Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6080289.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Morty_Smith, Rick_Sanchez_&_Morty_Smith, Evil_Morty/Rick
      Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty)
  Character:
      Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty), Morty_Smith, Evil_Morty_(Rick_and_Morty)
  Additional Tags:
      dub-con, Drugs, Drinking, Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-22 Updated: 2016-02-24 Chapters: 2/4 Words: 11656
****** Do Ricks Dream of Electric Mortys? ******
by futagogo
Summary
     Rick struggles with the memories of his last Morty while trying to
     navigate the waters with his current one. NOTE: Takes place prior to
     the events of S1E10.
Notes
     This is our first fic in 10 years and was quite a learning
     experience.
     Thanks goes out to kouskousx for screen-testing the beta version and
     to dadvans for his thorough feedback.
***** Chapter 1 *****
“Morty, pass me thaAAUGht intracranial bioscope. The—it’s the one on the shelf.
Second from the top, Morty.”
Rick Sanchez’s hands were currently occupied, shoulder-deep in the underbelly
of his latest creation. The behemoth of cold metal and tangled wires took up a
third of the dank garage. As unseemly as it was to look at, it had monopolized
Rick's world for the past few weeks.
Morty Smith was all elbows and knees as he clambered off the top of the machine
and made his way to the rickety metal shelves. Despite the late hour, he would
trip over his own feet to play the part of grandpa’s little helper—a thankless
but strangely satisfying role. Junk clanked and glass rattled inside mildewed
cardboard boxes as he rummaged around the shelves.
“Uh, Rick, w-w-w-what’s it look like again? The intra-crackle—cranbow—”
“Enough, enough. Jesus, Morty. It’s a crime against science, the shit comin’
outta yer mouth.” Rick punctuated his remark with a rumbling burp. He rolled
back on the mechanics creeper to wave a hand dismissively in Morty’s direction
while the other drew his flask from his lab coat. “Y-you really haven’t caught
onto anything we’ve been working on?” He stopped to take a swig, spittle flying
when another burp erupted past his lips. “Open your eyes, Morty. This thing’s
gonna be big. Gonna be bringin’ in the big schmeckles.” He grunted into a
sitting position. “The least you can do is take a—h-have some ownership for
what we’re making.”
“We’re making?” Morty muttered under his breath. He didn’t have the usual
energy to push it, so he settled for busying himself, rifling through the
gadgets on the shelves instead. Deep lines were etched under his eyes, and his
already pathetic posture seemed to sag just a little more than usual. The long
nights were taking their toll. Rick regarded him askance before hauling himself
up, wiping the spit from his chin, and tucking away the flask.
HisMorty would’ve known what he was looking for. HisMorty would’ve picked up on
things right from the start.
With a sigh, Rick reached up and over Morty’s head to pluck a long, stainless
steel, and utterly nondescript cylinder from between two dusty beakers. “It’s
this one, dummy,” he said simply.
Even with a belly swimming with liquor, Rick wasn’t far gone enough to miss the
signs: the way Morty’s knuckles clutched tighter to the shelf’s edge; the way
he shifted on his feet, as though torn between running off and staying rooted
where he stood.
The kid was a textbook case of anxiety—a mess of worry and no guts.
His Morty had been something else entirely, and the thought alone tugged a
corner of his lips into a wry grin.
Where the Morty of C-137 was weak, cowardly, and incompetent, the Morty of D-
248 had been resilient, unflinching, and fiercely independent. Looking at his
grandson now, genetically identical in every way except where it mattered, Rick
felt something lurch in his chest. For all that C-137's hapless nature irked
him, Rick found himself constantly tempted to revive what he'd had with his
last Morty through him. Temporarily forgetting that they were by no means the
same Morty, Rick reached forward and ruffled the boy’s soft curls.
For being a teenage boy, Morty took hygiene surprisingly seriously and even had
a proclivity for his sister’s brand of conditioner, it seemed, judging by the
silky texture of his brown hair. Rick closed two fingers together, rubbing at a
fine lock absentmindedly. If Morty lolled his head ever so slightly into the
touch, Rick didn't notice as a memory took him.
 
He held the same shade of hair in his fingers, only it was coarser and grimier.
Days in the alien scrublands had that effect on human hair. What started as a
routine errand to deliver contraband to an alien guerrilla army had since been
blown wide open, and in the gaping wound it left behind, the two humans were
stranded in the extraterrestrial wilderness to fend for themselves.
A minor setback in Rick’s book, all things considered. He could keep himself
occupied enough, sending Morty off to scavenge for raw materials to
Frankenstein together a new portal gun. Here, the soil was laced with
conductive elements, base particles that could be coaxed and caressed into what
Rick needed. But the elements were only found in trace amounts. So while Rick
toiled in their makeshift shelter, Morty spent every precious minute of their
short daylight hours gathering what he could. When the night wind finally
chased him back inside, Rick was always there to receive him with a ruffle
through his hair.
The small form nestled against his belly would shiver as the frigid nocturne
air needled him through his threadbare shirt. But Morty was silent through it
all, too strong and too proud to give in to baser needs as the dull hurts of
the planet pecked away at him. In the face of such trials that would’ve left
any other child mewling for home, Morty was unshakable. In this deceptively
simple boy, Rick had found a partner that could carry him through his
adventures—the perfect formula of resourcefulness, blind loyalty, and ingenuity
to complement his genius when it landed him in the worst of messes. For that,
Rick thanked every iteration of God that he’d come to know throughout the
universes.
If during those fathomless nights Rick buried his face in the greasy and filthy
locks, then he told himself he was only doing it for the extra warmth.
 
“Uh, R-Rick? Everything okay?”      
Morty stepped back from Rick’s touch, knocking over a discarded beer bottle and
sending it spinning into a corner of the garage. Rick was promptly jarred from
his reverie with an imperceptible shudder. He blinked once, looked down at
Morty, and scowled.
“Y-y-you’re acting pretty funny, Rick.” Morty ran his fingers over the patch of
hair where Rick had touched him. “Don’t, uh, tell me you’re getting senile on
me now,” he laughed uncomfortably, eventually trailing off into an awkward,
thick silence.
“Look, Morty, if you’re not gonna help, then make yourself useful by taking th-
that, uh, stink out of my garage.” Rick turned sharply back to the machine and
jammed the device into a port on its side. “You know you smell like a—one of
those, those mall bimbos with that Garnier shit on you. You got any idea how
expeEEAUGnsive that stuff is?”
A flip of a few switches and the screen hummed to life.
Behind him, he heard Morty suck in a sharp breath, but the silence held. Then
there was the soft murmur of something that could’ve been Guess I’ll see you
tomorrow.or Fine. Sorry.and the garage door clicked shut behind him. Rick
placed both hands on the console, inhaled the copper smell of electricity, and
sighed, his shoulders sinking beneath the thrum in the air, suddenly too heavy
to bear. He immersed himself in the comforting lines and rhythms of logic that
only science could provide him.
 
                                     ~~*~~
In the confines of the garage that was quickly becoming his second home, Morty
compulsively clutched and released the hem of his shirt as he sat atop the
silent clothes dryer. He wasn't used to seeing Rick so obsessed with an
invention, and the shift in their dynamic was making the acid in this stomach
churn.
With his other devices, Rick couldn’t stop bragging about his gizmos that
bridged the gap between sci-fi and reality. But after Rick’s initial rush of
exhilaration when the commission first came in, he had grown strangely quiet,
whittling down any conversation to bitter quips and demeaning insults offset
only by a smattering of spontaneous affection. It left Morty constantly on
edge, expecting a cuff to the head just as readily as a tender pat.
