act, like he’s some passive observer watching as his own daughter screams like an elk, “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you..” She just repeats it over and over, screaming and yelling and drawing the attention of the whole house and digging Rick’s own grave for him.

“Jesus, Beth! Why are you screaming?” Jerry yells, trying to raise his voice above the grating noise, but all sound dies and wilts away when he steps into the door frame, Summer standing there with him.

Rick watches it all over again through Summer and Jerry’s faces, like some horrid replay of his favourite parts of Morty whenever he does this, the way their eyes widen and understanding hits them, not slowly but instantaneously, tugging them beneath the rogue wave and all the breath is knocked out of their lungs. “Oh my god,” Summer gasps, quickly rushing to Morty and working on getting his pants up.

Jerry just stands there, as frozen as Rick, and his eyes lock with him.

Something cracks in Rick’s head and he’s pulled out from his paralysis, his brain finally calculating that his whole family is clamouring around the door and that he needs to do something before his entire body seizes up and turns to stone. His hands are moving on autopilot, hastily yanking up his jeans and briefs, not even bothering to do them up properly as he stumbles to his feet.

Find the fucking memory gun.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Beth’s hand closes around his bicep, fingers digging into the sinewy muscle tissue even to bruise the skin as she attempts to yank him back to place. There’s a look in her eyes he’s never seen before; sheer, absolute anger that’s seeped into every one of her cells and making her shake with how full of it she is. “You’re not fucking going anywhere.”

Summer’s head lifts up, disbelief still all across her face, “Rick. W-What’s.. What’s wrong with you?”

Memory gun .

Rick butts his arm as hard as he can into Beth’s side, hearing the impact once his elbow hits rib and cringing at the sound of it, but her grip lessens on his arm for a split second and it's all he needs to pull away. There’s too much sound to think, noise overflowing from his ear canal and leaving his head hammering, pounding against the walls of his skull and Rick can hardly focus. His intellect sullied and dropping another 30 IQ points with each aimless minute that passes by.

He rushes past Jerry as he heads through the doorway, falling shoulder first through the garage door and almost slamming onto the ground once it opens for him. His mind repeating the same thought over and over again until it’s jumbled garbage, a slurry of where is it? and what the fuck have I done?

What if he doesn’t find the memory gun?

Jesus, he doesn’t know how many other dimension hops he can make, and he’s not even sure if he can do that. If he even has it in him to abandon all he has here. After.. decades of being alone, after finally becoming accustomed over the past few months to having a family again, after finally having Morty both beside him and beneath him - he can’t leave that.

“You’re fucking disgusting .” Beth mutters, Rick doesn’t even turn his head to look at her in the doorway.

Rick’s played through this a million times in his head, even toyed with the thought of simulating the whole reveal of it all, rehearsing his responses again and again, but it always felt like a faint thought then, a hypothetical scenario of the most awful outcome and never did he think it would be the next words on the tip of his tongue. With how smart Rick is, he should’ve remembered Murphy’s law.

“Don’t tell me something I already know,” Rick’s head whips around the room, scanning the piles of boxes and whatever other sci-fi projects that he has stacked high like skyscrapers all the way to the ceiling. He has memory guns stashed all over the house, his meticulous preplanning for every goddamn marginal error, for the smallest misstep so he can erase it all and start over. So why can’t he just focus and find a single one?

“I want you out.”

The desk, maybe? The sharp, clattering of metal hitting the concrete doesn’t even penetrate his senses as he clears the desk of all of its junk, letting it fall to the floor and quickly looking over the absolute mess of marred steel and scrap that definitely doesn't look like a memory gun.

“Did you hear me? I want you out. Now. Get the fuck out.”

“Beth, I- I.. I swear to God, shut the fuck–”

She cuts him off, “What is wrong with you? Do you.. Do you not even realise how.. How awful you are? I- I just walked in on you fucking about to rape my son, a-and you’re expecting me to shut up?” Rick’s still sifting through the garage, running to the other side of the room and working on the next mess on the counters.

“Fucking look at me!” Beth’s hand press flat against his chest, pushing him back and finally getting Rick’s head to turn and look at her, to see the blood rushing to her head and her bulging temple and the unshed tears in her eyes.

