Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11892690.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Summer_Smith
  Character:
      Rick_Sanchez, Summer_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Implied/Referenced_Incest, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Alternate
      Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Post-Canon, Angst,
      Smut, Alcohol, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, Voyeurism, Substitution
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-24 Updated: 2017-09-25 Chapters: 7/? Words: 19038
****** Space Trash ******
by virtueofvice
Summary
     Space trash: objects remaining in space though they no longer serve
     any useful purpose.
     Just some absolute shameless garbage featuring everyone's favorite
     alcoholic mad scientist reprobate and his favorite redheaded
     sidekick. A series of generally unrelated one-shots, liberally
     steeped in sin.
     https://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/n-o-t-_-t-o-d-a-y
     https://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/space_trash
***** Girls In Science *****
Chapter Summary
     Rick has his reasons for preferring the little brother.
Chapter Notes
     “Let me tell you about my trouble with girls… Three things happen
     when they are in the lab… You fall in love with them, they fall in
     love with you and when you criticize them, they cry.” - Tim Hunt,
     disgraced Nobel Laureate
He'd always known it was a statistical possibility. In a small world growing
bigger, increasingly characterized by the chaotic and absurd, science at least
remained reliable.
Summer was the accident, the fork in the road at which all sunny paths diverged
and headed for dreary suburban drudgery. Neglected by her parents, avoided by
her younger brother, held in lofty contempt by the mad genius who had only
recently rejoined the family and claimed to be her grandfather. Her caustic
adolescent detachment and preoccupation with the mundane shielded her from the
slings and arrows of her family's disregard and the casual disdain of her
schoolmates.
She was different; in some small, minute ways. Her mind held the drive to
compete, whereas the Summer of C-137 - the Summer he had left behind, the
Summer he preferred to forget - had been more relaxed in her intellectual
pursuits. She possessed a sharp, biting wit that at times surprised even him
with its dry, adult edge. She was, in many ways, more like him. Too much like
him.
He preferred Morty's company. The benefit of the boy's simple, steady
brainwaves aside; there was nothing distracting about the grandson that had
accompanied him from their previous dimension. Everything about him seemed more
real, his lines cleanly drawn, his expression trusting even in Rick's most
untrustworthy moments. Morty was pure, an empty vessel only lately sullied by
his company; a little cracked, still usable.
Summer's cracks ran deeper. Some had been there even before he arrived; rattled
into her porcelain-armor exterior by the tremors of her parents' disintegrating
marriage, prised open by the scorn and nastiness of the average high school
girls she competed with for position and social currency. Rick was above the
pettiness of her pursuits, but he noticed their aftermath. Noticed her.
She jockeyed for position in his workshop, as well - in his spaceship, in his
life; pushing Morty out of the way with less than subtle aggression. It was
only natural. Sibling rivalry was the very foundation of the coming-of-age
experience in an American household. A perfectly healthy specimen of the human
female in its teenage formative years - physically fit, emotionally tumultuous,
and flooded with hormones. Rejected by her peers, with her designated paternal
figure the lowest man on the totem pole; it was only natural she would seek out
attention from the most authoritative male figure in the household.
Only natural.
Natural.
Like the thin line of sweat trickling down her neck, rolling lazily over her
collarbone, and disappearing beneath the line of her pink tank top when the
cooling system in his ship quit. Like the savage way he slammed his fist down
on the systems panel, suddenly irrationally furious at the technical failure,
the vehicle and everything in it. His eyeballs suddenly burned with a dry heat,
his mouth parched, and he ached for a drink. He licked his lips subconsciously,
and Summer shifted in her seat, crossing her legs.
Natural.
Like the russet red of her hair in the setting sun when she angrily stood in
the driveway, arms akimbo on gently flaring hips, refusing to move until he
consented to take her along on his latest adventure - and to let her ride
shotgun, Morty languishing in the backseat.
Natural.
Like the aroma of her perfume; strawberries and citrus, lingering in his
workshop though she swore she hadn't trespassed all afternoon. The drifting,
hazy summer scent made his head feel light and drew the focus from his eyes,
pulling his gaze from the project on his workbench to somewhere beyond the
pinkish suburban horizon. He grimaced, throwing his tools down in disgust,
taking a long pull from his flask.
"G- Rick?" She queried, deliberately dropping the patriarchal honorific as she
poked her head into the garage, feathered ends of her auburn ponytail brushing
her delicate collarbone.
...largest stadium covered end to end with naked redheads...
He said nothing, merely rotated in his chair and took another swig from his
flask, raising a frosty brow.
Indomitable, Summer took that as an invitation to slink in, something in her
confident, almost defiant movements indefinably yet undeniably Sanchez. "Can
you help me with my chemistry homework?"
"A-and why would I wanna waste my time - why would I want to do that, Summer?"
He queried scathingly, twisting the lid onto the flask with practiced fingers
and tucking it away. "The boring D-grade science they teach in your school
couldn't stir up a teaspoon's worth of intellectual curiosity- ugh."
She paused, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, toe of her canvas
shoe kicking at the cement. Something low and buried at the bottom of his brain
woke belatedly from slumber and cried danger as she raised her eyes to his
again. "Teach me something I don't know, then."
Rick swallowed, turned back to his workbench; rising from his chair with a
heavy sigh. Crossing the garage to Summer, he was acutely aware of the humming
of the fluorescent lights overhead, the balmy breeze from the open garage door;
the distant squeal of a child playing (presumably) on the next block over. He
invaded her space, one hand splayed against the door behind her, pressing it
shut, resting against the wood near her waist so she could not slip away. The
other braced on the wall beside her head, accentuating the way he loomed over
her as he glared down at the girl.
Summer quailed slightly, her back to the door, the scent of single-malt scotch
and crackling ozone putting her on uneven footing. "G-... Rick?"
"Don't ask for lessons you're not ready to learn, Summer." He drawled darkly,
hand finding the doorknob and twisting sharply. The door opened and the girl
stumbled back several steps. "Get out, I have shit to do." The door snapped
shut again and Summer stood on the other side, biting her lip, cheeks flushed.
In the garage, Rick stood motionless, watching the door, drinking as night fell
outside.
Natural.
***** Summer Sweet *****
Chapter Summary
     Rick returns to discover intruders in his garage. The culprit is
     appropriately chastised.
Chapter Notes
     "Science is not only a disciple of reason but, also, one of romance
     and passion." - Stephen Hawking, theoretical physicist
The brilliant swirling emerald; once such a thing of wonder, now more ordinary
than the glowing red-yellow-green of a traffic light, blew out of existence
behind him with a sound like a great sigh. The noise was loud enough to alert
someone in the house to his presence, at least during the daylit hours, but it
seemed he was alone in the pseudo-colonial post-updated-whatever crackerbox.
Or at least, it seemed that way, till he began to traverse the hallway towards
his garage, bottle of the excellent high-proof liquor he'd gone to obtain the
next system over in one hand. Cocking his head, he twisted the cap off the
flagon, took a long swallow and listened with mild interest. The walls really
were paper-thin in this place.