As the clock neared quarter to 2:00, Morty struggled to keep his eyes open.
It’d been hours since he’d last exchanged any meaningful words with Rick, and
he had to wonder what he was even doing here. Rick hadn’t expressly asked for
his help that night—or the previous night or the night before that, for that
matter—but coming into the garage before the dinner table had even been cleared
was now such a routine for Morty that he no longer thought to do otherwise.
After all, given his already limited selection of people to actually spend time
with, Rick still inexplicably topped the list.
To his parents, Morty was little more than a permanent symptom of their unhappy
marriage; to Summer, he was the pain-in-the-butt kid brother. He shared so
little in common with the rest of his family that Morty actually preferred the
stench of stale alcohol and biting remarks to the utter loneliness he felt
inside his own home. Because in those brief instances where he earned a
lopsided grin or playful ruffle through his hair from Rick, the dingy garage
was his Eden.
At the far end of the desk, Rick was currently working on one of a matching set
of small, spider-like devices clamped neatly into the desk’s vice. Thick-lensed
goggles and accompanying elbow-length rubber gloves made him look every bit the
mad scientist he was, and a small, pink tongue peeked out endearingly from the
corner of his mouth as he prodded the delicate insides of the device with a
micro-precision screwdriver.
Morty dragged his half-lidded eyes sluggishly over Rick’s form as he tried to
stifle a yawn. When he leaned back on his hands, his fingers brushed against
something cool and smooth. He looked down, curious, and found a small bracelet
of matte gray. In its center, a digital face glowed with a string of alien
figures in brilliant green.
Glancing over quickly to make sure that Rick was still occupied—he was now
occasionally lifting one device to his temple then lowering it again to make an
adjustment—Morty plucked the small bracelet from the desk and turned it over in
his hand. Despite its size, it had substantial weight to it. But what caught
Morty’s eye the most was how the display never skewed no matter which way he
turned it. The foreign characters remained level, tenaciously countering
whatever angle they were tilted at.
No doubt it was a token picked up on one of Rick's intergalactic trips, but
Morty hadn’t the slightest idea of where. He was usually too busy dodging
lasers to really admire the unique cultures of each planet they visited. Rick’s
shelves were cluttered with tools and half-finished projects, not sentimental
pieces of kitsch. Maybe there was some significance to the bracelet. 
He noticed a thin seam interrupting its otherwise unmarred surface. At the
slightest tug, the bracelet swung open on an invisible hinge. It might have
just been a trick of the light when he saw what could only be described as
threads of blue electricity jumping between the open ends. As he gazed more
closely at it, the bracelet began to tremble. This got Morty’s attention now,
and though a small part of his brain was sending out warning signals that this
wasn’t going to end well, his curiosity got the better of him. He lifted a
tentative finger to touch the rim of the loop. With a violent shake, the
bracelet whipped off his palm and latched firmly onto Morty’s wrist.
He yelped loudly, not so much out of surprise but by the sensation of tiny
metal teeth clamping down into his soft skin. The alien characters had turned
red and were dancing wildly over the display as the thing emitted a low-pitched
humming that was quickly climbing.
“M-Morty!? The fuck are you doing?” Rick’s voice rang clear over the incessant
whining from the bracelet. He propped the goggles over his forehead as he got
up from his work.
“I-I-I didn’t do anything! Jeez, Rick, the heck is this thing, anyway?” He
winced as the clamp on his wrist tightened another degree. “I-it’s going to
bite through my arm! D-do something, Rick!”
Almost bored, Rick took his time peeling the gloves off before answering,
“Better shhuUGHHt that thing off, Morty, unless you want to jerk yourself off
left-handed the rest of your life. That what you want, Morty? ‘Cause that’s
what’s gonna happen if you don’t stop spazzing out on me.”
“W-w-what!? Aw, man. Jeez!” Morty’s eyes brimmed hotly with tears of panic and
embarrassment. He was clutching just above the alien object but managed to calm
himself down enough to hold his arm out stiffly. He screwed his eyes shut,
waiting for his grandfather to make things right.
The whining had escalated to an ear-piercing intensity, but Rick was unaffected
as he took a moment to look dispassionately at the small and pathetic boy
quaking before him. The passing look of regret on his face went unseen as he
softly touched Morty’s wrist.
 
It was amazing how adaptable humans could be. Even Rick had to give a nod to
his genetic makeup, so thoroughly hardwired to adhere to a routine.
Only a few weeks in and Rick was starting to call their cramped cave “home.” A
smooth and mostly level rock passed for a worktable, and a thick carpet of
pressed vegetation provided just enough comfort at night. It wasn’t much, but
when the suns were beating down mercilessly during the daylight hours, the
coolness of the cave was sheer bliss.
In between runs for materials or sustenance, Morty would set himself by the
entrance as lookout. The first nights there had taught them a tough lesson in
the dangers of the planet’s crepuscular critters—large, green things that bound
on all fours, mouths gaping open. Morty’s plasma gun kept them safe enough, and
by now the local wildlife had learned not to mess with the strange, bipedal
creatures that had moved into the neighborhood.
Rick’s complexion never lost its ashy tinge as he stayed cooped up in the cave,
but Morty’s already olive skin had deepened a shade or two where the incessant
suns kissed it, Rick noticed. He noticed how it made the milk of Morty’s belly
and buttocks stand out in contrast even in the dim of the cave’s interior. He
noticed when his hair was getting long, the curls eventually having to be
tucked behind his ears because they tickled him. When it became too much of a
distraction, Morty set to work one night to hack the long strands off roughly
with the sharp edge of a stone.
Considering how much time Rick spent looking at him when he should’ve been
working on the portal gun, there wasn’t much he didn’t notice.
The meager scraps of refuge salvaged from the demolished portal gun were placed
back together with meticulous tinkering on Rick’s part, but the power-
generating ions were long since dead. The project would prove to be the
ultimate test of his genius. So Rick continued to send Morty on his errands
while he pored over his work.
The uncooperative materials that Rick wrestled with perpetually delayed his
progress, and every blunder cost him another unit of the precious element. The
work was painstakingly slow, demanding more patience from the brash man than
he’d ever had to muster before.
Morty, for his part, remained unfazed despite the circumstances. But then
again, he was always difficult to read; any assumption of Morty’s temperament
was little more than wishful thinking and a projection of Rick’s own desires.
It was the calm waters of the boy that made him so irresistible to Rick. He
counterbalanced Rick’s hotheadedness in ways that no other Morty had managed to
do before and Rick very much doubted he would be able to find again.
The Morty of dimension D-248 was more than mere camouflage, he was a reliable
partner. The poor Rickless bastard had already been pretty capable for a
scrawny 13-year-old when Rick had stepped into his world that day, but the
intergalactic terrorist had since groomed Morty into a flawless accomplice.
Where Rick pushed, Morty pulled; where Rick flowed, Morty ebbed; and where Rick
clutched with a suffocating grasp, Morty acquiesced effortlessly, easing him
back from the edge.
The two settled into their routine without skipping a beat, like it was all
just one extended space adventure with no epic goal other than simply staying
alive, one day at a time. And it was on this remote alien planet that Morty
would play the role of Rick’s keeper and savior.
 
One morning, when the mist cloaked the alien backlands in a suffocating hush, a
dim light winked from the cave’s entrance. Rick was still curled in on himself
in the nest of vegetation, blinking slowly as he was stirred from yet another
restless sleep. His brain, already burned out from his latest roadblock, had
kept him up half the night.