Rick doesn’t have time for this, the already ransacked and pillaged window of time that he has to even successfully erase all of their memories without some kind of brain damage is quickly slipping through his fingers. With his head down and distracted, he mutters, “W-What do you.. You want me to say, huh? I’m sorry? God, I wasn’t gonna.. I wasn’t gonna hurt him! I mean, you saw him, didn’t you?” 

Rick lifts his head to look at her ,“He was hard , come on, that’s ‘wanting it’, he wants it . I mean. I’m not fucking surprised. He’s more of a pervert than me!”

Heat flares across his cheek and it takes him a moment to register the impact of Beth’s hand slapping his face, “ Fuck you . You’re.. I don’t even have any words for you. I let you into my home, I.. I let you take him to God knows where at whatever hour of the night - I thought you were helping him! Is.. Is that the reason why you did this to him, ‘cause he’s a loner? Is that the reason why you were taking.. T-taking advantage of him?” The words get lodged in her throat like a boat leaning sideways in an already too small canal, blocking her airway and making the sentence escape as a rasp, “God, Dad, what the fuck were you going to do to my boy? ”

Tears begin to well up in Beth’s eyes and really, Rick should’ve shut his mouth, but it just keeps coming and he can’t stop it, the tide’s already been pulled back and stripped bare and the first wave is rushing forward. “W-What was I going to do? Really? You’re so oblivious, aren’t you? Isn’t everyone in this house? You, Jerry, Summer, a-all fucking.. Fucking idiots! I’ve been sneaking into Morty’s room for the past few months every night , and you never noticed. He’s been sneaking into my room, too. Huh? You ever think about that? You’ve been letting your son get molested for fucking weeks, a-and you’re coming in here, trying to act all innocent. You’re to blame too!”

“W-What are you talking about?” Beth’s silent for a moment and there it is , “Months?”

His fingers slip under the lid of the dryer, tugging it open and practically sticking his head into the bundle of clothes all matted at the bottom, his hands rifling through it until he finally grabs something solid, something metal. He can feel Beth’s eyes on him, staring right through to his nonexistent soul.

“Months.” Rick repeats, looking over to his daughter over his shoulder, feeling the heavy weight of the memory gun in his hands, slowly calibrating the settings all while keeping it hidden discreetly in the dryer still. 

“I- I don’t understand…” Her voice cracks, and all that anger which had been threatening to boil over dissolves into just dense regret.

“You won’t remember anyways.” And he lifts the gun, aiming it right at his own daughter, not wasting another moment before he pulls the trigger.

“Dad–?”

 

~

 

Rick couldn’t stay after seeing the look on all of their faces, reminding him so quickly that everything he had could just as quickly disappear. He had to go.The thoughts mulling over again and again in his head like tilled soil until it just turns into incomprehensible mush, until it was just a baseless action. 

All those years lost having paranoia held over you is taxing, it makes you anxious. The neck is always itching to look over the shoulder, it weas on your joints and chipping away at the cartilage month by month.

Rick’s been nervously awaiting the day that he’ll forget something miniscule and everything he built would implode in on itself. He imagines it as enchanting spectacle, like watching a nuclear bomb drop on your city and being taken aback by the pure beauty of the flash of light running across the land, the billowing cloud of smoke that ascends up to the heavens; failing to realise the radioactive fallout you’re standing right in. Ignoring how terrible, how egregious it is just because of the thrill it gives you. He knew that, one way or the other, his karma would catch up to him eventually - like some inevitable, cosmic force. and he didn’t want to see the destruction when it hits. So he left.

He used the federation as an escape for his consequences, rushing away like a coward to the arms of soldiers; to a cell where he doesn’t have to be confronted with the same, uncomfortable, unknowing faces of his family staring back at him.

Why is he the one being punished? 

