Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5627887.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Morty_Smith/Morty_Smith
  Character:
      Evil_Morty_(Rick_and_Morty), Morty_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      its_mortycest, surprise, you_guess_it
  Series:
      Part 2 of Mort_Squared
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-03 Words: 4384
****** Dreamless ******
by corporateCasual
Summary
     morty's got a crush on someone. please don't make me explain further
     this is my first time and i want to die.
Notes
     my god i'm going to hell
It isn't unusual for you to be in bed this early, feigning sleep while you toss
around restless in bed, horny as hell and trying to quiet your moans into a
pillow now too soaked with sweat to be any kind of comfortable. It certainly
wasn't unusual back on earth anyway, where Summer did her best to keep to
herself and pretend the sounds of raging teenage puberty weren't seeping
through unfiltered wall space as she tried to get some shut eye.
It isn't, however, as regular that upon closer inspection, you are hissing the
barely audible sound of your own name through clenched teeth, pumping painfully
slow and tight back and forth down your own rock hard member as you feel the
knot in your gut tighten while you near climax.
You don't think of yourself as a narcissist. That is to say, it is difficult to
even notice any semblance of yourself in this stranger; this someone who
whisked you off into the stars so long ago, where the difference between you
two dipped somewhere between where your soft naivety began and the digits of
his calloused working hands ended. You wonder, in his cruel coldness and the
way you look up to him in reverence of a version you could never hope to be, if
you ever were once the same person.
There's really no excusing it either, you reason to yourself. In any way of
seeing it, you're either a sick fuck who gets off to the sight of his own
reflection, or you're some kind of thirsty egotistical nympho. Either way it's
the same name that leaves your tongue as the muscles in your stomach clench
from release, a thick trail of milky white soiling into the tee shirt bunched
across your chest. You sigh, then make quick work of pulling the shirt over
your head and tossing it onto a badly hidden pile under the bunker.
It was just a good thing your other self hadn't caught on yet as to why you
were so eager to monopolise laundry duty over piloting the ship, even though
you definitely have more fun with that. You reflect with some shame on how a
mere few meters away, he probably is steering this hodge podge of a scouting
cruiser through the Aklaxxy gravitational arc, while you're in here jerking it
off to a playback memory you keep of the last time he had landed over you in a
heap, shielding you from a bunker explosion while his hot breath sank straight
into your nostrils. You scratch off the part where after that he had slammed
his fist into your temple as payback for short circuiting his bomb in order to
save a few Parbothian civilians.
God, you think, you know Morty you're, you're really something, huh. A hundred,
probably thousand, planets you’ve visited full of babes who would drape
themselves over a hot space traveling stud like you, and the only one you can
get it up for is some kind of morally defunct clone. In the dark, you give out
a piteous little laugh, and bury your head into the sheets.
You're probably supposed to be sleeping, remember, you remind yourself. You’ve
wasted a good enough hour of your break time before you take your turn at the
wheel, and by now the racing of pubescent hormones through your brain has left
you wide awake. It’s a good time before the feel of the sheets against your
bare chest finally drifts you into dreams full of a sweat-soaked darkness and
heat.
Behind closed lids there is still the bleary part of you that recalls home,
where a steady division of consciousness gives way to the life swimming before
you, full of mom coming home from work and dad with his legs up on the couch
tapping away at a tablet screen, Summer on her phone as she waits a minute
until you've made it out of the bus to join her on her square of the sidewalk.
More often than not, there is a general emptiness where you forget what’s
missing, where your senses are clear of anger and alcohol, and the wanton need
to be praised is replaced instead with the need to stumble in the direction of
an empty garage.
It must be hours later when you wake with a start and at first instinct peer
out the windows, only to notice that it's still the black and dotted
interstellar vacuum of space behind the port glass that you left as you dozed
off.
Misty eyed, you wonder why Morty hasn't touched down on some land mass of a new
planet yet, why the filmy tinted daylight of a new world isn't floating through
instead.