The native crystalline mineral they’d found served as a promising substitute
for chronoton, but the naturally occurring elements were a geological prototype
compared  to the more advanced compounds he was accustomed to working with in
his lab. Rick had toiled with them until his eyes crossed, manipulating the
simple particles’ electron fields to make them bond to his small reserve of
interdimensional atoms still left over from the portal gun. One wrong move and
the unstable particles would discharge their energy at random. This translated
to singed fingertips and shards of projectile imbedding themselves in the
cave’s ceiling.
Fuck it, he thought and turned over, one hand reaching automatically to feel
for the warm body next to him. The space was bare and retained only a trace of
residual heat. His Morty was gone.
Against the protests of his sore joints, Rick bolted upright and looked around.
A crackling sound drew his attention to the haphazard workstation where Morty
sat hunched over, his form backlit by a shower of sparks. Rick fell out of the
bed and scrambled to the table. An army of censures died on his tongue, as what
he saw in Morty's hands took his breath away.
Morty regarded him only for a moment before he returned his focus to the task
at hand. Raw energy jumped and sputtered where he pressed two shards of the
alien crystal against one another. The way they heaved together and apart like
agitated magnets, Rick recognized the dangerous dance of over-energized
electrons.
“W-watch it, Morty! You gotta be careful with that!” But when he tried to offer
his hand, expecting Morty to give up his dangerous science experiment, he was
met with a rough shrug of his shoulder that spurned his attempt at contact.
Rick was used to Morty's tenacity and intense pride, but the single gesture
left him taken aback as it succinctly spelled out for him the message that he
had been too conceited to acknowledge before: I can handle this, old man. 
As Rick looked on, the expression on Morty’s face was that of pure
concentration. After another few tense moments and audible hisses of concern
from Rick, he finally positioned the shards in perfect alignment, and they
held. The simultaneous push and pull of their atoms spun the manipulated pieces
into a perpetual generator of energy that hummed steadily. Energy pulsed from
it like a heart.
Morty looked up at Rick and grinned.
For all his initial dismay, Rick couldn't help but grin proudly in return.
 
The small bracelet clinked innocuously to the garage floor, the chain of razor-
sharp teeth retracting back into its seamless surface.
Morty peeked one eye open, first surveying the damage to his wrist—a ring of
perfectly identical indentations marked the slightly swollen skin—before
traveling up to his grandfather.
Something flashed across Rick’s face but was quickly replaced by the usual
grizzled scowl. Swiping the bracelet up and out of view in one swift movement,
Rick turned away and spat, “Do us both a favor, Morty. Don’t touch anything
again. Y-y-you’ve got a nasty habit of ruining anything you touch, you know
that?”
As his forefinger and thumb rubbed idly at the bracelet in his pocket, he
pushed away the last lingering thoughts of D-248 Morty that already had his
palms sweating. That bridge had long since been burned, and for good reason. If
he was going to be stuck with this dimension’s Morty for the foreseeable
future, then he’d have to start coming to terms with all of the boy’s
shortcomings—even if that included watching him stumble right into a Flubrion
Castigator.
Frustration bubbled up inside him and hardened into disdain. “Look. I, uh,
think you’ve had enough fuAAUGHn playin’ in grandpa’s science lab, so, uh, so
why don’t you call it a night?” He was already walking to the door while Morty
wrung one hand over his torn wrist in a repetitive circular motion. Rick had
gotten the machine to read brain waves at the correct REM frequency tonight, so
there was little else to do. But even after he'd waved Morty through the garage
door to the kitchen and firmly shut it behind him, he made his way to the desk.
Rick leaned back in his seat, crossing both long legs over the top of the desk.
He pulled out his flask and took a long draw from it. His throat burned as the
booze slid down to settle like a stone in his belly, grounding him. Another
second and the bracelet would’ve torn right through his grandson’s arm, he
mused. He sure as hell didn’t want to have to explain why he had the thing in
the first place. Fishing out the bracelet again, he held it up in one hand, one
of the small, metal spiders in the other.
“Be seein’ you soon, Morty.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Progress on Rick's latest invention drives a wedge between Rick and
     Morty as more memories come to light.
Chapter Notes
     This where the Explicit rating comes in, so grab a towel.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sheets of rain pelted the garage doors, steady and unrelenting. Their dull
tinny filled the air like the murmur of an impatient audience, waiting
restlessly for the curtain to rise.
Morty sniffled once and rubbed at his upper arms to ward off the chill that
crept through the garage walls and cement floor. The dankness had held for the
past three days straight, but Morty couldn’t bring himself to slip away and
change out of his painfully inadequate short-sleeved shirt. He opted to bear
the discomfort if it meant spending even one more minute by Rick’s side,
determined to fill the chasm that yawned between them.
Standing sentry to the mad scientist who now tinkered with the machine’s soft
insides, a mess of twisting cables and bleeding MR fluids, Morty eyed the dead
screen that wafted above Rick’s head. He glared up through his lashes at the
blank surface, catching the translucent ghost of himself peering back out from
the machine.
That fucking machine.
More than once, Morty had entertained the thought of sneaking into the garage
and bashing the thing apart. He was convinced that if he could just tear down
the source of his misery into scrap metal, he'd free Rick from its thrall. But,
whether intentionally thwarting Morty’s scheming or otherwise, Rick never
strayed far away for long.
When the commission first came in over Rick’s transdimensional communicator,
Morty had lit up at yet another chance to work alongside his grandfather. He
was nearly dizzy with the need to prove himself to the one man in his life he
revered and yet feared for how easily he could discard him like an empty beer
bottle. Rick was a shining beacon in his otherwise dull life: smart, confident,
and far above the banalities that plagued Morty’s days in the high school
halls. And if Morty could find a niche to fill in Rick’s fast-paced, don’t-
need-nobody world, then maybe he could escape the mundane fate that awaited
him: grow up, have kids, wind up at a dead-end ad agency.
So he hoped against hope that Rick really did want him around and—in his more
delirious moments—needed him. Morty knew that his role to Rick didn’t amount to
much, but he did his job with all the pride he could muster. He fetched the
tools that Rick barked for, held pieces in place to be screwed in or welded,
and, in his more humiliating moments, served as a human stepping stool. Even
the dig of Rick's shoes into his back was bliss in Morty’s touch-starved
existence, every affront sounding like an accolade in his ears.
Work on the machine, which began with simple errands across the dimensions to
fetch one component or another, promised to serve as a link between himself and
Rick. Morty hungered for that link more and more with each passing day as it
flickered like a dying bulb.
Rick’s usual blasé attitude had been replaced with a singular focus that left
no room for Morty. What little attention he did spare for the quaking boy
seemed to vacillate between an outright disdain for Morty’s inferior
intelligence and a glib blandness for his pitiful attempts to help. One too
many misunderstood directions or spilled chemicals left Morty on the periphery
of Rick’s interest. He’d gone from grandpa’s little helper to little more than
an observer in the span of a few weeks.
While Rick was absorbed with outfitting a tytranium exterior to the console,
Morty scratched nervously at the string of scabs healing around his wrist. When
he remembered how he'd reopened them last night and had awoken in blood-stained
sheets, he quickly settled for rubbing them with his palm before finally
shoving his hands into his pits and eyeing the sterile console uneasily.
A litany of questions fluttered on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them
down like a bitter pill. He knew better than to ask. Besides laying bare his
blatant ignorance of anything beyond ninth grade science, Rick wouldn’t grace
him with so much as a dismissive snort.