It’s not his fault that Morty’s perfect for this, that he so skitterish and isolated from the outside world that no one could find out. Fuck, Beth didn’t even know, and he’s the one being punished like this? Tormented like this?. It’s not his fault that Morty is so easy , that he barely has to put any work in to have him keening into his touch like a starved lamb. And now, It’s not his fault that he hasn’t seen Morty in months, yet here the boy is, real and tangible and only an arm stretch away from touching. What’s really the point in stopping now if he’s come so far?

Morty’s fast asleep, no one else is awake; no one else is going to hear through the walls he soundproofed ages ago, it’d be too easy…

He can never tell his family the truth, of course not . God, he can’t even entertain that dumpster fire of thought after he was caught. Morty will never remember what he does to him except in that present moment. They’ll never even know there was anything but, and that’s what he wants. For him to be forgotten, temporarily so at least. To go undetected, for his family to forget that he was even caught red-handed in the first place. He’ll be back soon, truly back, with flesh and blood and all - sitting right in his seat at the dining table with a hand on Morty’s thigh and a memory gun in his back pocket. Normalcy restored. 

23 minutes, 8 seconds. 

Rick’s legs are moving on their own, a sick sense of muscle memory - like a pianist that knows the notes so well he doesn’t even have to glance down - reenacting the same steps he’s made countless times in the past. 

He’s already planning out his movements in advance: the reach he’ll have to make to grab the memory gun he has concealed beneath Morty’s bed when this whole thing started, the hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, even the jerk of his hips.

God , he missed this.

There’s this lingering thrill running down his spine, setting every nerve on end; every hair standing up, before pooling in his gut and running straight down to his cock. It’s been so long since he’s done this… felt the heat of another body against his own, have thighs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back. 

If only She knew…

Morty always looks so hauntingly peaceful in his sleep. Uncanny. Abnormal almost, (talk about morty clones and robots Supple skin relaxed and free from that constant crease between his brow, lips that are normally caught between his teeth now left alone, lashes wet with tears now dry. 

Morty’s mouth is slightly agape, pink lips open to allow these little breaths to escape, his head turned ever so slightly to the side to face Rick, all despite his eyes still being blissfully closed. Rick takes it as an invitation.  

In some contradictory way, his favourite part has always been watching the boy wake up. It’s been like that ever since the first time. To see those drowsy eyes slowly flood with realisation, to see his innocent face tense up again, with a clenched jaw and a hopeless sense of denial plastered across his features. 

Rick wants to ruin him even if he won’t remember it, desecrate Morty so terribly that even despite the brainwashing, they’ll still be a part deep, deep inside of him that remembers. That’s become so accustomed to Rick’s hands on him. That wants, even in some subconscious way, for it to happen again. He’ll taint him, mark him so desperately, so awfully that he can’t ever run to anyone else, not even Rick’s own daughter, no one. All so that he’ll be his. The mind may forget but the body does not.

Maybe even make him like it …

He’s a selfish, egotistical, haughty man; and he knows it. 

He’ll make him like it.

The springs groan out in protest from the added weight as Rick climbs onto the mattress, the bed just as old as Morty himself, the wood worn down and chipping away on the corners. He’s starting to outgrow it, having to bend his knees to stop them from falling off the edge. He’s growing up.

Rick doesn’t exactly know how he feels about that.

His knees sink into the memory foam on either side of Morty’s face, digging into the pillow as he perches ever so slightly over the boy’s chest, careful to not even graze any of his skin. His hands are moving before he knows it, cupping; cradling his head in his hands as he turns it to face him, savouring the soft skin against his own. 

Would it be selfish to keep him like this, forever ? 

Rick doesn’t want him to wake up yet. He wants to make it last, to have this ingrained into every spec, every inch of his memory so that it can captivate his every waking thought when he’s back in that cell. 

His dick is aching between his thighs, his crotch tight and his cock hanging stiff, leaking precum down his leg, tantalisingly close to Morty’s mouth. He missed this, missed him . He knows that Morty doesn’t remember anything, that he’s tainting him and not even affording him the decency to at least know that he’s damaged goods, but he can’t bring himself to stop. More realistically, he doesn’t want to.