Morty jacking off. He concluded after a moment and barged in, the door thumping
quietly against the drywall behind it. 
The sight that greeted his eyes was, surprisingly, not Morty jacking off.
Summer was spread atop his workbench like an offering, small thatch of ginger
curls showing below her belly - perfect with its little bit of softness that
she hated and the sprinkling of freckles he secretly - fuck, so secretly -
lusted after with the precise focus of cold grey eyes. She failed to notice
Rick, however - indeed, seemed rather preoccupied; with one hand fisted in the
platinum blond hair and the other awkwardly rubbing the blessedly not-visible-
from-the-doorway cock of the teenage boy slobbering his way down her body.
Summer had her eyes shut tight and was biting her lip, and seemed to be trying
very hard to pretend that her beau was literally anyone else. It was the boy
making all the racket, mewling like a pup at her inexpert ministrations. Small
wonder she'd waited till the house was empty. 
Rick leaned against the door, crossing his arms and watching the pair with
insolent insouciance. When the boy knelt between her legs, his attention perked
up, but though Summer gripped his flaxen locks hard and bucked into his touch,
the kid gave her only a few small, perfunctory laps with the tip of his tongue
before standing and fumbling with his zipper and Y-fronts. 
Rolling his eyes, Rick cleared his throat; and at last Summer's eyes flew to
his. She gave a little shriek and then choked on her next intake of breath as
she tried to gasp; Rick remained standing with his arms crossed, watching
impassively. She hopped down off his workbench and tugged on her t-shirt; tears
smarting at the corners of her eyes, but she swallowed them down and swatted
the denim-clad leg of her flavor-of-the-week to make himself presentable as she
tugged on her panties. 
"Grandpa Rick, this is just... Dick," she said awkwardly, tugging the faded
band tee down over her toned thighs. 
Rick refused to let his gaze trace the movement and raised an eyebrow. "I can
see that."
"No, I mean-"
"Actually I prefer Rich," the lad said gamely, straightening after he adjusted
his zipper. 
Rick chuckled. "Well, Rich, I'm Summer's Grandpa Rick, and this is my workshop
you were ineptly fucking her in."
Watching the seconds tick by, Rick watched the teen glance from him, to Summer,
back to him again, and watched the moment when he started to wonder about more
than he needed to know.
"Hey..."
"Ugh." Barely glancing at him, Rick pulled a slender, blue-and-chrome cylinder
from his lab coat. Summer recognized it a split second before blinding white
light filled the garage and covered her eyes with a curse.
"Go home." Rick commanded the younger Richard. "Y-you came here looking for
your bike, somebody stole it and you were asking around. You don't know my
granddaughter. When you get home your bike will turn up - or it won't, I
actually don't know if you have a bike and I don't care just get out." Already
bored and impatient, profoundly aware of Summer's warmth hovering at his elbow,
he opened the garage, physically pushed the memory-wiped boy out onto the
sidewalk, and shut the door.
Turning to Summer, he growled, "What the fuck was that, Summer?"
Summer huffed and threw her arms up, all loose limbs and finely tuned teenage
sense of injustice. "I was trying to get off, obviously." She snapped, false
bravado lending her eyes a manic light, manicured hand on one lace-edged hip as
if she hadn't just had the dick of a kid with her grandfather's name wrapped
tightly in those same fingers five minutes before.
"Well did you?" Rick asked slyly, taking a pull from the bottle he still held.
"...What?" Doe eyes, liquid and tremorous; nubile frame poised to run but
fascinated still.
"Did. You. Get. Off. Summer?" 
"I- ...No." Suddenly it was hard to breathe, her senses full of Rick, her
bottom somehow edged back up onto the workbench where she'd been, a strange
sort of deja vu that improved upon the second playing. It was true, it was
true; when she'd spotted the boy at a rival school's basketball game, tall and
lithe and fair, she knew she had to have him. Something in her body craved the
touch of long fingers, the resistant pull of gleaming, silvered hair against
her own hands. And when she learned his name... something secret low in her
belly coiled and burned. But the boy was inexperienced, unskilled; too
hesitant, he treated her as if she might break, and treated her pleasure as an
afterthought. Summer's nerves hummed with dissatisfaction. 
"Then he wasn't doing something right." Rick caught her by surprise, caught her
attention, her senses focused wholly on him as he brought her back to earth by
cupping one long hand between her thighs, thin fingertips rubbing small circles
into her heat through the cotton of her panties. She was warm, willing; but not
wet as she should have been for as long as he'd watched them together. 
"Nnnn..." Summer moaned, arching into his touch, the little roll of her hips
making the blood rush to his cock so fast his head spun. Still, he immediately
paused, withdrawing his questing fingertips.
"No?" His tone was patient, almost bored. "Should we just pretend that I don't
know?" 
"Please," she begged. A hundred unvoiced fantasies clamored to be realized and
she wrapped those manicured fingers around his wiry wrist. "Don't stop." She
dragged his hand back, head bowing like a penitent sinner when his nimble
fingers dragged aside the flimsy cotton and stroked her velvet flesh. 
She bucked her hips and mewled, running her fingers down the edge of his lab
coat till they brushed his belt buckle, then lower... Her fingertips assessed
hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, rubbing firmly at the sizeable
bulge tenting his courderoy slacks. 
Rick hissed, gently removing her hands and running them up her fragile rib
cage, fondling her pert breasts with her small, warm hands under his. She
squirmed. "Jesus Summer, you're fucking twisted." He muttered, not without a
certain degree of dark admiration.
"It runs in -oh!- in the family..." She gasped, as he paused to lick and blow
cool air on a pebbled nipple as he kissed his way down her body. Rick grinned,
watching her mimic his moments - palm, gently stroke, pinch and flutter the
fingertips over sensitized nerves... His cock throbbed, watching her play with
her tits on his own workbench, and without a thought he knelt smoothly between
her thighs, dragging her panties down her ankles. 
"Young punks never know how to eat a girl out." Rick announced, as if beginning
a thesis on the matter. "It's like they think it's some- some fucking checklist
or something, before the main event. They don't even- they have no clue what a
girl's supposed to taste like, when she's really fucking hot for it." He
glanced up at Summer, who was watching him with her lips parted slightly,
breathing shallow. "Well fuck it."
The scent of her dizzied him, dancing with the alien alcohol in his blood and
made the dark, possessive part of him stand up and howl. He kissed the tender
skin of her inner thigh, suckling with lips and teeth for one long moment too
many and leaving a deep indigo lovebite that she and any potential partners
would witness for the next fortnight. 
He'd intended to tease her, to draw the moment out to a punishing length and
make the lesson one she'd remember; but in a household so active the clock was
always ticking. He parted her folds as if delving into a flower, lapping the
honey from her center and curling his tongue around and over her pearl as she
writhed and whimpered above him. When he slipped first one, then two fingers
into her heat, pumping slowly, she tangled her fingers in his hair and ground
her hips against his face, craving satisfaction. In short order, Rick
delivered. Curling long fingers inside her, he rubbed an urgent pace, feeling
her needy body tighten around his digits as he sealed his mouth over her bud
and sucked. Her hands in his hair pulled painfully tight when she came, but he
relished her abandon.Her taste flooded his mouth and he licked her eagerly,
burying his face between her thighs, aquiline nose bumping her clit. He
continued his attentions till she whimpered for respite, and then a cruel
second or two more.