That was the part Morty hated most.
When he spent so many nights awake, tortured by self-reproach and egged on by
fantasies of saying something brilliant that would draw out a begrudging grin
of approval from Rick’s usually impassive face, Morty shuddered at the thought
of Rick’s eyes passing over him. He wanted to be seen and heard and praised and
coddled and maybe even one day loved, if Rick was capable of it.
On those more indulgent nights, his fantasies took on a different tone, framed
by an indiscernible frustration that coiled just above his groin and filled his
mind with thoughts of long, roaming fingers. Praise would come in the form of
panted breaths and fervent caresses that so perfectly captured the type of need
his straining, adolescent body yearned for.
As things stood now, though, every thread of Morty's being was pulled at a whim
in Rick’s indifferent grasp, sometimes taught as a bowstring, other times left
to waft directionless in the breeze. And when Rick’s moods were as
unpredictable as a stray leaf skittering over the sidewalk, Morty knew better
than to hold his breath or else he'd suffocate.
“You were aAUGHlways a good kid, M-Morty,” he heard then, and his ears perked
up at the sound of his name. Of their own accord, the corners of his lips
lifted into a grin, a blush already blooming across his face as he heard Rick
give the unsolicited praise. He checked around himself quickly, wondering what
he’d done to warrant the sudden display of fondness. His hands were still idle
and empty; his bottom lip, chewed raw while he fretted over his internal
debate. Morty had almost started to think that Rick had forgotten he was even
there. But maybe Rick hadn't completely written him off. Maybe things weren’t
actually as bad off as he’d feared. “A-always there when I needed you, y-y-you
champ,” Rick went on.
Embers of emotion warmed Morty’s chest. Yeah, he was a good kid. He was a
champ. He’d do whatever Rick would ask of him. Oh, Rick had no idea the things
he’d be willing to do, how far he’d go.
Morty stumbled over his own tongue, already taking a step closer to Rick as he
cleared his throat. “Gee, th-thanks, Rick. I-I don’t—” He tugged on his
earlobe, feeling it burn beneath his fingers. Just moments ago, he was on the
brink of an anxiety attack, convinced that there was no salvaging what he had
with Rick, and the sudden switchback was making his heart pound hard and his
hands shake. He glanced up, the epitome of shy and vulnerable, hoping to catch
Rick’s eyes locking with his own.
Instead, Rick’s back was still turned to him, and he was reaching one slender
arm up to run a hand over the screen in what could only be a lover’s caress. He
tilted his head to the side, still crooning, and Morty could make out the
heavy-lidded gaze of adoration and the gentle smile that curved Rick’s lips.
Morty’s face fell. He felt like he’d been punched with a one-two straight in
the gut. His hands shook in fists at his side and heat rushed to his face in a
pantomime of his earlier coyness. Blood pounded in his ears, numbing his
thoughts and blanketing the air with the thick thrum of rage.
Still petting his creation affectionately, Rick languidly dipped his hand into
his pocket and pulled out something that made Morty’s veins run cold. It was
the slender gray bracelet he’d stumbled across before, the same bracelet that
had nearly sawed his hand off. The hairs pricked up along his wrists as he
watched Rick rub at its smooth display face with his thumb, the figures
scrolling across in their foreign missive, and then rested it against his lips.
Barely feeling the floor beneath him, Morty made straight for the garage door
that led out to the driveway. To his credit, he’d managed not to trip over his
own feet, now iron deadweights, before practically falling against the handle.
He heard Rick say something over the pounding in his ears, but it was muffled
and distorted. Morty may have said something back—all false-starts and too loud
in his cotton-laden head, every consonant wracking his brain until he felt ill.
He only made it two steps outside before retching on the lawn. What little
dinner he’d forced down that night came up as bile-slicked lumps of brown and
orange, quickly washed away by the torrents of rain that poured down around
him. Fat raindrops pierced his clothes to beat against his overheated skin, and
within seconds, he was drenched as he plodded in a haze to the end of the
driveway.
Folded over with his hands braced on his knees, Morty looked down as he
shuddered with each heave. Hot, fat drops freed themselves from his eyes and
disappeared into the puddle at his feet, as murky as his thoughts and as
shattered as his heart. When he opened his mouth, the gale that whipped around
him dipped inside and drew out the words that hovered at the back of his
throat. It carried the cry—little more than a reedy whisper—out into the dark
sky, and Morty felt part of his heart go with it.
 
                                     ~~*~~
Rick had laid out packets of desiccant around the garage to keep the fine
circuity of Voyeur safe from excess humidity. Though the components had
shrunken considerably since version 1.0, each piece was still immeasurably
expensive and exhibited only the most advanced in Rick’s genius.
The first down payment from his generous, albeit mysterious, client had arrived
earlier that week, an appreciable amount that made even Rick entertain thoughts
of taking the money and running before he shook it off and set about to work.
After all the crazy shit he’d seen throughout the galaxies, Rick didn’t care
much what his clients used his creations for—world domination, coldhearted
revenge, or simply to indulge in some kinky shit—so long as they paid.
This latest commission, which he’d dubbed “Voyeur,” was designed to extract
memories from its end users and display them in high definition. Early test
runs still left much to be desired in the interface and imaging capabilities,
but he figured he still had a few days to work out the bugs. The process itself
was a thrill, however, with each run-through offering a peephole to a previous
life, a life punctuated by guilt and guilty desires.
“We’re getting close to the finish line. You feel it, M-MoAAUGHrty?” he said
distractedly, letting the pulses of electricity hum through him as he stood
before the console. A stray paper fluttered under his heel, and he kicked it
away with slight annoyance. Even when off, Voyeur pumped out an impressively
high amount of voltage, tangible in the damp air. Jerry was going to throw a
fit over this month’s electricity bill. He grinned against the metal pressed to
his chilled lips as he mused, running the smooth surface back and forth, back
and forth.
Blinking, Rick jerked his hand away from his face to eye the Flubrion
Castigator clutched in his fingers. He hadn’t remembered taking it out of his
pocket, and he scowled for letting himself be so distracted in the middle of
his work. As he read the message ticker tape across the display, he snorted
with mild chagrin.
“Just can’t seem to shake you, huh, Morty?” he muttered under his breath. The
memories of D-248 were gaining a foothold in his conscious with every passing
day, and the thought nettled him like a stubborn piece of meat caught between
his molars. Each pass of his tongue over it just drove it in deeper.
Morty.
“Morty?” Rick looked up, his eyes darting around the garage. Much to his
surprise, it was empty. He could’ve sworn the kid had been right there a minute
ago. Shoving the bracelet back into his pocket, he peered behind Voyeur, half
expecting to see Morty patiently entertaining himself while he waited on Rick,
as usual.  
His search was interrupted by the rhythmic smacking of the garage door against
its frame. It swung open on its hinge, and the stormy winds batted it to and
fro, letting in gusts of chilled air that made the hairs at his temples stand
on end.
“Aw, shit,” the words dripped to the floor, no bite behind them. Running his
tongue over his teeth, Rick rolled back on his heels and shoved his hands in
his pockets. He weighed his options as he eyed the loose door with scorn. “I
really don’t have—you’re seriously wasting my time with this teenage angsty b-
bullshit,” he said to the empty air, but he was already reaching for the door
handle and throwing it open.
A sheet of rain slapped him in the face, and he squinted his eyes against it,
looking out and around for any sign of Morty. Thankfully, Morty’s bright yellow
shirt stood out in the dim of the moonless night, and Rick quickly spotted him
huddled by the garbage bins on the curb. He huffed, his annoyance moving up a
notch.
