Chapter Text
“There is something wrong with you.”
…Is the first thing that rings through Morty’s head by the time his eyes flutter open. Greeted to the familiar sight of the ceiling enshrouded in blackish-blue, the whole room veiled in dark.
Morty can hardly feel anything except from the insistent, unrelenting throbbing between his legs, his body still humming from the sluggish grasp of deep sleep, not yet awake and not yet asleep. God, does he wish he was.
Jesus, Morty doesn’t even need to so much as glance down at the length of his bed to see his shameful boner poking through his blanket. Like an ant-hill poking through the bottom his peripheral vision.
He does anyways. Glancing down and seeing the tell-tale tent already poking through the blankets, the slight stain that’s been seeping through the fabric the whole night, wetting it with his pre-cum.
He peels back the duvet, cringing at the practical pool of wetness that clings to his crotch, certainly leaving nothing to the imagination as the outline of his leaking dick is on display. The cotton of his boxers turning translucent in response to the sheer, overwhelming amount of his horniness.
“There’s something wrong with me.”
Having wet dreams is normal. Morty definitely knows that more than anyone and the practical lecture that the teachers in his biology class are hounding into him and every other eighth grader doesn't help.
He just wants to ignore them, to push them so far down into his subconscious until they snap back, like a pool floatie that you held down beneath the surface for too long until it springs back above with a splash, hitting you right in the face.
Most kids his age aren’t struggling with puberty this much.
The mattress beneath him groans in protest, its old springs creaking as he turns over onto his stomach, trying to bury the pooling heat between his legs deep, deep down. Trying to ignore the itch that he so wants to scratch as he feels the weight of his boner against the sheets.
The cool fabric that feels so, so perfect against his heated cock, which would feel even more perfect if he just slid his hand down and…
Stop! Jesus.
It’s normal, he knows that, it’s normal.
Maybe it’s best to just get it over with? He has school in the morning and his grades cannot take another day where he just sits through every period in a passive trance. It’s not like he can bank on Rick—
Oh, yeah…
Just get it over with.
He’s slid his hand beneath his weight before he knows it, grounding the heel of his palm against his cock and groaning at the much needed friction against it.
His boxers are soaked through with his pre-cum now, stringing against his pubic hair like slime once he pinches the wet fabric of his underwear and pulls them forward, giving him a glimpse of his pathetic dick.
Think of Jessica. Yeah, think of her. Of her pale, soft palms wrapping around your dick, of long fingers topped off with purple nail polish, of lips lined with red that’ll leave imprints on where she kissed you.
His body shivers as his cold hand makes contact with his heated flesh, feeling a whimper bubbling up like caramel at the back of his throat once he wraps his hand around himself, leaning into the phantom sensation of Jessica’s smell. So deep in his imagination that he swears that he can breathe in the intoxicating scent of victoria’s secret spray that hangs around that girl like a cloud, pretending that he’s breathing it in right from the source, imagining his face nuzzled into the sweet spot between Jessica’s shoulder and neck.
Y-Yeah.. that’s it, kiddo. Touchin’.. T-Touching yourself so well for me.
His hand falters for a single moment simply out of pure shock before it speeds up and he has to nuzzle into the pillow to silence himself, practically humping his fist and the soft mattress beneath him at this point, grinding against his palm feverishly.
He just needs to cum, he needs to get this over with. To go back to sleep and act like a normal, non-perverted teenager.
Y-You’re twitching doOouUUghwn here, y’know that? Just.. Just beggin’ for grand.. Grandpa’s cock, huh?
Please, not now. Be normal, for once.
Jessica. Jessica. Pale hands: long fingers; purple polish; red lipstick with a coat of shimmery lip-gloss on top; a breathy laugh, breasts; soft pillowy breasts that you can squeeze and touch and not have stubble scrape your cheeks.
Jessica.
Jessica.
Jessica.
The heat between his legs freezes over, his dick losing its life, shrivelling up and dying in his fist. He still tries to jerk it, moaning as all of his nerve endings seems to be dulled, sautered off like they’ve been held to the stove top for too long.