"Fuck, God!" Summer cried, slumping against the wall behind the workbench as
her body shivered down from its high.
"That's me, baby girl." Rick retorted smartly, the picture of salaciousness as
he sprawled on the garage floor, cock tenting his pants magnificently, licking
her gleaming essence from his face and fingers with a long and wicked tongue.
"Want me to...?" Summer asked suggestively, hesitance clear in her voice. Even
thoroughly debauched, Rick's boundaries did not invite trespass. 
In answer, her clothes and a keycard landed in her lap. Upon closer inspection,
it turned out to be a key for the underground Phoenix lab, which still held a
couple of intact specimens... Just in case. 
"No, get out. I have shit to do." Rick snarled, ever mercurial; covertly
adjusting himself as he turned to his workbench and began replacing his tools
on its surface. Summer was struggling red-faced into her clothes and he reached
past her to grab his bottle and take another swig. "And the next time you
decide to have a stand-in fuck you in my workshop, make sure it's a real Rick.
I don't have time to clean up after other people's unfinished business." 
Leaning across the space between them, he offered her a swig from the bottle.
She took a scorching sip; pulled a face, swallowed hard, and managed another.
When their eyes met again, she managed a tiny smile - then handed back the
bottle and slipped out of the workshop.
Rick sighed, inundated in the scent of sex and summer, more than a little
drunk, and still hard - trying to rely on willpower for all of twenty-three
seconds before rising and heading for a solitary and much-needed shower.
***** The End is the Beginning is the End *****
Chapter Summary
     Rick is accustomed to difficult choices. Pragmatism comes naturally
     to the morally grey.
Chapter Notes
     coda: latin, (noun); an ending part of a piece of music or a work of
     literature or drama that is separate from the earlier parts
     "We stopped looking for monsters under our bed when we realized that
     they were inside us." - Charles Darwin
The boy was slow, always so slow; ten steps behind intellectually and
literally. Sweet, endearing, soft-hearted - everything that Rick had murdered
in himself. He watched him approach the ship at a breakneck pace, stumbling on
the hardscrabble earth of the alien planet; the toxic fog that rolled in once
every galactic year - just his luck - only a few yards behind, seeping along
the horizon.
Too slow.
"Rick open the ship, it's not funny!" Morty wailed.
Summer was unconscious in the seat beside him, a small rivulet of crimson
trickling from beneath matted auburn, concussed but alive. Breath passed
shallowly from between softly parted lips, untainted by the poisoned
atmosphere.
Outside the ship, the gaseous neurotoxin started to swirl around Morty's
sneakers and he danced forward a few steps, pounding on the ship's hull as he
cried out, voice cracking with panic and uncertainty. "Rick! Open the door!"
To open it was death, obviously, for himself and for the girl. The ship was
equipped with an internal air filtration system but its external mechanisms had
been heavily damaged by the planet's corrosive atmosphere. He would be lucky to
get it off the ground.
He looked at Morty, eyes almost tender as the muddy green cloud swallowed his
grandson and obscured him from sight. 
"Rick!"
The boy's scream sounded desperate, terrified; not at all like the confident
mulishness he had developed when questioning his grandfather's orders. Not at
all like the reluctant youth, green and uninformed, who had wanted to linger
and warn the locals when Rick first sensed doom on the horizon. Tender, good
boy - lacking in that characteristic Sanchez pragmatism. The girl, on the other
hand, had thrust her hot, dry hand into his and run at his command; falling
only when a retaliatory blast from embittered pursuers caught her in the
crossfire. 
"Sorry, Morty." Rick muttered, reaching into his breast pocket as he threw the
ship into gear, launching it above the poison and death and into orbit. The
certificate was a little worn, the gilt at the edges starting to flake off in
places; but it would still be honored, he knew. A few creases marred its
surface but it remained as legible as the day it had been offered to him...
...And in the way of reparations for our terrible mistake, we would like to
compensate you with this voucher for a free replacement Morty, in the event
that your current Morty should-
"Nothing personal." He swallowed hard, and punched the coordinates for Council
Headquarters into the ship's panel with a grimace, hoping he could get it
handled and get home and hopefully get blackout drunk before Summer came around
and realized he'd left the brother she knew to die.
Everybody's replaceable.
Almost everybody.
***** Swallow Up The Flame *****
Chapter Summary
     Summer needs just a little help moving on from Ethan.
Chapter Notes
     "Men are more moral than they think and far more immoral than they
     can imagine." - Sigmund Freud
     "Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo." - H.G. Wells
When he first heard the scuffling, rattling sounds, his eyes snapped open with
the instinctive wariness of a predator caught unaware. He was disoriented,
mouth tasting foul, and long fingers closed automatically on thin air, reaching
blindly for the neck of a bottle that was no longer present. Grasping in a
widening arc, he found it at last on the carpet, swearing in a rusty groan when
it turned up empty. Behind him, the garage door burst open, and he heard with
some alarm and a pounding head the rummaging of small hands amongst the shelves
and boxes there. A moment later, the scraping sound bumped past again, this
time accompanied by a sharp whiff of gasoline, and as his eyes adjusted at last
to the vague half-light he realized he was sprawled like a broken corpse on the
family sofa and not the stark narrow respite of his military-issue cot.
Footsteps padded past behind the sofa once more, and a soft thump reverberated
from the bottom of the staircase, followed by a quiet familiar curse. "Fuck."
"S-summer?" Rick grumbled blearily. "Whassa-wha-what are you..." He waved the
empty bottle vaguely, then dropped it with a thunk and an annoyed glare in its
general, still-empty direction. "What the fuck are you doing? It's the middle
of the - ugh - night."
"What do you care?" Her angst and seemingly directionless hostility puzzled and
annoyed him; enormous brain floating in the void between drunk and hungover,
between insomnia, blackout, and bitter dredging dawn.
"Wha?" He managed, rubbing the sleeve of his lab coat over chapped lips and
carding fingers through his thick hair in an attempt to summon actively firing
neurons to their stations.
"What. Do. You. Care?" She snapped out in a huff, finally releasing the bulging
cardboard box she was dragging.
"Because you're being a crazy bitch and you woke me up-" He snapped, about to
treat her to a classic Sanchez dressing-down; but Summer raised her proverbial
gloves.
"Okay so you're not a crazy bitch when you turn yourself into a
fucking cucumber-"
"Pickle." Rick corrected blandly.
"Whatthefuckever. And mom's not a crazy bitch when she glues like a zillion
dead animal parts together for her art therapy bullshit." She was building to
her point, hands on her hips, and stamped one foot angrily on the floor,
vaguely ridiculous but endearing in her sleep shorts and tennies. "But I'm a
crazy bitch because I want to go fucking raid mutants for a couple weeks or
have bigger tits or go build a bonfire out of Ethan's stuff because he's
an asshole with a little dick who doesn't even know how to spell socioeconomic-
"
"Let's go."