Walking around to stand in front of Morty—motherfucking, weak-ass, pansy pile
of no-good, braindead teenage drama queen shit—Rick bit his tongue from the
deluge of scathing remarks he had at the ready. Instead, he let out a low,
gruff, “Hey.” It was swallowed by the howl of the wind and he tried again,
louder. “Hey!”
Morty’s face was tucked into his arms as he sat with his knees pulled to his
chest. The rain had left his curls darker and flattened against his scalp. He
didn’t move.
“Hey! Numb nuts!” Rick barked, and this time, Morty stirred. He looked up—no,
glared up at Rick with unveiled hatred, and his hands clenched and unclenched
into fists. Rick glared back, momentarily confused but unwilling to let it
show, before turning to the side with a feigned look of boredom. “Yeah, y-you
might wanna get inside, b-befoAAUGHre you get water up your pussy. What are
you, on the rag or something?”
Without turning to him, Rick stuck out his hand like a parent confiscating a
neutrino bomb from a toddler. Morty was silent and stock-still, the intensity
of his eyes constant as they bored into the side of Rick’s face. Rick tapped
his foot impatiently against the wet pavement, refusing to give in to his
grandson’s stupid game of chicken or whatever the fuck he thought this was. The
hell was he trying to prove, anyway? Now they were both soaking wet. Congratu-
fuckin’-lations.
After a minute passed, Morty finally unfurled himself and wilted with a
shuddering sigh, extending his hand up to grab Rick’s. Rick lifted him easily
to his feet, and hauled him back to the garage.
 
It rained like a beast on that planet.
The flash floods and landslides back on Earth were nothing compared to the
terror the sheets of glycerin-laced water did to the planet’s surface. The
already scarce plant life bent and snapped under the weight, and whole
flatlands were unnavigable when the rain pooled five inches thick over the
ground.
Curious, the two had sampled the first raindrops that fell, the sweetness a
welcome respite from their modest meals of alien grubs, but anything more than
a couple of tastes and they were both doubled over, emptying their bowels and
stomachs to the point of dizzying dehydration. Only patient and diligent
filtration made it potable.
The short solar cycles were cut even shorter during the two-month-long monsoon,
and Morty now often came back to the camp empty handed and reticent. His
already slight frame had been whittled down to only sinewy muscle and grimy
skin. Rick was faring little better, the effects of malnutrition and sleep
deprivation wreaking havoc on his sanity. His devil-may-care apathy for their
circumstances had steadily warped to a dull malaise and finally succumbed to
the stress. He was blinded by a rabid fervor for stimulation, distraction, and
a yearning for a bottle of Hennessy. But where Rick was wired and harried,
nearly frothing at the mouth, Morty remained stolid and unmoved even in the
face of Rick’s most scathing tirades.
If not for one night where he had heard Morty stroking himself frantically with
his fingers buried in his own ass, he’d have been convinced that the boy didn’t
have a shred of need in him. To his credit, Rick had had the decency to lie
still and ignore the lewd gasps, settling to clutch firmly at his own swollen
member until the keening moans crested and died away and Morty returned
silently to bed.
The rain stuck to everything and reduced it to an oozy mess that was eroding
away at Rick’s usually razor-sharp perception and fraying the ends of his
nerves. Impromptu showers under the alien rain only left him feeling sticky and
obnoxiously slick to the point that it made it impossible to do any meaningful
work. Rick kept himself holed up in their makeshift shelter for the better part
of the day, putting off his work on the portal gun to putter around on asinine
tasks, such as carefully counting the number of bristly needles that grew from
the only robust plant on the planet’s surface. “1,036 needles, Morty. There’re
1,036 needles on each of these fuckin’ stems, Morty. What do you say to that?”
Hours would pass silently between them in the night, Rick with his side
projects, and Morty fighting for warmth, alone in his improvised bedding of
moss and flora. Only in the darkest of the night would Rick give in to the
siren of sleep and huddle, nearly mad with a need for escape, against the young
boy’s warm back.
 
When Morty stumbled into the cave weeks after the torrential rains had started,
Rick only flicked his eyes up from his task. Morty’s hands were shaking as he
unloaded his backpack of the precious few goods he’d managed to collect that
day. Another fistful of subterranean mites would be their meal for the
umpteenth time, and, to be perfectly honest, Rick was growing tired of their
acidic sting. He craved salt and the weighty feel of meat on his tongue.
He gnashed his teeth, wanting so badly to tear into something.
The viscous water oozed in thick rivulets down Morty’s hair and arms to pool in
a slick puddle near the entrance where he’d collapsed on his hands and knees.
He glowered up at Rick through the persistent curtain of gelatinous rain.
Tired, hungry, and toeing the line of sheer hopelessness, words were kept at a
minimum, as though to preserve their remaining strength.
"What did you find?”
"Will this be enough?”
“Can you push your range another mile?”
“Will we survive?”
As though the void of actual conversation was too much to face.
"Nothing.”
“It’ll have to be.”
“I’ll try.”
“I don’t know.”
Rick knew that with his own sanity nearing collapse, it made sense to preserve
what little semblance of human interaction he had. So Rick got up from his
workstation to retrieve his Morty from the cave entrance.
As Rick offered his hand, Morty caught it in a firm grasp. But instead of
pulling himself up, Morty tightened his grip and yanked Rick down into the mud
with him.
Momentarily stunned, Rick didn’t register the first onslaught of small fists
that pummeled his chest and sides. The two fell outside the safety of the
cave’s overhang and slid ungainly down the small hill and into a deep puddle of
slick water. For a while, they wrestled messily through the mud, a string of
muffled grunts and Rick’s hissed curses the only noise beneath the slapping of
rain on the matted earth. First, Rick was on top, then Morty as he used what
little strength he had left to flip him over and deliver a merciless punch to
Rick’s left cheek. Their arms flailed in a blur, each trying to gain purchase
over the other, until Rick managed to catch both small wrists in his hand. With
a quick twist of his hips, he had Morty on his back and pinned.
Already at the end of his patience and now covered in rain and muck, Rick
wrenched Morty’s hands cruelly over his head. The way his ever-stolid Morty
gasped and scrunched his face in pain was almost…satisfying. Rick’s heart
lurched, hammering against his ribcage, and he knew it wasn’t just their
scuffle that had blood pounding in his ears.  If he was on the threshold of
madness, then he’d bring Morty there too, kicking and screaming if he had to.
He’d tear it out of him.
It had to be all or nothing, just like this godforsaken planet.
Rick leaned in closer and practically growled in his ear, “Wrong move.” The
smell of the boy stabbed through the sickeningly sweet alien rain, all
impatient juvenile musk and sweat. Soaked through, Morty squirmed relentlessly
against Rick’s grasp, his small frame thrashing, heaving, writhing.
Rick swallowed.
Now that he had him where he wanted him, he didn’t know what to do next. In all
their adventures, Rick had never had to restrain Morty like this, and the
feeling of forcing himself on him was so foreign, that it was both titillating
and absolutely horrifying. He felt like a wrangler with an animal that was too
big for its chains.
And in that moment, the animal broke free. Morty surged up as though to snap at
Rick’s neck, but only his lips grazed Rick’s slick skin, leaving barely a
whisper over the downpour around them. In its ghostly wake, Rick felt a shiver
travel down his throat, across his heart, and bury itself deep in his groin.