You pound a fist against a side panel by your head and a screen flips into
view. A digital ticker you've set to earth's EST comes online when you tap on
it. Damn it, you knew you shouldn't have wasted time fooling around. Your
stomach shifts uncomfortably when it dawns on you that your shift in the
cockpit should have started some odd three hours ago, and there's only so far
your current pilot's upgraded wake cycles can keep him up before the need to
recharge.
Too muddled in this state to care about groping for a clean shirt or a light
switch, you bang knees and elbows around until you stumble out into the dimly
lit dining room in its preprogrammed night mode. It's the only conjunction in
the ship between the sleeping quarters and the cockpit, and you pass through
the stale clinical white light to knock on the metal door to the pilots
segment.
"M-morty? Uhm. You ok in there?" you call. There’s no response so you rub at
your eyes and lean your weight against the door to swing it open.
Your doppelgänger is draped unceremoniously across the pilot’s seat in his
personal uniform; legs hitched up over the arm rest and the back of his head
pressed up to the glass of the cock pit's window, neck to ankles in silhouette-
tight material stronger than steel. His arms rest neatly over his chest with
the slow rise and fall of breathing, boots kicked off and neatly lined beside
him. You didn’t even know he could actually sleep, what with him always being
on the very brink of consciousness like some bed-bound soldier, ready to drag
the glint of a blade across the throat of any unfortunate interloper.
He opens his left eye when you enter, and there is the most minute spark that
flares to the surface while some hidden system whirs back into life: his
embedded electronic circuits rebooting when the soft shoe shuffle you make
alerts him.
"Morty," he says as acknowledgment, "I'm sorry, I was just taking a break."
"Tha-that's okay I'm, you know it's, it's your bed, technically, and you
could've woken me up. I wasn't really that tired."
“M’got it covered," he mutters sleepily, and taps a finger against his left
temple.
"I can go a few days awake at a time just fine, Mort, and besides I, I promised
your mom I'd take care of you, right?"
"Look, you, you say that," you argue, "but I don't think you'd be, you know,
passed out and letting autopilot drift us exposed into some, I dunno! Maybe a
war zone in who knows what territorial border, if you were feeling okay enough
to keep awake."
You watch his head loll back, rest itself against the ship window to stare up
at the welded grey of the room's ceiling. He doesn't respond; most likely still
reeling in damages from that explosion you had set into motion yesterday.
Jesus, look at him. He’s more exhausted than you are.
After some silent debate with your better judgment against offering help where
it isn’t asked for, you walk over to the pilot seat to help him up, slipping
his arm over your bare shoulder and surprised with how he allows you to lift
him from his slump and onto his feet.
With how rough-skinned and uncaring as this familiar face is, and as many times
as he has left you almost abandoned and half-dead on extraterrestrial terrain
only to come to the rescue in a string of complaints and reluctant swearing,
you had almost believed him to be more metal than man both figuratively and
literally.
This is the first time he's needed personal assistance out of his own military
guide, and you are surprised to find his weight on you lighter and more
unguarded than the robot you had expected.
He has been, in all these days you have lived together in the same small space
as collaborators, thieves, and reflections of the same kind of homesick
desperation, only a stranger. A stranger who promised you the prospect of
bringing back the missing piece to making your family whole again sure, but
still, a stranger.
You guide him to the door, the space between his slack arm and your skin
beneath it prickling with heat from the thought that this is the most intimate
proximity he's allowed you to have with him. It's different from the sure way
he's grabbed at your hand before he pulls you from the path of a stray ion-
disrupting bolt, more sincere than the tired way he will haul you over his back
when you've been beaten to the ground with the same routine of bruising and
blood that he has lived a whole secret lifetime through.
You kick open the door to the sleeping quarters without much care, squinting in
the dark to drag him to the bunker, letting him tumble from your shoulders and
onto the mattress. He rolls to his side to look up at you. In the dark, the dim
light sneaking from the hallway lightens the soft apologetic turn of his eyes.
"Thanks, Morty,” he says slowly, as if testing the words as they slip out of
him, “you’re a good kid."
"Hey don't uhh, worry about it, uhm, Mo... g-guy," you finish lamely, chest
swelling at the thanks you aren’t used to.