His gravelly interruption brought her up short. "What?"
Rick had risen from his seat with a low groan, picking up the cardboard box she
had been dragging down the stairs with an eyeroll of long-suffering. "Let's go
burn this dickbag's shit."
Summer picked up the gas can she had pilfered from the garage and looked up at
him, eyes shining in the dark with something like... like... Rick quashed it,
turning his back on her and heading for the door with one long, loping stride.
"Come on." he grunted, pre-dawn chill hitting his skin and knocking the
sobriety back into him with all the clarity of an ugly and unforgiving
universe.
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
He could have chosen any planet in any dimension, he supposed, to light a fire.
There were no fire marshals on Gazorpazorp, no Parks and Rec department in a
post-apocalyptic version of Earth. It would have certainly been easier, less
dramatic, less potentially problematic, to take Summer just outside the reaches
of the mundane to soothe her aching teenage heart and inflamed sense of
injustice. But it seemed perfect, somehow, to take her to the campground where
all high school romances in the middle American suburb lived and died. She
kicked rocks into a circle haphazardly, canvas shoes collecting soil and pine
needles that she brushed off her knit socks absently in the grey light of a
false dawn. With nary a flinch, she upended the box, shattered picture frames
and dried flower petals, crumpled notes, snapped gold chains, crushed trinkets
and forgotten t-shirts falling to the damp earth like broken memories into a
grave. Hell hath no fury like a Sanchez scorned. Her jaw set in a grim line
that reminded him too much of himself, she dumped the gasoline over the pile in
an indiscriminate shower, coating the once-beloved objects liberally in a
reeking volatile shroud. Then she pulled a box of matches from the pocket of
her shorts.
"Jesus Christ, Summer." Rick snapped, snatching the matches from her hand and
dragging her back several paces. "Do you like having eyebrows?" He withdrew a
plasma pistol, slapping it into her right palm instead. "Here."
Summer spared him a glare, but it was fleeting, her attention diverted wholly
by the gun in her hand. It was, like most of his weaponry, a polished piece -
smoothly cylindrical, bullet-shaped, fitting comfortably in her grip like it
belonged there. The chamber glowed softly with a crimson light and seemed
almost to hum beneath the stroking fingertips of her left hand. Rick cut his
eyes to the side, turning slightly away and clearing his throat.
Fuck, but it looked good in her hands.
"J-just point and shoot, Summer; it's not a morphizer."
At his pointed jab, her demeanor changed instantly; and suddenly it was if she
had been born to it - standing side-arm to present a smaller target, feet
planted shoulder-width apart, one arm behind her back, spine ramrod straight,
she held out the pistol at arm's length, sighted down the barrel and fired. A
crimson beam erupted from the tip of the weapon and ignited the small bonfire
with a roar, the gasoline and vapors rising from it creating a bright orange
blowback that turned her cheeks pink and tossed her loose hair back from her
shoulders, snapping in the sudden breeze.
Fucking fuck. Arousal rolled through him like a kick in the gut. He seated
himself on a carved log, designed for smores and singalongs, and pulled out his
flask. When she turned, breathless, gun still in hand, to seek his approval, he
merely raised a brow and held the flask out to her.
"Summer for the win."
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
The day had started to dawn well and truly, birds singing in the trees as the
sun burned away the morning mist. The ground around them warmed and steamed as
loam gave up its moisture and flowers opened their tender buds. Beautiful,
really. Rick curled his lip.
"I'd kill for a cigarette." he commented idly, watching the embers of Summer's
first love curl into ash and trying to ignore the way she snuggled into his
side as the scotch in her blood and the sunshine on her skin conspired against
him. There was a long silence, and then she jumped, as if remembering
something.
"I have some weed."
Rick raised a brow. "You. Have weed."
"Yeah, G- Rick, I'm not an idiot, I'm capable of buying drugs."
He snorted and rolled his eyes - "Okay kid, we'll come back to that. Hand it
over."
Summer hesitated, hand stilling halfway into her purse as if caught reaching
into a cookie jar. "Are you going to take it?"
"Yeah and roll a fat bone," Rick grinned, pulling a packet of papers from
within his lab coat. The package was worn, as if they had not seen use in some
time; and printed in an alien language, but clearly recognizable as rolling
papers. Summer grinned back and handed over the tiny baggie.
Long, slim fingers made swift work of the project as Rick rolled two pencil-
thick joints with casual ease. He held them between thin lips and sparked both
at once with the pink plastic lighter she handed him, raising an ironic eyebrow
as he eyed the neon thing. He offered one of the smoldering joints to Summer
and she took it, attempting to hold it between her lips with the practiced
nonchalance he espoused. He chuckled dryly at her fumbling and pulled her to
her feet. "Come on."
"Wha?" She complained plaintively, warm in the sun and hazy already in the
pluming smoke of her first puff.
Rick dragged her a few paces back, then dropped unceremoniously to the grass
again, stretching out in the relative shade of his ship, smoking lazily. Curls
and rings of smoke drifted idly heavenward from the tip of his joint and
Summer's, and he pondered the abstract shapes and the softly curling waves of
Summer's tousled hair. She sprawled on the ground beside him, puffing away like
she had something to prove.
"S-slow down, kid. Where'd you get this shit anyway?"
"School." She muttered, looking askance.
"Right." He scoffed, derision curling out on a grey cloud. "I'm sure your
neighborhood hookup has a medical grade indica hybrid just stinking up his
backpack."
Summer flushed. It was insensate to attempt fooling Rick in matters of the
illicit. "Fine. When you and Morty left me at that alien truck stop to go to
the bathroom, I bought it from some guys in the parking lot. With some leftover
pills from when Dad worked for the Federation."
A long, pregnant pause followed, and for a moment Summer braced herself,
assuming that the silence represented the calm before the storm. Then Rick
started to laugh, smoke stuttering out of his lungs in short harsh breaks. "You
used stolen Federation contraband to trade with drug dealers on an alien
planet, could have asked for probably any recreational substance in the galaxy,
and you came back with an eighth of Earth cannabis?" His last laugh tapered off
in a long sigh, grin on his face like an advertisement for the positive effects
of dopamine. "Christ, Summer, you really are seventeen."
Summer scowled, her elbow digging into his ribs with a deliberate ruthlessness
as she stubbed the roach out in the dirt. "Yeah, well it was good enough to
smoke you up." She rejoined, without much ire.
Rick reclined against the ship, flicking his short away into the distant ashes
of their earlier fire. He braced one arm beneath his head, the other looping
around Summer's shoulder's companionably, with little thought. He was
pleasantly high, the sun warm on his face in a manner he hadn't thought to
enjoy in years, cannabinoids and alcohol humming a charming summer tune he
couldn't quite catch through his head. He pressed his lips to the top of her
head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo; fresh fruit and smoke and sunshine.
"Yeahhh, babygirl;" he hummed softly; pretending to ignore the shiver that
trembled down her spine and nestled her lush form tighter against him. "Yeah,
it was."