Please, God, Jessica. Please. Why can’t this work? It’s worked before. Just act normal!
Thankfully, his sob is muffled by the pillow he’s buried his face into and the fabric soaks up his tears by the time he pulls his head away from it. His penis throbs. Begging, pleading, screaming to be fisted and fucked and tugged on until he’s begging and pleading and screaming himself to cum. Just not to the thought of Jessica. Because the universe hates him apparently.
Before he knows it, his legs have swung over the side of his bed, landing on the carpet with a quiet thump. He stares down at the pitiful tent in his boxers, at the smear of pre-cum across the fabric of his crotch which he’s surprised the cotton hasn’t give in and stretched open with the amount of awkward boners he gets.
Some water will clear his head.
~
Morty slams the glass down a little too hard on the counter, water dripping down his chin before he wipes it away with the back of his hand, the palm of which still coated in dried pre-cum he hasn’t washed off. His head immediately cocks to Rick’s door, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth as the seconds go by, waiting tantalisingly until it finally clicks in his head.
There’s no reason to worry about noise. Not anymore.
Summer and mom and dad are asleep sound asleep upstairs and Rick’s room has laid dormant; empty; collecting dust, for weeks now. Sometimes Morty has to remind himself of that blatant fact.
There’s no maddening, infuriating banging that echoes across the plumbing into the house at all hours of the day. There’s no flask at the dining table. There’s no imprint on the leather of the couch that’s been worn away by Rick’s seat. There’s no futuristic spaceship parked in the driveway. There’s no alluring call to adventure (Rick would never call it an adventure) every day or two. There’s no calling out Morty’s name to hand him a screwdriver or something equally as unimportant.
There is, however, the unending pit that’s been dug into his gut that yearns to be filled, growling ravenously as it begs to be listened to. A heady mix of wanting to touch and to be touched that’s had a chokehold on Morty for these past lonely, enervating months. Because if Morty hasn’t been couped up in his room failing to masturbate, he’s been trying to build up the courage to enter Rick’s.
The door creaks open ominously, the darkness that borders the doorframe beckoning Morty to come closer, compelling his legs to edge forward and step past the threshold.
Jessica. Please.. Think about Jessica.
The hinges creak as Morty pushes the door open, just giving a little, hesitant jolt of his fingertips before it relents and swings open all the way and reveals the room that’s been blanketed by pitch black.
Morty’s still mostly driving on base instinct and the few moments that it takes for him to blink and adjust to the dark is enough for it to truly sink in what he’s about to do.
There’s something wrong with him. Why can’t he just move on?
Rick has to be gone. He is gone. He’s a selfish, egotistical, haughty man that cares about no one except himself, and yet here he is, about to go into his room under the cover of night like some shameful coward with his cock hard between his thighs.
It’s left as it always has been. Morty doubts that his mom - in the few past months that she’s had to even digest Rick’s abrupt exit from their lives which was almost as sudden as his entrance - has even stepped foot into his room. Pristine, untouched, like a perfect time capsule of the last time Morty was in here.
The gross, disgusting, repulsive part of Morty likes that. That he was the last one to see Rick in his room, even though he doubts that the man was even lucid enough to remember, that he holds an intimate snapshot of his grandfather before the left days later. No one else gets to have that. Rick was his , in some obsessive way, He and Morty had something that no one else in the family could even get close to. Not his mom, not his sister, not his dad, it was him and Rick. A hundred years.
It smells the exact same from the last time he was in here, and it hits him all at once, like a tidal wave of the silage of cheap bourbon that’s been split on the carpet, alongside musk and sweat; bringing Morty back to the precise footing he was in all those months ago.
~
Maybe it was because Morty could smell the liquor from his room upstairs, or because everyone was getting increasingly more and more grated as the night wore on, but before long, Morty was hanging outside of Rick’s ajar door. He remembers that part.
He remembers his hand shaking like a parkinson's’ victim as he opens the door, the awful scent of B.O that burned the back of his throat, the glimpse of blue hair that immediately caught his eye and the endless dread that turned to lead in his stomach, weighing his feet down and keeping him in place.