Don’t wake up Don’t wake up Don’t wake up…

His thumb drags across Morty’s bottom lip, his index finger still dully bleeding as he tilts the boy’s soft chin upwards, smearing the spit that’s gathered there across it. He’s half-tempted to kiss it, lick it off, to cover it with his own saliva. To taste him. The other half is wondering how long he can push this till Morty will awake. 

Rick doesn’t have enough time to do what he truly wants, but he’ll make do. 

His eyes quickly skirt to the watch strapped to his bare wrist, squinting to see how much time he has left: 21 minutes, 19 seconds.

He rubs his thumb across Morty’s lip, pulling it down ever so slightly to expose his teeth before slipping inside. He can feel that wet tongue flinch against the intrusion once he presses the pad of his thumb against the backs of those incisors - savouring the blunt tips of his teeth that sink into his flesh. He shifts to the side ever so slightly, feeling the stubby points of Morty’s second molar that’s just finished peeking through his gums. 

It feels like a violation. 

It’s so wet… and Rick just knows that he’s seriously been starved with how his dick throbs at the feeling of it against his skin. Morty’s mouth is absolutely dripping with spit as Rick slides his thumb in deeper - feeling the soft, tender muscle of his’s tongue against him, tensing and contracting with the thumb that’s near bottomed out within his mouth, edging closer and closer to his uvula. His intrusive thoughts winning out and just praying that the kid doesn’t choke on him too much.

Rick’s stomach doesn’t just flip but it fully descends to his crotch before falling out and splattering onto the bed beneath him as that slimy, slippery spit coats his finger. There’s this nagging thought at the back of his head, desperate to know how deep he can go, how much of himself he can fit into him, as he nears the end of Morty’s throat, until the kid suffocates on him, coaxing his thumb further and further across that tongue until his hand physically can’t fit through anymore.

Jesus, he needs to get laid.

It’s not like he’s never had his mouth on him Morty, definitely not . He really should look into that oral fixation of his because most nights he sneaks into the kid’s room he’s between his legs with knees locked around the back of his neck. But Morty on him?

Rick’s always been too rough whenever he dips too far into his liquor cabinet but he never really could scrub his brain free from that one night he was half-passed out and he pushed Morty’s head down between his legs. Until morty was gagging and choking on barely a third of his dick, and still remebering the perfectly ruined look on the kid’s face once he pulled away and begged Rick for something, anything else. 

But that was.. Almost a year ago now and all he can really remember was the split moment of wet heat around him and Morty’s pants for breaths before it ended all too soon. Now he’s the desperate one.

The sight is too obscene. Morty’s lips stretched around his thumb makes it look huge in comparison to his tiny mouth. He’s already envisioning what it would look like wrapped around his dick: pillowy lips suckling on the tip of his cock, that tongue pressed flat against the underside of his shaft, heavy breaths pushed out through Morty’s nose that he can feel on his heated flesh. 

His cock is in his hand before he knows it, hard and heavy just from the thought of sliding inside of that wet mouth, to hit the spongy tissue at the back of Morty’s tonsils. He shuffles forward, knees buried in the feathers of the pillow, a hand woven through the curls at the back of the boy’s head and anchoring it upwards. That slack jaw lolling open just for Rick. What desperation does to a man.

Rick gives his dick a little squeeze at the base, the blood draining from his head and rushing towards his cock, feeling it throb insistently as he smears the precum forming at the tip across his lips, painting them with himself. 

Forget everything he said before. This is his favourite part.

He wants to have this immortalised forever, perennially burnt into his retinas like dying pixels on a screen; forever reliving the moment he slides his cockhead into Morty’s perfectly slick mouth. He sucks back a wince at the way his teeth graze against the underside of his shaft, feeling those sleepy breaths right on his sensitive tip. Rick could cum right there .

Morty is letting him do this, he has to. Morty wants it, laying there asleep and barefaced; taking his grandpa’s cock deeper and deeper into that wet cavern of his throat - letting out those little gurgling sounds as Rick’s dick hits the back of his throat, his muscles tightening around the invasion. 

Tease.  

Arrogance does something to Rick and all sensibility is thrown out of the window. He should be careful, he should be worried at how rough he’s being, at the ever growing possibility that Morty will wake up any moment now, that anyone could walk in and see his cock lodged deep inside his own grandson’s throat. 