He lounged silently, enjoying the buzz, his back to the hull and long legs
stretched out on the grass; enjoying the warmth of an armful of girl - a rare
indulgence. Every so often he would take a tiny sip from his flask, bouying the
already pleasant high Summer had so graciously provided. When she made a grab
for his whiskey he dug long fingers into her ribs, tickling, and she lunged
forward to escape his reach, gasping with laughter. He smirked, lazy indulgence
replaced with a devil's self-satisfaction as she flopped over on the grass
beside him, a breathless rag doll. His smug look vanished, however, when she
stretched her legs across his thighs, arching her back and yawning as if she
intended to go to sleep there. It was a pose she had never dared adopt with him
before, a position of closeness and casual comfort no one else in the household
would have considered remotely safe to approach. Her breasts beneath her thin
t-shirt were pert and braless, soft curves under cotton that bounced gently
whenever she giggled or sighed. Relaxed now, his true self surfaced from his
id's murky underbelly, and Rick stared with impunity.
The warm weight of her lay across his lap, and he said nothing. In the sunny
heat of midday, in the quiet of the neglected campground, it seemed like
nothing needed to be said. He took a sip from his flask, and offered her one,
and when he took it back the sweetness of her lips lingered on the rim like dew
on a morning rose. The sun beat down on them and beneath her thighs his cock
throbbed; and she rolled her hips gently as if she were innocently stretching,
and he knew she knew.
When he returned his flask to his pocket, his hand brushed against her leg. He
could have pulled his touch away but didn't, instead letting it linger, palm
dry and slightly calloused on her skin, gliding slowly up her thigh. Summer
sighed softly, sweet as the breeze, and rolled her hips again. Long fingers
pressed down tight on tender flesh and just as swiftly lifted, massaging
gently, soothing and bringing a flush to fair golden skin. The girl in his lap
hummed softly, knees bent, soles of her sneakers planted in the dirt, reaching
out with one hand to pluck a long blade of grass and press its sweet root
between her full lips. She rolled her gaze up to meet his, feline eyes slitted
against the sun; flicked the tip of her tongue against the little green stem
and bit down.
F u c k.
His hands on her gripped and pressed, fingers of his right sliding over the
silky slope of her inner thigh and rubbing in small concentric circles, making
her squirm a little in his lap, making him burn. His fingertips traced patterns
and symbols over sensitive flesh, Summer's breath coming shallow as she gazed
up at the sky and pretended obliviousness. His hand slipped beneath the hem of
her shorts, warm cotton brushing his skin, no resistance meeting him, only
shadow and warmth. Ever the clever bastard, he raised his left hand to her
ribs, sensitive fingertips dancing over curving bones so that she squeaked,
squirmed, and bucked her hips right up into his questing touch.
"Ahh, fuck yes..." he hissed; as Summer gasped and turned red; the flush
creeping down her neck as his cunning fingers stroked her heat. She was
positively dripping for him, soft trimmed curls and swollen folds slick and
needy. The girl whimpered, trying to grind down against his delicate probing
touch. She succeeded only in furthering her own frustration, and rubbing
against the erection straining in his pants. "'Is that for me, babygirl?" he
purred, voice all hard liquor and bad decisions. "You wet for me, baby?"
Summer moaned, pressing her thighs together in an attempt to soothe the ache,
trapping his teasing hand. He thrust his middle finger inside her and pumped
slowly, and like magic her knees fell apart, her eyes squeezing shut as she
keened. "Fuck, goddamn, Rick, yes," she cursed him, and fuck if it didn't make
him even harder to hear her voice swearing up a storm in true Sanchez fashion. 
Goddamn.
Rick released her abruptly, and Summer let out a plaintive whine at the loss of
contact, but he hauled her up from the ground like a demon raising a virgin
sacrifice and bowed her body beneath his, her back to his narrow chest. She
tried to rub her thighs together, to help finish what he'd started, but he
slipped a knee between her legs and dragged them apart, forcing her to bend her
spine to the earth like a supplicant in earnest prostration. The heels of her
hands dug into the soil, leaving marks. There was dirt under her nails. She
smelled like pot and body spray and fresh cut grass and when his cock twitched
against her ass she ground back against him, mewling. 
Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. 
"You want it, baby? You want me to make you feel good?" Long fingers pressed
into her hips and dragged her back against his cock as he growled the words
into her ear, urging a selfish answer to a selfless question. An uncomplicated
man, at his core. 
"Pleeease," Summer whined, breathless and squirming under his grip.
"Please what? Yes or no?" He snapped, sharp and impatient and himself  again,
for a moment. 
"Yes!" She yelped, as he slapped the full curve of her ass and pulled her loose
shorts down to her knees. 
"Good girl." He growled, and Summer trembled right down to her bones. Long
fingers snaked around the curve of her hip, cupping her heat, dipping into her
velvet vise and rubbing the crux of her with competent, deliberate strokes.
"That's my good girl." 
He was an utter bastard, saying the words he knew she longed to hear and
feeling her shake like a reed in a strong wind under him. All she had ever
wanted was for someone to make her feel good, feel wanted, feel beautiful. She
hardly noticed when his free hand slipped between their bodies, loosened his
belt buckle; but noticed at once when the hot, hard length of him pressed
against her backside.  She mewled, arching her back and raising her hips like a
cat in heat. He watched, feeling stupid with lust and astonishment, as a clear
drop of precum dripped from the head of his cock and smeared across the ripe
white curve of her ass. He curled one hand around the base of his cock, lazily
jerking off at the wanton sight until Summer's plaintive whimper cut into his
reverie. 
"Rick, please!"
She was looking back at him over one shoulder, face flushed, lower lip bitten
between teeth that had given up on her retainer just a year or two too early.
The sun had brought out a few freckles on her cheeks and collarbone, and the
part of her spine bared by her t-shirt riding up over her torso was beginning
to turn red. He wondered what it would look like with his come splashed over
it. Ah, fuck.
Rick pressed her forward, one large hand splayed over her hip, the other
gliding the thick head of his cock teasingly over her pussy. She whimpered,
twisting her hips, trying to press back onto his length, but the hand on her
hip held her ruthlessly in place; keeping her still while he played with her
self-control - and his own. The head of his cock was glistening, only the tip
stretching her - in, out, repeat. Rick kept his jaw clamped shut but his
nostrils flared, head spinning at the scent of sex on the warm air and Summer's
increasingly incoherent pleading.
Nothing this sweet should ever come without suffering. 
He felt the girl start to weaken under his hands, all but sobbing with
frustration as he continued to tease her; the depth of feeling she craved just
out of reach. When she bowed her head to her hands, her volatile curses dying
to mere whimpers, Rick bent to growl in her ear again. "Patience is a virtue,
baby." Gripping her hips tightly enough to leave bruises, he thrust roughly
home.
It was like plugging in a neutrino bomb. Summer was instantly alive again,
fingers scrabbling against the grass for purchase, his name on her lips a wail.