“I- I.. I knoUUuoOuGhh you’re w-watchin’ me, MooUUurty.” Rick turns his head to glare over his slumped shoulders, all curled up on his cot, facing away from the door. His body looks frail and small like this, almost childish but his face is still gaunt as ever.
“I- I didn’t… I didn’t meant to disturb you.” He peeped out, stepping through the frame and closing it behind him, shutting it in the oppressive sauna that is the man’s room, the air heavy and thick with humidity which makes his cheeks burn even hotter than usual, Each step of his edged him closer towards the cot, which wasn’t that much of a distance to cover with how cramped this damn room is. “It’s uhh.. warm in here”
The sheets ruffled as Rick rolls over onto his side, before sitting up to face the boy, and Morty already knows he must look pathetic from the smirk plastered across his grandfather’s slack face. He can bear to actually meet his steely blue eyes, terrified to see his own face reflected in them. “I like the… t-the heat.”
“You’re… Y-You’re going to die from heatstroke in your sleep…” Morty nervously chuckles, just standing there limply for a few moments as the awkward silence ticks on, the humdrum buzz from the boiler growing ever louder.
He remembers moments later, being curled up against Rick’s side, an arm strewn across his own sloped shoulders, his head resting securely on his grandpa’s ball joint that links his arm to his torso, feeling the patch of sweat that’s already soaked through the man’s lab coat on the back of his head.
He doesn’t even remember how he got there, the sequences in between his stumbling, bumbling state and the heat of Rick against him have long but faded to time. Maybe Morty climbed into Rick’s cot unprovoked? But on the other, more logistical hand, Rick probably tugged him closer after some drunken ramblings until Morty’s face is pressed into the alcove of his grandpa’s armpit and he’s breathing in the pure source of the putrid smell in the room.
He remembers his dick throbbing, the tip of it rubbing against Rick’s hip and leaving a watery pool of pre-ejaculate that stained his slacks until morning where Morty had to pass it off as liqueur, the man’s snoring that sounds as if spit was gargling in the back of his throat. The unrelenting urge just to reach down and ground against him. It’s not like he would ever know?
Did that happen?
He faintly remembers swinging his legs over Rick’s hips and sinking down, further and further against him until his burning red face is nuzzled right into the older man’s neck and the blanket of shame that’s weighing him down prevents him from stopping himself. He can still feel the phantom sensation of Rick’s own bulge digging into the crease that connects his thighs to his pelvis.
But that’s… That’s not right. He didn’t do that..
He remembers rolling away from Rick and feeling his heart burn with self-hatred. Or he remembers. He remembers. He remembers. He remembers. Remembers. Rememb-
~
Morty’s dick is aching, leaking a thin stream of pre-cum down his thigh. His boxers are long but discarded, left ruined on the carpet that’s practically matted with dust and bourbon that’s turned to slimy syrup.
It’s still boiling in here. They never did fix the AC and it doesn't help that the boiler is right up against the wall that borders Rick’s cot and Morty can feel the humming that radiates off of it and vibrates through the drywall. It feels welcoming though, like an embrace that covers every inch of his exposed skin, his bare thighs and leaves his epidermis sticky, clinging to the last article of clothing he has on, his shirt.
He’ll probably soak the fabric through by the time he’s done in there.
The cot creaks as he climbs on top of it, his knees edging the sides of the mattress and threatening to drop off as he presses his palms flat against Rick’s pillow. His back arched and bowed, knuckles turning white with how hard he’s digging his stubby fingers into the feathers, a whine escaping his lips once the underside of his cock drags across Rick’s bed.
God, it still smells like him. Morty barely even registered the fact that the door is still open by the time he drops his head down and buries his face in the pillow. Mouthing at the fabric and feeling the feathers that poke through it, the growing pool of his own spit that’s spreading across it,.
He slides his arms in the space between the mattress and Rick’s pillow, feeling the cool cotton on the underside of his red skin as he bundles up the cushion, drooling into it. He wants to taste it all, to slide his head into the pillow case and breathe in Rick’s headsmell. He wants to find a stray hair, a speck of dead skin, an old stain from his grandfather that he can focus on; anything, lapping at until his own digestive enzymes break it down to nothing.