Rick doesn’t even attempt to repress the urge bubbling up in the base of his stomach to thrust forward, burying half of himself inside of Morty’s mouth until the boy is gagging, practically suffocating on him despite the fact he’s not even halfway in. His hips do a little involuntary buck as he hits that squelchy tissue and the pool of spit that he slides into, coating his shaft  Precum is oozing out of his slit and dripping right onto Morty’s, his grandson’s tongue. 

“God. Morty,” Rick’s eyes scrunch closed, biting back the disappointment of missing the view of having Morty like this, but he’s too overwhelmed by the delicious heat running through him. He can hardly hear anything through the river of blood rushing through his ears but he knows he’s being loud. He’s too far gone to care.

His body is moving on its own now, not even having to think about the next drive of his hips, or the fast drag of his cock against his grandson’s drenched tongue, or the screeching bedsprings beneath his knees that are bound to wake at least someone up by now. 

He’s going to wake up. He’s going to wake up. He’s going to wake up.

Rick needs this . He needs Morty’s mouth on him, to have that small fist barely even able to wrap around the thickness of his cock, to have Morty impaled on him, to fuck him until the boy is unable to walk, to form coherent thought. Morty will learn how good it is soon enough. He’ll struggle, he’ll gag and try to pull away like an scared toddler, he’ll cry and whine, but he fucking wants this. There’s no way he doesn’t. 

“Fuck,” He lets out in a chocked moan, bucking further and further into Morty’s mouth, his back hunched over, sweaty hands cupping his grandson’s slack jaw, digging his nails into the flesh of his cheeks.

He can feel every flex of the kid’s tongue flat against his dick, the soft, soaked muscle of it that he wants to follow until he’s embedded fully within Morty’s throat. “J-Jesus.. Christ.” He gasps, his dick throbbing, begging to cum. 

These wet noises gurgle out from Morty's stretched throat, spit displaced around Rick’s cock and dripping down the boy’s chin, seeping into his sleep shirt as he drives himself inside of him. He’s not even halfway inside and yet it’s so tight , his dick sliding barely past Morty’s tonsils to dip into his oesophagus before pulling back, and then ramming forward again to elicit another gag.

Rick needs to see this. It really is too much of a sin to have his eyes squeezed shut during all of this, to ignore the view of Morty splayed open for him - especially when he knows that he’s going to be locked into that awful cell, immobilised and unable to be left with anything but his own thoughts. This is what he needs to think of, to remember the sight of Morty ruined like this, the supple feel of his Morty around him. 

His vision is blurry around the edges, eigengrau creeping through the corners of his sight and leaving him tunnel-visioned, concentrating only on Morty: on Morty’s tongue pressed against the underside of his dick, Morty’s lips wrapped around him, Morty’s face that’s so fucking peaceful, having no idea that his grandpa’s cock is going to be halfway lodged down his throat.

Maybe it’s just because every single nerve ending of his clone’s synthetic body is on fire; screaming at the top of its lungs for more, or because he’s never actually touched Morty without some kind of alcohol pumping through his system - his body not yet dulled down but whatever shit he’s usually on - or simply because it’s been so, so long since he’s had someone, not even just Morty, on him like this… but he’s close already. 

MortyMortyMortyMortyMortyMortyMortyMortyMorty

Rick’s hands grope out wildly, looking for anything to find purchase on before digging into Morty’s hair, clenching his fist and dragging out a handful of those locks. He yanks Morty’s head backwards and leaves his cockhead just barely resting between his lips. 

Morty’s eyes flutter open sleepily from the force, and Rick should’ve taken that as his chance to pull back, to use the hazy seconds after Morty wakes up to atleast fucking take his cock out of his mouth, but instead he doesn’t do a single thing, because who are you if no one can stop you?

“ Mmph mmIck? ” Morty hums around the tip to Rick’s cock, sending vibrations all the way to the base of his shaft and leaking even more into his tongue, trying to speak and slowly realising that the thing stuck in his mouth is not his own tongue.

“Ahggjk!”