"I'll just try and reset the coordinates for a-another location, okay?" you
ask, and he shakes his head in response.
"Look I, I mean Rick, my Rick, he taught me to fly his ship okay? I mean I'm
not that great," you shrug, "but I think I can figure out the control
similarities enough to, to, to, get us to land somewhere to refuel or
something."
You see him shake his head again, and he backs up to scoot against the wall so
that there is a small bit of space free for you on the threadbare mattress. He
looks up at you pointedly, tired as he is.
"Lie down, Morty," he says, and the heat blossoms so quickly in the tips of
your ears that you're glad that the light's position on you leaves your
reaction hidden in the shadows.
"W-what?" you manage to get out.
He tries to scoot further back to allot a little more room for you. With how
small the space is, it looks as if he is trying to wriggle his way into the
wall.
"Wow that's, you know, it's okay," you tell him.
Then he looks at you so direct and stern that you begrudgingly concede, sliding
awkwardly into the space beside him so that you face away and directly at the
exposed hallway.
When you accidentally rest the small of your back against his arm you feel a
strong shiver crawl up your spine.
"Oh my god! You're freezing, are you, are you getting sick?"
"Yeah... I mean no," he breathes, "I'm just, I'm really tired. My auxiliary
power went into sleep mode an hour ago and managing it on bio-energy is hell."
You pause a minute as you consider this.
"You uhh," you try, "you want me to make you some chicken soup?"
You feel a rough punch on your shoulder.
"No dipshit, I need you to keep watch and keep the place warm while I rest up.
Just in case my thermals slip too low. Think you can handle that?"
You nod and embarrassment creeps through you as you try to quiet your
breathing, unsure of if you should be insulted that you're now functioning as a
living quilt or if you should be focusing on the brush of his skin-taut sleeve
against your bare back while you allow your eyelids to dip low in an attempt to
soak it all in.
In the silence of it all you start to fade half heartedly back into
unconsciousness, but your breath hitches when his hands slip over the sides of
your torso, trying to wrap themselves around your chest. As strange a gesture
as it is, it doesn't feel any more foreign than wrapping your own hands around
yourself and lift up your arms to let him do so, but let a questioning hum hang
in the air. The crook of his nose leaves an impression on your skin as he leans
against the back of your neck and rubs his forehead against your hair; it's
kind of like when Snuffles was just a puppy, and had spent most nights snuggled
up tight and fidgeting in your arms to soak up the comforting heat.
It's a jump in this nostalgic quiet then, when behind you Morty gives a bemused
little hum that vibrates down your spine.
"Morty?" he says.
"Y-y-y-yeah,” you sputter. You wonder if he noticed the way you shivered just
then.
"Why don't you turn around and kiss me?"
He asks it so airily, as if he might be royalty only entertaining a question of
if it might be fine to go for a walk before dinner. It was soft and calm,
knowing the answer already like it served more as a notice than a question.
"Uhm," you manage to croak out, because really talking isn't something you can
wrap your mind around right now.
"What, what did you say-"
"Turn around, Morty," he orders.
His hold loosens around you, so for a lack of response you turn to face him,
making sure to keep as chaste a distance as you can in such small confines.
You can't see much with your shadow cast over him in the wallowing dark of the
unlit room, but you see the crook of a smirk and the lidded sleepiness in his
eyes.
You're pretty sure he can feel the beet red of your skin radiating off you in
waves. When he leans up to press a ghost of kiss on your forehead you think
this is probably a fever dream born from shame and excitement, but when he
pulls back his expression has changed back to the same cool blankness he always
keeps as a default.
"What," he breathes, loud enough only for the two of you to share, "you really
think I can't hear everything you do in my ship? The walls are practically
cardboard, Morty, and you, you know, you can get pretty loud."
What did he..?
Oh.
Oh god.
You feel like right now might be a good time for the cabin’s floor to rip
apart, throwing you from the ship’s oxygen field and allowing you to float off
into the dark abyss; the more shameful part of you is sure it’s about to happen
any minute now.