His body feels like it’s in stunted heat, his hips unable to stop themself from grinding down against the cot until it’s rocking back and forth, hitting the wall as he fucks himself against it. Panting and whimpering like a whore into Rick’s, his grandfather’s, pillow. His cock is leaking, and each pass of his dick against the stained fabric of Rick’s sheets makes his head spin and his stomach flip.
~
He can hardly tell past from present, real from fake.
He doesn't remember if Rick pressed him down onto his belly with his hands planted firm on Morty’s shoulder blades so hard that the boy could feel all the air being forced out of his lungs, before yanking his trousers and boxers down and forcing himself through Morty’s paper-thin virginity.
He doesn’t remember if Rick curled up into a little ball and sobbed for the rest of the night, mewling for more drink. And Morty obliged.
He doesn’t remember if Rick forced his hand down his brown slacks and with the other on Morty’s chin to keep him firm in place - looked the boy in his eyes as he jerked himself off, his breath heavy and almost escaping as a groan, a true old man groan, and then spurted his cum all across his grandson’s lap.
He doesn’t remember if Morty sank down to his knees willingly, dragged his cheek across the bulge growing in his grandfather’s pants and breathed in the source of the musk, all manly and disgusting, before he took him inside his little mouth until his tonsils were squeezing the tip of Rick’s dick.
He doesn’t know if any of his dreams are all real.
If they’re all different glimpses of alternate realities that had spliced together, forever stuck in a reality where each outcome of that room had been merged together, coming back to Morty in distressed, blurry images.
But he wants it, in some awful way, he wants them all.
He wants to be held down roughly against the cot and feel his own grandfather force his way inside of him and fuck him. Fuck him until he’s filled up to the brim with a revolting mix of blood and cum that’s dribbling down his thighs from his abused hole.
And even then, because Morty is so obsessive and so needy, he’ll turn around and lick Rick up with his tongue, tasting the metal of his own haemoglobin and the sperm that’s still leaking out of him on his own family’s dick.
~
He wants it to be Rick.
He wishes that the mattress, made from springs and memory foam and dried semen and spilt alcohol, was him. He wants his dick to grind against Rick’s stomach, to feel that leathery skin against the underside of his cock and his abdominal muscles clench and to know that Rick likes it to.
He wants his gravelly voice in his ear, egging him on. He wants his calloused, rough hands on his ass, spreading him open in a way that sends a jolt all the way up to the pool of heat in his gut and whispering You- You fuckin’ like this.. DoOouUn’t you? You want this? You sick pervert. YoOooUu want your grandpa’s cock, huh? You want that inside you?
Morty’s not going to last much longer. He can feel his legs shake as he brings his body entirely flat against the cot, the cool sheets against the sides of his calves and the pudgy flesh of his inner thighs feels perfect. His body is on fire and he wants it all.
He slides a hand underneath his weight, already grasping his pulsating dick and fisting it roughly, jerking it and and combined with the friction of his tip rubbing against the sheets, he’s practically whining.
You gonna cum? You gonna cum on grandpa’s lap? You like that?
His whole body shivers at the phantom feeling of a thumb dragging across his ass, down his crack and teasing him in a perversely, utterly, perfect way that sends his own arm reaching around himself to desperately recreate that sensation. His fingertip rubs his entrance, just his middle finger working up and down, up and down, until his hips are working in tandem with the fist on his cock and the hand contorted around his body.
“Y-Yeah..” Morty croaks out and he can hardly recognise his own voice, all querulous and desperate and part muffled in the pillow that he’s been drooling into, his face laying in a pool of his own spit while his dick lays in a pool of his own precum. His hand is a working blur and his whole body springs forward, his forehead pressed against the damp pillow as his hips drag, rubbing, fucking against the cot in this perfect rhythm. “O-Oooh God. Rick.”