He doesn’t even give him time to think about the next words that are toppling off of Morty’s tongue because before long it’s forced beneath the underside of Rick’s dick, roughly thrusting his cock all the way inside of his mouth. He can feel as the boy’s throat spasms around him as if it’s trying to draw him deeper in, barely even able to speak with the cock embeded in his vocal chords.

Hands hastily come up to Rick’s hips at the first hit to Morty’s uvula and dig their nails into the thin skin covering bone, pathetically trying to push him away to atleast breathe for a split second that Morty’s nose isn’t buried right up into Rick’s pubes. 

Fuck. This is what Rick needs, this is what he came here for, what he made this whole elaborate plan just to get his dick wet for, all to feel Morty gag around half the length of his cock and to see his eyes looking up at him, wide and begging and filled with tears that are dripping into the spit coating his skin and rubbing off on Rick’s thighs.

“You feel so good, y-y’know that?” Rick rasps and threads his hands through Morty’s hair, forcing the kid to stay in place as he uses his mouth like a fucktoy, his balls drawing up tight to his body and he knows that he only has a few more thrusts until he’s coming undone, “So.. So close. Fuck.. Just a, a few more, buddy. Fuck. ”

He can feel Morty sobbing around him, struggling to even cry out except for a wail that gets cut short whenever he slides in and out, throat constricting and it feels even better, tears dripping down his upper lip to smear across the top of his cock, before it gets soaked in the sea of spit all over again.

Three more, Two more, Rick jerks his hips back and once again leaves only the tip barely in Morty’s mouth and every other sense besides touch and sight is thrown out the window, where he can only focus on cumming deep down his grandson’s throat and the look on his face when he does it. 

There’s a split second where Morty can breathe, hot and heavy against the head of his cock and Rick can see the aphonic words already forming on his lips but he never gets to hear them, because the next moment he’s forcing his dick all the way back into that wet heat

“Mmm.. You gonna take it, M-Morty? Y-You gonna take grandpa’s cum?” His whole body twitches, legs shaking and knees burrowing further into the spit soaked sheets below him, fists clenching into Morty’s curls and gasping, panting above the noise of his grandson choking on him, letting out a pained akkjh! as Rick’s orgasm takes the wind out of his lungs. He empties himself into Morty’s mouth, spurting rope after rope of cum into his throat and filling it full of it, hand rushing towards the kid’s face to pinch his nostrils shut, forcing his airway to close and for him to swallow the cum pooling in his mouth. 

It’s over too fast, it’s always over too fast and Rick struggles to tear himself away, rolling his hips up into Morty’s cum filled mouth again and again,  addicted to the sparks of pleasure that shoots up his spine but get duller and duller with each grind that he tries to draw out, pulled and stretched out before fading into nothing except for a muted buzz in his groin.

Eventually, his own legs give out beneath him and he feels the blood return to his head, muscles sore from being clenched for so long and he falls back, falling limp onto his haunches and hearing the waterlogged gasp that Morty makes when his trachea is no longer plugged shut and immediately draws his knees up to his chest a moment after. Lazily, his eyes skirt to the watch, taking in through blearly eyes the distorted numbers that look smeared across a vaseline filter, having to squint and focus on the dim 9 minutes 32 seconds blaring at him.

“Is..” Morty tries to speak but his voice cracks and drops out beneath him from the lack of air, hands clutching at his aching jaw, smearing the digusting mix of spit and tears that’ll probably leave spots on his skin in the morning, “Is this.. This real?”

He squints at Morty now, “Jesus, are you a vegetable now? B-Brain dead from my cock?” Rick prays that never happens, there’s no way the memory gun or whatever other kind of hasty solution he cooks up could fix that.

Rick leans over the edge of Morty’s bed, his hand groping out aimlessly in the dark beneath the slats of his bedframe for the cool, metal handle of the memory gun all while Morty sobs in the back, hiccuping over his words just like he did all those months ago. “I- I… I’m.. W-What’s.. What’s.. Why are you here? H-How are you here? Y-You just.. You just disappeared!”