Below him, Morty only panted and pinned him with a stare that was nothing short
of a challenge. “Your move,” his level voice countered.
A crack of brilliant green in the skies overhead snapped Rick out of his
wonder. Staying outside of the shelter in an electrical storm was suicidal, and
as much as the idea would have appealed to him on any other planet, he suddenly
found he had something that deserved his undivided attention.
He unceremoniously dragged Morty up with him and into the confines of the cave.
 
                                     ~~*~~
Rick awoke with a jolt.
A small pool of drool glittered beneath him on his desk, and he looked at it
closely before grunting and wiping it away with his sleeve. This only left a
larger streak of moisture. He frowned. Nearby sat a delicate circuit board
belonging to Voyeur, one tool still pinched on a corner, waiting for him to
finish the final formatting. It appeared to be unharmed.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Hell of a dream there, M-MoARUGHrty. You ever have one of those ones where—”
He swiveled in his chair to look around the garage, but Morty wasn’t there.
Rick coughed an awkward ahem into his fist and then turned back to his desk.
“Hell. Of. A. Dream,” he repeated to nobody.
Pushing aside the lingering sensation of bone-chilling wetness and the semi in
his pants, he picked up the tool and made as if to set to work again. His
fingers moved stiffly and after a few flubs, he swore loudly and put the
project aside.
Not knowing what else to do with himself, he reached for a drink. His pocket
was empty and his flask lay on its side, contents already half-dried on the
floor. It was no wonder the place smelled even more sharply of liquor than
usual. Rick glared hard at it, trying to place how and when he’d dropped it.
The last thing he could clearly remember was scolding Morty after he'd hauled
him back inside from his angst-ridden outburst in the rain. He remembered
manhandling his grandson more roughly than he usually did, remembered the
slight thrill of leaving finger-shaped bruises on his arms and shoulders.
Morty had been mad. Said something about…something. Something about the thing.
All he remembered was Morty standing with fists at his sides and a dull roaring
coming from everywhere even as he watched Morty’s mouth move around piercing
syllables. His eyes had been… Had been something wrong. Not their usual blue.
They were red and wet. Really wet like the rest of his face. All wet from… It
was the rain, right? Yeah, the kid was soaking. Soaked through.
Soaked through and writhing.
He got up quickly from his seat and paced the small garage. A headache was
sneaking up on him, threatening to go full migraine as it pounded at his
temples, and he cursed in English and an assortment of alien languages as he
struggled to recall the events of the previous night. Rick's head felt bleary
and thick, and it wasn’t just because of the 0.12 BAC fizzling away in his
veins. He coughed around a dry mouth, tasting the copper tanginess of a throat
rubbed raw.
Opening the floor cabinet between his legs, an assortment of brightly colored
bottles of every conceivable shape greeted his eyes—his own personal collection
of medicines and cleaning products from across the multiverse. He didn’t even
have to read the labels to know which he needed. 
“Ah, Splendor Serum 3000. JuAUGHst what the doctor ordered,” Rick cooed at the
light blue liquid in its thin, beaker-shaped container. He tossed back a swig
of the Splendor and slammed his fist down on the desk to tame his roiling
stomach. One second and then two, and the elixir gradually unwound the knots in
his head, detaching nerve synapses to keep the “drunk” signal from running
rampant through his psychosomatic scene.
Though his alcohol level still hovered dangerously high, the reprieve left him
feeling loose-limbed and utterly relaxed. Where the fog around his mind had
lifted, a heavy weight of exhaustion settled in its place, dulling his senses
and calming him down to the point where he could’ve sworn his very heart rate
was slowing to a stop.
It felt like moving through molasses as he slumped down into the chair again,
ready to sit out the high. It’d have been blissful except for that something
that kept nagging at the corner of his mind, like a persistent kitten pawing at
a loose thread. It unraveled just a little as the kitten’s claws sunk into it.
He’d done bad, and not the usual kind of bad he did on a daily basis with
gusto. This was the kind of bad that profoundly shifted his own reality. He
plucked absently at the front of his sweater, wrinkling his nose at how it
stuck, clammy, to his chest.
The bit of thread unraveled further.
“Fucking Christ, Morty! M-maybe if you weren’t such a little bitch, I wouldn't
have to be f-fucking holding your hand all the time—literally, Morty!”
Rick breathed in deeply and clasped both hands in front of his face before
cupping them over his eyes to block out the light and awful, awful noise of his
own memories. He then dragged his fingers down his face, pulling the thin skin
beneath his eyes into a grotesque circus caricature.
“I’ve got news for you, Morty. You're not what I need! And you never will be,
ding-dong!”
The ghosts of the previous night’s yelling match echoed and died in the empty
garage, then there was a pair of tear-stained eyes boring into him.“Can't you
see I-I-I'm trying here?” They were awfully close now. “I'm right here, damn
it!”
Such small and strong hands he had as they bunched in his sweater, trying to
get leverage. Rick had met his grasp in turn, gripping tightly at his shoulder,
about to shove the boy away when Morty abruptly gave in to the touch and closed
the distance between—
Rick swiveled sharply away from the desk.
It was then that he finally noticed the sunlight filtering through from beneath
the garage doors. A quick glance at his Earth-time wristwatch told him it was
10:44 a.m.  Too late for anyone to still be in the house on a weekday, too
early for him to have any hope of slipping back into his regular nocturnal
sleep cycle. Whatever had happened last night itched in the back of his mind,
but kept slipping through his fingers like sand when he tried to grasp it.
“Aw, to heEUPRGHll with it.” Rick didn’t like not knowing. It wasn’t in his
nature to simply not know. He stood and quickly shrugged off the wet lab coat
from his shoulders. Still riding the pleasant buzz of the Splendor, he opened
the door to the kitchen to get away from the stuffy garage where the very walls
felt like they were judging him.
His feet led him through the empty living room, up the creaky stairs, and
straight to Morty’s bedroom door.  He figured the kid was at school by now, as
evidenced by the way the door hung slightly ajar—an indication of Morty’s usual
hasty departure to get to school on time. And he was about to pass by it
without a second thought, when he heard a withered moan from inside.
He prodded the door softly with his forefinger, and it swung silently on its
hinges into the darkened room. The window blinds were drawn, the sunlight
tumbling weakly in to cast the entire room in a muted shadow.
“H-hey, Morty? You in here? B-buddy?” He took a step forward and felt one foot
squelch into the wet lump of a yellow shirt. A muffled noise came from the bed
in the corner. The overstuffed comforter shifted, and a thin, pale arm flopped
out to hang over the side. Morty groaned again.
Rick made his way over in three quick strides, already reaching out to check on
Morty, when he felt the first wave of heat emanating from the small body. Even
in the semi-dark, he caught the glistening sheen on Morty’s skin.
The boy was burning up.
All the late nights of the past few weeks. The tantrum in the rain. The fight
about…whatever it was. It was no wonder the frail boy had come down with a
fever, and he looked to be in the throes of a fever dream.
“R…Rick…?” Morty’s glassy eyes focused on nothing in particular, and his narrow
chest quivered up and down like a hummingbird’s through his shallow breaths.
His face broke like a shattered window pane. “Why would you…be here? Don’t
you—don’t you—?” His eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head.
Rick scanned the bedside table. No pills. Not even a glass of water. Yet
another stellar display of good parenting in the Smith household. He twisted
his lips in a pale attempt at a smile. “Let's see what we—how you're holding up
there, M-Morty.” Propped up on one hand, he reached for Morty's sweat-slicked
forehead. As his weight sunk into the soft mattress, it pulled the blanket
tighter across Morty’s chest, making him thrash suddenly, howling about the
heat.