That’s it. Good boy.. That’s riOOoOuUught, Morty. Fuck yourself, right on Grandpa’s lap”
His fingertip finds his rim, pressing against the tight ring of muscles before the resistance gives way and he can feel himself physically opening up like an unfurling flower, before sealing around him like a glove. His hips jolt, pushing himself further into his hand. It burns, he winces, before sliding further into himself, stretching himself as he tries to ignore the biting disappointment at how… unpleasant it feels to be filled like this.
He keeps his finger stationary inside of himself, moaning at the pure warmth of his insides, letting his body adjust and loosen up to the feeling of being filled for the first time. It’s too much, and not enough all at once. He doesn’t even know how loud he’s being, everything outside of his cot this room seems like a hazy blur that he could care less about. Maybe Mom and Dad are awake, maybe Summer’s watching from the doorway with his phone out recording the whole thing. He doesn’t know. He just wants Him.
With a groan, his hips jolt back, and his finger slides inside of himself fully. Eyes widening and legs spasming and twitching, toes curling at the all encompassing feeling of being stretched open, even in this miniscule way.
How could having something inside of yourself feel so good?
Thank God he continued, thank God he didn’t pull away. It feels s o good.
That sends him spiralling, his whole body trained on the sensations rippling up his spine, the heat of pool between his legs, the finger inside of him. His balls are tightening, his whole body twitching as he pants into Rick’s pillow, legs straining.
Is it bad to say that it’s not enough?
His head turns to the side, digging his cheek further into the wet, spit-soaked fabric of his grandpa’s pillow, his impulsive mind searching for something, anything to fill the evergrowning pure need inside of him. Something large and reaches so deep into his gut that it’ll plug that pit he has within himself, that it’ll fix him.
A flash of green spikes his attention, his eyes immediately darting to it in a futile attempt to find something large enough that’ll fit him just right, like some messed up fourteen year old’s version of goldilocks.
The portal gun.
Oh, oh now you’re seriously fucked up.
Morty is sliding out of the bed before he knows it, ignoring the huge wet spot of precum that’s on his crotch and definitely not wincing at the feeling of his finger slipping out of himself, his hands reaching out through the thick, almost oppressive air in the room that feels more like water than actual gas, his arms cutting through it as if he’s swimming by the time he pathetically grasps at the handle of the portal gun.
He runs his sweaty palm across the smooth, metal surface of the handle Feeling his insides twitch at the thought, the perverse thought that’s running, no, screaming through his mind.
He’s back on the cot before long, wincing as his already wet crotch comes in contact with the soaked-through sheets, feeling his own liquids glue to his inner thighs as he presses his body flat against it. The nagging thought about how horrid this is going to be to clean up is banished to the back of his mindby the time Morty brings the portal gun to his face. Holding it by the grey slab that’s connect to the handle instead of the actual handle itself.
He stimulates his cheeks for a moment, trying to get his spit glands to work as he collects a big globule of salvia on his tongue, letting hiit peek out between his lips and drip right onto that perfectly smooth stick.
It’ll fit just right…
He rubs his spit all across the handle, licking his lips in anticipation as he lubricates it properly. He knows from countless adventures with Rick how much you need to stretch your ass out before you put something truly big inside of you, but he hopes that the slight intrusion of his finger was enough, because he needs it inside of him. Now.
He bruises his face in the moist pillow, one hand sliding beneath it and digging his fingertips into feathers as he sticks his ass out, blatant and submissive and degenerative and he doesn’t care. His insides are begging to be filled, fucked, stretched, just give it to him now. Please. He doesn’t even know who he’s begging to, whatever higher power or maybe Rick himself, but everything is shouting at him to put the tip of the handle against his rim and let himself relax enough to sink inside.
It burns.
Fuck, Ow. Holy shit. This fucking hurts.
He grasps desperately at anything, groping fistfuls of Rick’s pillow that he’s already entirely ruined with his fluids, panting as all the air is yanked out of his lungs. His hips back up, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, making his vision blurry and unreliable, like vaseline has been smeared across the lens as the handle of the portal gun slides deeper and deeper inside of him.