He slid his hands around to fondle the sweet plump breasts he'd so admired, and
they were as soft and warm and responsive beneath his touch as he'd imagined
they would be. Summer was already gasping, the rock of her hips against his own
erratic and sharp; and he knew she would fall apart at any moment - which was a
mercy, because loathe as he was to admit it, he wasn't going to last long. It
had taken everything he had in him to make it this far without just burying
himself balls-deep inside her and pounding till his vision turned white.
Something about the situation had lit up all of his deliciously nasty little
quirks like buttons on a switchboard and now he was feeling them tingle down
his spine and settle with a heavy coiling low in his gut. Summer groaned his
name, low and dirty as her right hand closed on a fistful of earth and pine
needles, and he felt his balls tighten. 
"Rick..."
"Yeah, baby?" He rasped, harsh lust and possession in his tone concealing the
strain. "You like that cock? You gonna be a good girl and come for me?" A thin
sheen of sweat broke out on her skin and she glowed beneath his praise,
whining. 
He snaked a hand down between her thighs, rubbing her clit in patient
deliberate circles that belied his sense of urgency. His subterfuge
irrelevant, she came almost instantly; her spine snapping up like a bow; nails
digging into the dirt, strangled cry startling birds roosting in the trees
above. "Oh, yeah," Rick growled with savage triumph, increasing his pace and
aggression, chasing his own satisfaction. Wet heat bathed his cock as her body
spasmed around his thrusts, clamping down on him so tightly it stole his
breath. She went limp, held up only by his will, the sounds of their coupling
loud in the midday forest. He felt his orgasm overtaking him like a storm and
pulled out barely in time, painting the tempting swell of her ass with thick
white lines, a hot splash of his seed highlighting the pretty curve of her
spine that had so captured his fancy earlier. Without thinking, he leaned
forward and licked it, the taste of her sweat mingling with his own musk a
pleasing symphony as his tongue followed the sweep of her iliocostalis. 
Summer twitched, so wrung out his perversion barely registered. "Did you just
lick that? Gross. You're a sick fuck."
Rick slapped her ass with his oh-so-slowly softening cock, deliberately
including her tender, pink pussy in the open-handed swat he delivered to her
entire backside as he dropped to his back on the grass with a sated groan.
"Best fuck you'll ever have."
Summer slumped onto her belly, too tired to even register the pinprick when a
large mosquito landed on the sensitive skin of her ankle and helped itself to a
post-coital high. "Probably true." She conceded after a long pause. Rummaging
around in her purse, she withdrew a crumpled, black-and-pink pack and pulled
out a cigarette, lighting it with the same pink plastic lighter and passing it
to Rick.
He raised a brow at her, incredulous. ""You had cigarettes this whole time?"
Summer smirked. "I am seventeen."
Rick snorted and took a drag, staring at the sky as the sun dragged on into
afternoon and his core temperature cooled. Fucked up family. Fucked up world. 
When they eventually returned to the house, there was a certain fragile
uncertainty hanging in the air surrounding them - as if the others wondered,
but didn't dare question their absence. As if the scent of smoke and savagery
and disregard for the acceptable was too strong, too threatening. A certain
anxiety that any issue too hard to deal with might find itself taken to a
secluded spot, doused in gasoline, and set ablaze. 
That suited Rick fine.
Just fine.
***** Mouthful of White Lies *****
Chapter Summary
     Summer makes some decisions. Better the devil you know, right?
     Right?
Chapter Notes
     "The healthy man generally does not torture others. Generally it is
     the tortured who turn into torturers." - Carl Jung
     "Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent." - Isaac Asimov
"So you're not my g-... you're not my Rick?" Summer asked quietly, gazing up at
him in the dim, quiet corridor; her expression was uncharacteristically open
and raw, green eyes so wide and long-lashed they begged to be innocent. The
family enjoying the balmy weather on the patio downstairs were sharing their
last awkwardly hostile barbecue together before Summer departed for college.
Even Jerry had been invited, his exile temporarily lifted in light of the
celebratory mood, his name added to the whitelist for a positively expansive
twelve hours.
She knew, of course. Morty had blurted the secret almost as soon as it was his
to tell; so young and green then, incapable of keeping his head on straight
without a guiding hand. So markedly different from the cool-eyed youth Rick
occasionally felt watching him, when he thought the older man was absorbed in
his work. Summer was worldly enough to take her little brother at his word; and
so she knew the answer to her question even if it didn't matter and changed
nothing.
She asked anyway. Something in her wanted to hear it from his lips.
"I'm - hic - nobody's Rick," he informed her, drinking straight from a bottle
of midshelf vodka he'd casually liberated from the trunk of Jerry's hatchback.
He stared her down, unable or unwilling to offer her even the dignity of
sarcasm if he would not gift her the solace of compassion. "I'm nothing."
Summer's soft features tensed, her lower lip trembling just a little as her
eyes grew glossy and shone magnified by her tears, gold flecks and bands of
amber like distant aberrations in the silent, timeless void of space. One
single track painted its way down her cheek, through the powder she had worn to
hide her spray of youthful freckles and please her mother. The sick part of him
proud of placing it there wanted to reach out, cup her cheek in his thin hand
and run his tongue along the trail, marking his territory. Sorrow and pain.
Rickland.
He'd made it no secret what he thought of her scholastic ambitions. Rick had
expected Summer to simply go on existing as the rest of the family did -
remaining at arm's length, whenever he wanted her. The idea of her pursuing
higher education at a distant university, rather than under his own haphazard
tutelage...
I'll tell you how I feel about school... It's not a place for smart people.
Before he could think better of it, he gripped her jaw between long fingers,
pulling her forward into a bruising kiss. He tasted like cheap vodka and she
tasted like lemonade, the rasp of his five o'clock shadow rough against her
skin. She gripped the lapels of his lab coat to steady herself, swaying with a
muffled little whimper that shot straight to his prick, and he released her
like she was a lab experiment gone wrong.
He stared at her for a moment, lips slightly parted and gleaming with a smudge
of the gloss she'd painted her own with. He licked them. Cherry. He reached up
and rubbed it away with the ball of his thumb, taking another swig from the
bottle in the same motion, sliding down again into the murky quagmire of ironic
amoral detachment where he dwelled.
"Better go pack, college girl."
She spun away from him, retreating down the hall to her room and leaving him
alone with only the scent of her coconut suntan lotion for company. Like an
animal, he let the dark lead him back to his den; where he fell onto his cot
like a corpse, staring at the ceiling and watching it spin, listening to the
sound of her bedroom door slamming repeat on loop in his ears, in tandem with
the pounding of his head.
I'm nothing.
 
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
 
"Can't believe you're still with him." The slim blonde said, checking her
perfect manicure as Summer tossed her bag over her shoulder and returned a text
for the third time that night.