“Whoa, Morty! Jeezus! All right.” Rick backed off, raising both hands in the
universal sign of surrender. “Calm down, kid. I’m not gonna—I’m not gonna touch
you!” But Morty only keened until he’d managed to shuck the covers off himself
entirely.
A rosy pink Morty now lay before him, completely exposed save for the comforter
bunched up around his hips. His arms were raised over his head in what would
have been a painfully obvious invitation in any other situation but this.  The
heat radiating from his skin was palpable in the dry bedroom air, and Rick
couldn't help skirting his eyes over the boy's exposed belly, the soft curves
of his ribs poking out from beneath supple skin, the pink nubs drawn taught
against the cool air. Coupled with his disheveled hair plastered to this skin
and shallow, wavering breaths, it was almost too much for the old man to take.
Rick gulped, and his cock twitched.
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the alien downer riding out in his
veins. Maybe it was just something that had waited and festered in his twisted
mind long enough. Whatever it was, it pushed Rick to lean close, then closer
still, until he hovered just above those slightly parted lips. The hot puffs of
breath kissed like pop-rocks over his tongue which suddenly felt too thick for
his mouth.
His brain was already halfway delirious with fatigue, and the warm room and
even warmer flesh pinned beneath him on the pliant bed was quickly eating up
what little reserve of discipline he had left. Rick lifted a hand and made as
though to feel Morty’s forehead but instead came to rest on one hot cheek. When
those long, cold fingers touched his face, it eased Morty's furrowed brow, and
the boy sighed, nestling into the soothing touch.
With his hand pinned beneath Morty’s head, Rick slowly, sweetly broke apart in
that moment. His shoulder creaked as he finally collapsed with a quiet poomf on
the bed, facing Morty and only distantly wondering if this was a good idea.
Before the allure of slumber finally overtook him, he lifted his other hand to
gently wipe a sweat-dampened lock from Morty’s forehead.
 
Rick gently wiped a sweat-dampened lock from Morty’s forehead as he looked down
at him with smug satisfaction. Morty returned his stare defiantly even while
tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he struggled to take in all of the old
man’s cock into his mouth.
Uncoordinated with his glaring inexperience, he was a messy whirlwind of
action, alternating between lapping at the head and shaft and stretching his
mouth over the girth of it. Rick’s chest swelled at the sight of Morty’s
hallowed, flushed cheeks as they sucked hungrily at his cock, but on the few
occasions when Morty’s teeth scraped a little too roughly over the sensitive
skin, he didn’t mind cruelly twisting his ear in warning. “Careful there,” he’d
murmur, then quickly reward him with a hand through his hair which made Morty
snuffle a sigh around the thick member.
His knees in the soft padding of their makeshift bed, hands braced on his
grandfather’s bare hips, Rick almost couldn’t believe it was the same Morty
from just an hour ago. The boy’s usual stoic coolness was replaced by this
fiery flurry of motion, both cautious and desperate in its attempt to pleasure
Rick. And for all of Rick’s years indulging in every conceivable manner of
carnal hedonism that the great expanse of the universe had to offer, he now
found himself painfully aroused and so thoroughly mystified by this deceivingly
plain human boy. While the years spent working in tandem had fostered a fierce
urge to protect Morty, his partner’s unwavering self-reliance rarely brought
that urge to light. Any feelings of affection that Rick held for Morty were
easy enough to write off as an innocuous paternal love or the bond that
comrades share.
It was only now in the dim of the cave, illuminated by bursts of lightning from
the electrical storm raging outside, that Rick felt acutely possessive of
Morty. This new development had him perched atop a precarious cliff where
unfamiliar territory and even more untold possibilities lay beneath the steep
precipice.
Morty dragged his tongue firmly along the underside of Rick’s shaft. Rick
shuddered a low moan and lazily rolled his hips forward into the wet and
wanting mouth, wincing slightly as it nudged against the tight recesses of
Morty’s throat. Before he could pull back, though, Morty clutched firmly at his
hips and drove himself deeper onto Rick until his short and soft breaths huffed
over the coarse pubic hairs.
Rick’s knees quaked at the enveloping softness and heat, and he placed his
hands on Morty’s shoulders to keep from tumbling over right there. When Rick’s
erection twitched eagerly inside his throat, Morty finally gagged, wrenching
himself off to gasp for air. His fingers quivered where they still clung to
Rick as the mixture of saliva and pre-cum dribbled out of his mouth and onto
the ground.
Rick swiftly crouched down in front of Morty, cupping the boy’s chin in his
hand to look him over. Hot tears and sweat streaked his face, and where a
usually deadpan expression made him nearly impossible to read, the message now
rang loud and clear: want. Morty abruptly turned his face away and out of
Rick’s grasp.
With a snarl, Morty tackled him, pushing Rick down with a grunt onto the lab
coat that he’d shucked off the moment they’d first stumbled into the cave.
Before Rick could react, Morty grabbed his hands and shoved them stubbornly
against his hard prick. It stood stiffly at attention, glans peeking out, red
and angry, from the foreskin pulled taught over the erection. Milky pearls of
pre-cum oozed generously from the tip, wetting Rick’s palms. Rick had only
rarely allowed himself to enjoy fantasizing about his grandson’s member, and
now that he held its weight in his hand, he gave it an appreciable squeeze.
That was all it took to push Morty over the edge, stumbling through his orgasm
as though even he weren’t prepared for it. Morty’s eyes blew wide, and he
shuddered under the wave of spiked pleasure that took him, a thick stream of
ejaculate shooting between Rick’s fingers and landing on the man’s thighs and
stomach. His prick still throbbed rhythmically in Rick’s hand, the first of his
reserve spent, as Rick thoroughly milked him. Morty panted and rested his
forehead against Rick’s chest, mumbling something in great, heaving breaths.
Something like a curse, something like a mantra.
While Morty was still fumbling in his euphoric afterglow, Rick tipped his head
up and ran a languid tongue over the boy’s parted lips and against his teeth
and gums. The salt of his own junk was still in his mouth and he relished its
flavor that resonated of meat and blood after having gone so long without.
Morty was pliant beneath him, barely conscious enough to counter Rick’s rough
ministrations of his tongue, content to simply grope at Rick’s chest, much like
a kneading kitten.
While Rick explored Morty’s mouth with his tongue, he allowed his hands to
explore the rest of Morty’s pert and yielding body. As he ran them down Morty’s
sides, pinching and squeezing just to marvel at how the young skin sprung back,
Morty whimpered and gasped, rousing himself from his post-coital stupor. By
now, Rick had coaxed Morty down onto his back, but he kept rising up to suck
hungrily at Rick’s lip, the haphazard attempts at kissing slightly more refined
than just earlier. The kid was always good at picking up on things, from deftly
handling alien weaponry to eliciting moans of pleasure from his grandfather,
Rick thought idly as he lapped and nuzzled at Morty’s chest, taking particular
time to appreciate the pink nipples that stiffened under his tongue.
Morty squirmed and bucked beneath him, the fire of want roaring through him
again and his prick still leaking on his belly. He was like a tightly wound
coil, shaking against the cool air, the first orgasm barely taking the edge off
of the pent-up hunger. Rick grinned at the thought that it’d be up to him to
undo him completely.