"Wait, no, it's not what you, oh my go-", you start, but are interrupted by his
mouth pushed rough against yours. He holds it there for a few seconds until
your mind catches up and you melt into it. His hands hold you close and warm
against him, draped across your back in a tight hold. Borrowed heat. God, you
hadn't realised how cold he is compared to the fire lighting you up from the
inside.
You kiss back, maneuvering your tongue as he pushes his past your lips, licking
at your teeth and sliding it against yours.
You think there's a hunger in him somewhere, the way he nips at your bottom
lip, traces his tongue across it before he lets go and resumes painfully slow
against you. He sighs into the kiss and pulls apart to study your expression,
searching for some kind of rejection. A small trail of drool leads down from
his bottom lip while his irises flit back and forth to meet yours.
"You're gonna drive me crazy, Morty," he tells you, sliding his hands from
their position on the small of your back and down to your ass. “You, you’re
gonna make me crash this heap into an asteroid one day with all the blueballing
you're giving me."
You barely hold back a surprised whimper as you feel a barely warm hand shift
to press against the soft skin of your stomach and trace its way across the
smooth jutting of your ribs, pinching playfully against the hardening peak of a
nipple.
“I’ve heard a lot of the filthy shit you’ve been spewing, Mort,” he says,
clicking his tongue. “A lot of things you’d like me to do to you, huh?” He says
it quiet, as if it’s a dirty secret meant for only your ears.
He pulls his hand from where it was tracing the seat of your jeans, laying his
fingers to drum a melody softly on your jawline, kissing on the spaces where
his fingers don’t reach.
"Let me try?” He sighs again, breath hot against the delicate space just below
your ear.
You nod almost immediately. Of course there are a lot of questions racing
across your mind right now, but with some relief you find they silence
themselves the minute his fingers dip below your stomach, clambering for some
grip on the hem of your jeans in the dark. Your breath catches in your throat
when he palms at your forming semi, and you hear him chuckle when he rubs his
palm against it.
“God,” he says bemused, probably the first time you’ve heard it in his tone and
your heart skips; “you’re such a fucking virgin.” He pecks lightly against your
mouth, sinking down as he bends to unbutton your jeans, sliding them lower
while he dots your collarbone with kisses.
From the growing strain in your pants you can't help but give out a moan of
impatience, and at this he yanks at the denim without warning, tugging off the
soft cotton of your briefs along with your jeans from where his knuckles have
hooked themselves along the garter. Your dick practically springs out to meet
the smooth slope of your stomach, the rush of the cabin cold sending a hiss
through your teeth.
"So hard for me already, Mort?"
"Y-yeah, god, yes," you manage.
It must have caught him off guard because there isn't a reply, just the sweet
warm air of a sigh as he wraps his hand around you, traces the callous of his
thumb around your tip. Good god, you needed this. You need him.
In the warm darkness you reach for him to stroke a palm against the growing
bulge in his suit, eager to claim every part of him you can get. It's enough to
send your heart pounding the way he encourages you with his own free hand;
driving your fingers in painfully slow rubs against the fabric lining his
crotch. Beneath the flexible armor of his suit you can trace the ridging rise
of him in response to your attention. He doesn't argue when you begin to slip
the suit down, pausing from his own ministrations on you to slip out of the
bottom completely and kick it away without much thought. You think he almost
purrs when you finally wrap your warm digits around him.
Your hips buck as his touch returns and jolts you back into focus. God, that
feels amazing. Makes sense that another Morty would know how to get a fantastic
hold on you. You shut your eyes to focus on the way his wrist twists ever so
slightly as he pumps at your cock, dependent on the sensations and sounds he
makes as you stroke him to stay grounded.
It's easy to tell who's got more experience though, and he takes care to work
on the unfamiliar ways that make you arch your back against the sheets, as if
he already knows like clockwork all the right buttons to press to have you
vibrating his name against the back of your throat. It's more than you were
expecting, and you find your own grip against him slipping away in amateur
comparison.
When he pulls back you whimper from the immediate loss, and he kisses you rough
and quick to quiet you. When he pulls back his eyes are wide, almost in
adoration at the way you call out his name, uncontrolled and stuttering and
soaked in sticky sweat as you already are from the unfamiliar sensation of
someone's hands all over you.