"I know." The redhead returned, and sighed. "I'm going home to my family's for
Christmas though, so I'm going to break up with him then." Summer ignored the
dull swirl of excitement that stirred in her stomach at the idea of her
visiting her family home for the first time since she'd started college two
years before. She had started dating her current boyfriend, Greg, after the
first semester of her freshman year ended, and had stayed with him and some
friends at a bougie ski lodge over the previous holidays and studied in an
internship program over the summer. Part of her, an ugly secret part she
refused to acknowledge, had felt anxiety at the thought of stepping over the
threshold, before... Now, it was the devil she knew. She shook off the dark
thoughts and smiled at her companion. "It'll be good to get out of the
apartment for a while. Come on, let's stop at the Monkey's Paw and have one
more drink."
"Took the words right out of my mouth." The blonde, mollified, linked her arm
with Summer's and followed her out of the bar and out into the chilly, late
autumn Chicago night.
More than one drink later, as they piled into the warm leatherbound interior of
a cab, the blonde laid her sleepy head on Summer's shoulder and mumbled,
"Seriously though, what's with that? It took you all semester to work up the
nerve to leave him."
"I don't know." Summer replied, gaze almost wistful as she eyed the
streetlights passing by in the night. "I guess he just reminds me of someone."
 
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
 
"Greg?" Summer asked warily, acutely aware of the scent of whiskey and tictacs
on her breath as she stepped into the apartment and, keys jingling softly, shut
the door behind her.
She had met Gregory, as he preferred to be called, in a pub just off campus
while using a fake ID that Rick had slipped her on her eighteenth birthday with
a profanity-laden warning against telling her mother. It was late autumn when
Greg walked into her life, and she had been sitting at the bar alone, sipping a
beer and trying to come up with an excuse for skipping Thanksgiving with her
divorced parents, disinterested little brother... and the drunkenly hostile
patriarch of the family. Greg provided her with a handy excuse.
He was older... Too much older. He had been a TA of some sort, but had stepped
out of his professorial role several years earlier, citing academic fatigue and
existential ennui. Which turned out to be code for: a fat trust fund he'd never
grown out of, an overdeveloped ego he'd never grown into, and no desire to
pursue anything resembling an accomplishment. He'd seemed so appealing at first
- tall, going grey at the temples, grumpily disheveled with a well-stocked bar
in his casually well-appointed apartment. He was sternly aloof with her, his
attention short and hard-won; and Summer let herself work too hard to earn it,
all of her parents' finest flaws shining through in her youthful infatuation.
The man turned cruel, inevitably; accustomed to the pretty, pert and sweetly
amusing toy that came at his beck and call, he had no use for the Summer that
wished to bury herself in her studies during finals week, or spend time with
her friends free from his looming influence. The bar became less lavish, her
paramour's speech less educated and more ominous, air bearing the scent of
whiskey and danger.
Returning to a quiet apartment was rarely the signal for an all-clear. She
glanced around, straining her ears, but heard no music or television from the
adjoining rooms. Setting down her things, she walked through the entryway,
small kitchen, turning a corner into the living area. Greg was seated on the
sofa, halfway through a bottle of scotch judging by the remainder on the table
before him, watching her.
"What?" She asked, posture hesitant but tone sharp. Best get this over with.
"Whore."
She flinched a little, but stood her ground. "I told you I was out with Katie."
"Right."
"Whatever." She turned her back on him, sliding off her heels and kicking them
under the sofa. "I'm tired and you're stupid."
"What did you say, you little bitch?" Hard fingers bit into her upper arm,
jerking her around. "What did you call me?"
Summer struggled, her eyes wide and frightened, then knit her brows and spat
the words at him like poison. "You're fucking stupid. Let me go. You think I'm
afraid of you? You? Let mego." On the last word, she wrenched her arm free and
stumbled back a step, losing her balance.
Much taller than she, Greg pushed her back onto the sofa and snatched up the
scotch bottle, shattering it against the corner of the granite coffee table. He
pointed it at her in a trembling hand that dripped with scotch and a rivulet of
blood, as if he would cut her with it.
"Jesus Christ Greg, what the fuck?" Summer panted breathlessly, eyes wildly
searching for an out. She found it in the extravagantly embroidered Turkish rug
at his feet.
Always hated that stupid rug. Told him it was a knockoff.
Bending at the waist to duck beneath his arm's reach, she gripped the colorful
carpet in both hands and pulled. The tall man flew backwards and landed on his
back on the coffee table, glass shattering and the wind knocked out of him.
Summer scrambled past him, grabbing her purse and locking herself in the
bedroom.
Now what?
She hadn't dialed 911 since she was a teenager. There was only one number in
the universe that she trusted to help her out of any sticky, shady or otherwise
untoward situation. Pulling her phone out of her purse with shaking hands, she
prayed for a full battery and a clear connection, scrolled through her contacts
and dialed.
The line rang three times, then a rusty, miserable, blessedly familiar voice
answered. "What do you want, kid?"
"Rick!" Summer yelped. Then, reminding herself that she hadn't spoken to the
mad scientist, wanted criminal and self-proclaimed Master of the Universe in
almost eighteen months, she dialed down her desperation to what seemed like
more socially acceptable levels. "Rick. Hi. Um."
"Um." He said dryly, and she could almost hear the eyebrow raised on the other
line, and oh, it was good to talk to him again; but she could hear Greg
starting to stir in the wreckage of the living room and there was just no
time...
"Did mom tell you I'm coming home for Christmas?"
"Only the first 4,627 times, after that I stopped listening." Rick answered.
"Why?"
"I... Um... C-could you maybe come pick me up?" She asked timidly, wringing her
hands as the phone grew warm against her flushed cheek and she heard Greg call,
slurringly, for her to drag her ass out of hiding.
"Car in the shop?" He sneered, just to chap her ass. She hadn't accepted her
mother's offer of a car, stating loftily that Chicago's public transit system
was cheaper and better suited to the environment.
On the other side of the door, something large grated against the floor, then
banged loudly. Summer jumped. "Rick, please! Can you please just come get me?!"
"Relax, kid." Rick dropped the phone, pulling his portal gun out of his pocket;
and with a practiced flick of his fingers entered Summer's coordinates, aimed,
and fired.
The green spiral erupted into the bedroom just as the hammering sounded again,
and Summer leapt to her feet and darted into his arms as he came striding out
of the portal, glancing toward the locked door warily before looking up at
Rick, patting both hands on his chest as if he were a guard dog she could coax
back into the kennel.
Woof.
Rick swept Summer behind him with one arm as if she were merely a bit of
luggage he had come to collect, crossing to the door with a grim scowl on his
high brow. Counting off the seconds between heavy, erratic thumps, he reached
out with long fingers, flicked the deadbolt open, and stepped aside.
With a splintering crash the wood gave way and Greg burst into the room,
looking bewildered first at the ease of his entry as he stumbled ass-over-
teakettle through the door that had previously been giving him so much trouble,
and next at the tall, glowering man that loomed over him.
"Can I help you?" Rick demanded aggressively, plucking the heavy brass bookend
the other man had been using to pound the door down from his nerveless fingers
and tossing it aside. "You -ugh- hapless fuckwit?"
"She-" Still on the floor, Greg glanced at Summer. He was still drunk and
furious, now merely confused as well, eyeing Rick warily. "You-" He slumped,
shaking his head, looking for a moment something like Jerry. "Bitch."