Intensely aware of his own need for release, Rick flipped Morty onto his
stomach with little pretense, pinning him with a solid hand on his back. Morty
clawed futilely at the scrub beneath him, dirt from the cave’s floor biting
into his temple and cheek.  But even now, he was scrambling back towards Rick,
not away, his tiny ass nudging insistently at Rick’s groin. A quiet keen
slipped from his throat, the burn of need plainly written on his face.
“R-Rick…”
Rick all but fell part right then and there. He gripped the base of his shaft
in a tight fist to temper his arousal, taking a moment to ground himself. Here
was his grandson’s tight and virgin body splayed out in a wanton mess, outright
begging for him. After months in this backwards alien desert with no more than
a few rare, private indulgences, Rick doubted he’d be able to last long. He
gripped himself a little tighter. Then he’d just have to make every minute
count.
He bowed over the boy’s smaller back, nestling the head of his dick against
Morty’s tight entrance. Leftover gelatinous rainwater still dripped generously
from between Morty’s thighs, and Rick was reminded that maybe there was one
thing to be thankful for on this planet. Morty whimpered audibly, body
clenching with apprehension at what he’d wanted for so long. Burying his face
in Morty’s curls, Rick eased them both down onto their sides, taking the time
to kiss wetly at the back of his neck.
"Shh, baby. It’s—it’s okay. Everything’s okay,” he murmured, already slipping
an arm beneath Morty’s leg and hoisting it up and out of the way. Morty’s dick
bobbed expectantly, fresh pre-cum oozing from its slit.
“C’mon already! Just—just do it!” Morty bucked sharply back and onto the head
of Rick’s lubed member, impaling himself on the burning rod of flesh. For a
moment, neither one moved, the crash of sensations tearing across them like a
swift punch to the stomach. Morty then arched back and cried out silently, a
choked gasp rasping its way out of his throat. His limbs went stiff as he
simultaneously tried to wrench himself free and bear himself down on the rock-
solid staff. The result was a feverish bucking and rocking that had Morty
fucking himself on Rick’s cock like a seasoned whore.
It took Rick everything he had to stay in control, the squeeze of Morty’s tight
hole threatening to stir up the growing orgasm within him. “M-Morty! Relax!” He
wrapped an arm across Morty’s chest to still him, the other hand petting gently
at his nape. Morty only whined incoherently; but, bit by bit, the tension eased
out of his arms and legs, and he collapsed in a puddle, though his hole still
clenched in spasms. Thick tears poured over his nose and wet the moss beneath
him, but he made no motion to wipe them away.
Rick was whispering a string of praise into Morty’s ear, lauding him for what a
good boy he was, such a good boy, grandpa’s favorite, so good, so fucking good
to him. When Morty’s breathing had finally evened, Rick carefully, painfully
pulled out an inch. The lubricating fluids squelched where his cock squeezed
past the furl of tight muscle, and he could feel Morty’s insides flutter again
and then clamp down, as though pulling him back in. Who was he to deny him? He
thrust in, deeper this time, into the warm wetness, the squeeze on his dick
feeling amazing and overwhelming and still so obviously not enough. Morty’s
mouth fell open, gulping for air like a drowning man, like he was dying even
though he’d never felt more alive.
And then he was meeting Rick’s thrusts, pushing back at just the right angle to
draw Rick in so deep that his balls nudged his own. The swell of Rick’s
thickness stretched his ass more than his fingers ever could, and it burned,
burned so good, stoking the fire inside him. He moaned in his young, warbling
voice, stuttering for the first time in what had to have been years. Rick
remembered how Morty stuttered when they first met, stuttered even when his
eyes were like steel, stuttered when he bandaged the bloodied knuckles of his
right hand.
Now the ramble of moans and curses kept coming, making up for the years of
silence. Morty had always been the reticent type, first the stigma of his
stutter discouraging him from speaking, then the interdimensional escapades
with his long-winded grandfather sparing him any need to talk. It was like the
floodgates had now opened, every primal need tumbling out and making itself
heard for the first time.
Rick’s blood ran hot at the sound of his grandson’s pleas for more, faster,
deeper, rougher, and he pistoned his hips to oblige him. He rolled Morty onto
his belly, lifting his narrow hips with one hand while the other held him down
behind the neck. Morty wheezed and his cheeks reddened, but still he begged
aloud for Rick to fuck him.
Flesh slapped against flesh as Rick pummeled him with abandon, all the prowess
and poise he’d fostered over a lifetime suddenly worthless, leaving him to rut
like an animal in heat. Morty’s moans were jarred with every crushing thrust.
Caught between Rick’s hold on his neck and his stiff cock in his ass, he was at
the mercy of Rick’s pace, forced to endure whatever Rick gave him, however he
gave it.
 Little else registered to Rick besides the tantalizing squeeze of Morty’s ass
around him. The familiar ache of an approaching orgasm swelled inside him,
stirring at the base of his shaft like a storm on the horizon. Face flushed
with arousal and an unplaceable affection, Rick took his hand from Morty’s neck
to wrap it firmly around his throbbing prick, but not before rubbing a thumb
gently at where a fresh bruise was forming below his hairline. The alluring
moans and pitiful whimpers punctuated by needy gasps were music to his ears as
Rick played Morty like an instrument.
He tugged gingerly at the foreskin, using it to stroke him within the sheath,
while his knuckles rubbed tenderly at the underside. At the first tug, Morty’s
hip jerked forward headily into the touch, and he would’ve tumbled off of
Rick’s dick if it weren’t for the man’s stern grasp on one ass cheek. Rick
slowed his thrusts as he played idly with his grandson’s member, reaching under
to run a palm over his balls and up the bottom of his shaft, all the while
crooning to Morty, “Th-there’s a good boy. You want your grandpa’s cock, don’t
you? Don’t you, Morty? Don’t you, y-y-you little sport? Let grandpa know you
want—how much you want it.” He pulled out until just the head was nestled
inside.
Morty practically wailed, wriggling his ass in an attempt to drive Rick in
again. Fresh tears sprung to his eyes as he squeezed them shut against the
torment. “Please, Rick! I-I-I want it! I want your cock! I-I want everything!
Please d-don’t stop!” he stuttered unabashedly. Another gob of pre-cum dripped
onto the carpet of vegetation, already a mess of ejaculate and tears and sweat,
tethering him like an umbilical cord to where they’d previously slept so
innocently, denying the inevitable.
"There’s a good boy,” Rick purred, pulling Morty against him as he leaned back
against the cave wall. The sweat of Morty’s back mixed with his own as Morty
surrendered to the perilous embrace, so very vulnerable with arms splayed and
his own weight bearing him down fully onto the intruding member so that he was
filled impossibly, completely. Atop his throne, Morty balked and clawed at
Rick’s thighs, another orgasm surging and ultimately ripping through him. He
kept on writhing through the explosion, every muscle, every cell clenching and
unclenching, stars bursting behind his eyes, even as Rick hummed deep in his
throat and nestled his face into Morty’s hair.
Rick’s arms tightened around Morty, and he began fucking desperately up into
him to chase his swelling orgasm until he finally caught up, and it was
crashing over him, spilling out and into the sweet, hot hole that ached for
him, that he ached for, and it kept coming until it burned, until his own
oversensitive cock wept with all that he had.
And then he was bucking up until there was nothing left, and there was only the
smoldering embers tingling at his fingers. And Morty was a puppet with its
strings cut, panting and murmuring against his chest, as Rick slumped down into
that dark abyss illuminated by bursts of lightning.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter 3 is already in the works, but some upcoming life events will
     put it on a bit of a hiatus. In the meantime, feel free to check us
     out on Tumblr: futagogo.tumblr.com.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!