"Baby," he whispers, pushing his dick against yours, feeling the precum
sticking between the both of you as he starts to rock his hips against yours.
He grabs at your hand and guides it to wrap around both of you, pressing your
members tight against each other and moaning out the pet name now like a
mantra. The friction is sweet and gut-churning, and his eyes close while his
cheeks burn bright red even as you watch under half-lidded eyes in the shadows.
You could listen to him pant out the words for hours unending. With some alarm
you start to feel the familiar knot tighten in stomach, uneager for this to end
so quickly.
"M-morty," you choke, "I'm gonna--"
He cuts you short and pushes your hand away to withdraw himself.
"Not, not yet," he stammers, sweat clinging to his forehead. He reaches fingers
to brush at the wet strands mussed over your own eyes.
Where he meets your confusion, he is suddenly embarrassed enough to avert his
gaze, but there's still the hard focus of him in the way he speaks like a lost
soldier.
"I want to taste you, Morty."
You almost choke on your own spit. Fucking christ. You hope to god this isn't
some kind of coma hallucination because if it is then you're praying you never
wake up.
When you don't object he climbs over to straddle your waist, turning you onto
your back as he does so. In this way he towers over your flushed body, and he
bends to give you a slow reassuring kiss on your temple, then the bridge of
your nose, tracing his way downwards from the smooth jut of your chin to your
chest, where he nips his teeth against a nub before going any further. You slip
your fingers against the back of his neck to play at the tiny hairs, giving
your grace with the little hum you let out.
When he lowers himself to meet your now swollen cock he kisses at the insides
of your thighs slow and thoughtful, pausing for a moment before he runs your
tip against the soft fold of his lips, settling the wet heat of his tongue
against your slit.
"F-fuck," you choke out, tangling your fingers into the similar cowlick-matting
of his hair.
When he takes you almost whole into the damp sweetness of him you nearly
scream, grinding your teeth and panting breathlessly for him while he runs his
tongue against your shaft, the vibration of his encouraging moans bringing you
so heart-wrenchingly close, buried nearly up to the hilt as you are while he
laps into the salty flesh as if he's been begging for this moment longer than
you have.
You try to rock into him and he clips a hand against the jutting bone of your
hips, keeping you in place while the other encourages the hand tangled up in
his hair to push him harder against you, to force yourself in deeper into the
slick heat that's so unlike any part of him you've felt before this. It's
strange how much hungry he is to be dominated by your unsteady resolve. It's
intoxicating.
You comply, easing him steady to take the whole of you, push at him suddenly
until your almost balls deep and your dick throbs as you feel him gag in
surprise when you slam into his throat. A slow appreciative moan escapes him,
and you find him moving against you faster, taking in as much as he can while
you knead your fingers into his hair and litter the air with soft escaping
praises. You, you feel so good, you tell him, you feel so fucking great, Morty.
Baby.
It's so much more than you ever thought could be possible to take, and you
scream out his name as you feel your load spill into him, down his throat as he
takes it in fast and greedy, lapping up the remains even as they drip down his
lip, stain the threadbare sheets that catch them. He doesn't let up the warm
press of his lips against you until you're completely spent and hypersensitive,
giving a last drag of his tongue against your softening dick before he
withdraws and throws himself sideways to lie against you while you try to
settle down breathless from the post-coitus high.
You turn to him and he wipes at your lip from where spittle has traced it's way
down your slacked jaw. His finger trembles so slightly as he does it that you
almost don't catch it.
"Not bad," he says, tired words a mixture of mild surprise and pride, "for a
Morty."
You're reminded of how winded he's been this whole time when you slip a hand
under his cheek and he curls appreciatively against it. There's an almost
inaudible click as his left eye powers back down into blindness, no objection
from the soft snoring that follows soon after as you take the opportunity to
pull yourself close, new as you are to the exhilaration of someone lying bare
and exposed, all for you.
From the space where your chests meet you let yourself feel the beat of twin
heartbeats, slowing down into synchronization as for the first time in months
you finally fall into a content darkness, dreamless and warm.
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