“Botched brain surgery and a neurolink,” God, how much shit does Morty have stuffed beneath his bed? Rick has to lurch over the edge, one hand gripping on the sheets just so that he doesn’t topple over head first onto the floor, his hand brushes against some kind of box, clothes stuffed so densely beneath Morty’s bed that the cotton has matted together and scrunched Lays bags, picking up a whole layer of dust from the books that Morty hasn’t touched whilst he does so.

“I- I don’t understand.. T-This.. This is just another dream, it has to be” Morty wipes the spit and snot and tears that are covering the lower half of his face on his forearm just to get recovered with another wave of tears, “Aw Jeez.. I- I swallowed it, and–”

“Yeah, I made you,” There it is! With Rick’s body halfway leaning over the edge, his hands finally grasp onto the cool steel amidst all the sweat drenched gym clothes and crumpled, yellowing report cards before hoisting his body back up.

“W-Wait. What the hell is that?” Morty’s eyes widen at the sight of the memory gun and Rick can’t help but chuckle at the irony. 

“Y-You know, I am really glad this worked out. I get that it’s hard for that little, puny brain of yours to wrap your head around being stacked in little boxes on some random ass spaceship, but Jesus, does it get old fast T-That.. That shit was sucking the years from me, kid.” He looks at Morty, still sniffling and trying to make the pillows swallow him whole, “I missed you, M-Morty. I came back for you”

With a flick of his thumb, the memory gun whirrs on and the batteries kick on, blue light spilling forth from the barrel and infecting the dark around it, drawing Morty’s eyes right to them before he lifts the gun right up to his face. 

“Wait! Rick!” Morty jolts back, his spine immediately straightening and getting ready to jump out of bed

He presses his finger against the trigger, feeling the familiar heavy weight of it in his hand before giving it a little squeeze and–

‘This is just another dream’

Wait. What?

White fills the room and steals Rick’s sight and leaving everything a lurid, lambent mess of light, he can hear the sound of Morty slumping back on the cushions, his body limp and comatose. Once the light fades, it doesn’t quite leave his eyes all at once, seared into his retinas and only dissolving after a few blinks.

What the fuck? Morty’s just laying there, entirely peaceful and seraphic and definitely unlike he’s just had a cock stuffed down his throat and thought it was another dream . What the hell does that mean? Rick’s eyes quickly swoop over him, before pausing.

There’s a tent pressing against the sheet covering Morty’s body and his eyes widen, having to reach out and give the kid’s boner a little squeeze just to make sure he’s not hallucinating from the sheer intensity of lumens his optical nerve just endured and feels the hardness of it against his palm. 

‘This is just another dream, it has to be’

What the fuck?

 

~

There’s a building knot in Morty’s jaw when he wakes up, did he really bruise his bone simply from sleeping funny? It's sore and aching when he tries to open and close his mouth, stretching out his jaw like some kind of biological ‘turning it on and off’, but it does nothing. And then, he feels the second ache, much lower and pressing up against his sheet.

His mind is foggy and numb around the edges, only catching glimpses of the heavy weight of something against his tongue, a tangy bitterness that’s spurted down his throat to the point where it almost burns, sharp and rancourous like when you accidentally drink through the wrong pipe, and of course , Rick above him. Is it bad to say he’s not surprised anymore?

The heel of his palm is already digging into his boner before he finishes that thought.

“Fucking wet dreams.”

Notes:

It's actually so hard to write for Rick, I'm trying to not make him seem like a total jack ass and find excuses for his actions, but jesus it is hard. Was up till 5 am two nights in a row trying to finish this off.

This is the end of *this* fan fic, but I'm probably going to write some more fan fics set before or after this one just to flesh out Rick and morty's relationship cause I feel like there's so much potential there.

Notes:

Am i terrified that this is attached to my online name for the rest of the internet's life? Yes, 1000%. I've never written fan fiction before, so I'm only mildly terrified. I would say that criticism is appreciated but that is a COMPLETE lie. I am too fragile for that. Also wishing that my favourite writer reads this. 100 loud dreams is going to be the death of me. Idk, if people like this I may add to it. I think the rickorty fandom is starved enough.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Such things can't exist without sleep