Morty would be lying if he said that he wasn’t imagining that it was Rick. His cock. He know that it’s be heavier, thicker in real life. Jesus, maybe even larger. He knows that Rick is well endowed even when soft. Just imagine something that big delving deep inside of him, hitting places that he’s never even though of-
Jesus Christ!
The perfectly smooth tip of the handle must’ve grazed against something inside of him because all of that pain, that burring, stringing, unrelenting pain dissipates like nothing. Like dawn fog fading away and evaporating in the morning sun. He grasps at the flat base of the portal gun, pulling it out slightly and feeling his rim squelch, his insides gaping open slightly and immediately trying to fill the empty space that the handle had left behind inside of himself, sealing back up like a vice.
He forced it back all the way inside of himself, buried right up to the hilt with the portal gun sticking out of his ass. Rick’s portal gun, the same portal gun that the man’s hands grip every day, covered in blood and piss and spit (not usually Morty’s) and whatever other alien fluids Rick has gotten on himself.
He should hate how much that thought makes his dick twitch. Of Rick’s hands, his bony hands that are covered, littered with scars and marks of age ad weathered skin which insight such a reaction out of him. Out of his grandson.
Morty’s other hand finally springs to action, sliding beneath himself again and wrapping around his cock. Running up and down feverishly , the pad of his thumb pressing onto the tip, rubbing across his wet slit before pressing against his urethra, feeling all the precum ooze out before smearing it across his length in the next wet stroke. Burying his face back in the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut as he starts to fuck himself with the portal gun as well.
Rough hands; gravelly voice; the heat of another man’s dick against his own; strong, sinewy arms; musk; so, so much musk. Rick. Every single nerve ending within him is screaming, finally getting what it’s been yearning for thais whole night. Ever since he woke up from yet another dream of Rick holding him down and fucking him like a dog. Of that thick cock sliding deep into his insides, tearing him apart and putting him together all in one moment.
He’s finally giving in, he’s finally submitting to that desire, that impulse that’s yelling at the back of his head, the call of his Id brain.
God, he’s close. It’s coming. He wants it, He wants it deep. Please, please, Rick. Harder. Harder!
He cums with a shuddering gasp. The simultaneous feeling of his insides squeezing, milking around the portal gun almost as if it’s trying to edge out some kind of imaginary seed, alongside his cock throbbing, twitching before it finally spurts all of his cum that’s been pent up for the past few weeks onto the sheets. Rick’s sheets. All white and viscous and a cream that sticks and strings to his crotch by the time he manages the strength to press his wobbling forearms to the mattress and pull away.
Jesus. The pure content of seed shocked him, like he’s laying in a pool of coagulated milk rather then his own sperm. His muscles ache from the strain of maintaining such a position for so long and his spit is damp on the side of his face, all sticky and vile and clinging to his cheek. How the hell is he going to clean this all up? With a sluggish hand, he reaches behind himself to slide the portal gun outside of his hole. Feeling his inner walls ache and squeeze around nothingness once its pulled out, already sensing the pain he’s going to be feeling for the next few days.
He’s practically desecrated Rick’s cot with his smut, already feeling it seep into the stained foam and pooling around the frame, hearing it squelch wetly as he finally manages to slide off of it.
He already knows that he looks like a mess, his curls matted together and sticking out on one side of his head, the corresponding cheek red to the touch and almost bruised from laying on it for so long, and his knees almost burn from the awful position. And that’s not even to mention the newfound stinging inside of himself.
Morty turns back to the cot, cringing at the sight of it. There’s something wrong with him.
He leaves the room untouched, and by untouched he means pulling a blanket be found stuffed in the cupboard over the disgusting mess he’s made and leaving the door ajar like before. He stumbles upstairs, holding his breath as he fumbles by Summer’s door, and then his parents, his ears straining to hear any sign of them being awake.
He hears nothing, thank God.
He’ll never speak of this again, he’ll never do it again
(That is, until, all of it proves to be too much again and he’ll creep back into his grandfather’s room, peel back the blanket that’s practically stiff with his own semen and grind against his own cum stain before covering it with another thick load.)
There is something wrong with Morty Smith. It’s Rick Sanchez.