Rick rolled his eyes and delivered a savage, long-legged kick to the other
man's temple, concussing the drunk and knocking him out cold. "Fuck's sake.
We're leaving."
Summer picked up her already-packed bag quietly, giving the unconscious body of
her now officially ex-boyfriend a wide berth, and followed Rick through the
portal. She was drunk and exhausted and the adrenaline dump that had possibly
saved her life had worn off, and all she wanted to do was find dreamless sleep
in her childhood bed, and not analyze the little thrill of excitement that had
thrummed up her spine at Rick's viciousness.
 
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
 
Beth's home was much as Summer remembered it. Quiet and generally orderly when
the various members of the family were scattered to their respective quadrants
of the house, it descended into awkward and vaguely antagonistic forced
interaction during mealtimes and any moment when two or more members happened
to occupy the same region for long enough for Beth to notice and institute
Quality Time. And everything, everywhere, was permeated with an awareness of
Rick. It was as if his presence was a living thing, an animus that had grown
stronger, more dominant in the empty house in the middling years since her
father had left, since she had moved out... Morty sought sanctuary elsewhere
most of the time - at the local library, playing video games with acquaintances
or doing whatever nerd things young social outcasts of the lowest order did in
his generation. Summer had missed the boat, being female and of a slightly
higher caste during her own coming of age. Her little brother would be
graduating in the spring, an anomaly that seemed impossible to wrap her head
around. In his increasing absence, and Beth's mid-life-critical, wine-sodden
apathy, Rick's presence was overpowering.
Summer slipped from her bed one morning before dawn, all the Christmas
decorations on and glittering but the remainder of the house dark and silent.
The tile floor of the bathroom nearest her room was cruelly cold, and she
danced from foot to sock-clad foot as she washed her hands under a chilly tap
and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, hoping for something hot to drink and
wishing she'd worn the ridiculous slippers her mother had given her as an early
present. To her surprise, there was already a pot of coffee on the counter, and
the back door was slightly ajar.
She poured a cup, leaving it black; and slipped through the doorway, holding
her cup at shoulder level warily as if prepared to dump it on any would-be
intruders. On the other side of the door, wearing only his usual lab-coat and a
pair of black leather gloves to protect against the cold, Rick sat on the
patio, eyebrow raised.
"Y-you expecting the invasion of the fuckin' coffee snatchers, Summer?" He
drawled, withdrawing his flask from his breast pocket and dumping another
measure of whiskey into his own coffee, black like hers. It was clearly shaping
up to be that kind of morning.
Summer huffed, half amused and half irritated and unwilling to show either,
making a grab for the flask and missing. She dropped into the deck chair beside
him, deliberately fixing her eye on the square of steel and liquor and not the
long, lean line of him stretched out, legs up and crossed at the ankle on the
patio table. "Give it."
He eyed her right back, her demanding demeanor leaving him surprisingly
unruffled. "Fine." He handed it over and she splashed a generous pour into her
own coffee before handing it back. She took a long, burning swallow; then
balanced the mug between her knees, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from her
robe and lighting two at once, a trick she had watched him perform once or
twice or a hundred times in her head. She offered Rick one and he took it.
"What are you doing up?"
"Couldn't sleep."
He grunted. Wasn't it always the same story. He could have, should have left it
that; left the conversation sleeping there on the chilly pavement with
cigarette smoke and coffee vapor that smelled like good whiskey curling upward
in the morning air around them. He didn't. His mind was a restless engine,
running till the rest of him wanted to scream with it; digging up things better
left buried, prying open and smashing apart to get at the rich, meaty answers
it craved - even if they turned out to be poison. Even if it fucking killed
him.
"So- so what, Summer?" He asked slowly, twirling his cigarette between thin
fingers, taking a long drag, tapping ash thoughtfully from the end before
returning it to his lips and speaking around the smolder in a plume of smoke, a
dragon in disguise. "Was that your boyfriend or your babysitter?"
Summer flicked her ash out over the cold concrete. "Are we really talking about
controlling lovers? You don't get to judge, Rick. You were with Uni-"
"He was too old for you." He turned to face her, grey eyes steady and still,
withholding all emotion.
Her voice turned icy; colder than the air that stole the breath from her lips
and turned it white. "You don't get to make that decision for me,Rick. Iliked
that he was older." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, taking another drag
from her cigarette as if his feelings were of no concern to her. "What do you
care, anyway? I mean, you're not even my real gr-"
"You want to bet a fuckin' DNA test on that?" Rick's voice cut her off, and his
tone was sharp, as if more rested on the matter than her respect for his
opinion on her love life.
More. Not much more. Just common decency and all his self-control; held in
place with a small sharp pin the width of a human hair. He held out a device, a
small genetic mapping spectrometer, with a clean slide ready and waiting to
prick her finger and prove her wrong.
They stared each other down for a long moment, green eyes locked with cool
grey, breathing shallow in the morning mist. Finally Summer swallowed and
looked away, sitting back in her chair. "No." She felt flushed despite the
chill, the intensity of Rick's stare making the blood rush to her face.
Rick pocketed the device without challenging her. He felt... strangely
defeated. Felt the weak whisper of his better intentions slide back beneath the
icy mirrored surface and drown. Felt his truer nature surge forward eagerly in
the darkness; arrogant and selfish and perverse. He rose to his feet, finishing
his spiked coffee in one swallow that left a rill of dark liquid trickling
along his jaw till he wiped it away on the sleeve of his lab coat.
He paused at the door, hand on the lintel. "How long are you staying?"
She shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "Dunno. I deferred my classes. A while, I
guess."
A sly smirk twitched at the edge of his mouth. "That's my girl." He was gone
before she could respond.
Summer stayed on the porch, sipping her coffee, her body thrumming with barely-
contained excitement at his pronouncement.
 
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
 
When the green portal opened again in the Chicago apartment, it was night once
more. The door had been repaired, but poorly, and the mess in the living room
cleaned up. The man who lived here was not an animal, nor was he stupid. He
possessed the basic cunning required to make himself and his living space
presentable, should the authorities come calling. He was an academic, after
all, not a brute.
It would have been better for him, if he had been an animal, if he had indeed
been stupid. Would have been better if he had remembered Rick as more than just
a fever dream brought on by his drunken stupor and his rage at his wayward
young girlfriend. He intended to bring Summer back into line, when she returned
from her family home after the holidays were over.
When chartreuse light split open the space between his bed and his flat-screen
tv, interrupting his own personal Netflix and chill session and ripping a hole
in space-time, it began to dawn on Greg how awfully mistaken he had been.
Rick Sanchez, on the other hand, was a brute. Burdened with an overwhelming
genius unrivaled in this or any universe that he had yet discovered; he had a
talent for destruction, sometimes accidental, most often calculated and
deliberate. He was selfish and obscene, and as the portal delivered him to
Greg's bedside, he had just enough of a buzz going to really make the most of
it.
"H-hey, you fuck." He greeted blandly, as the other man attempted to scramble
away from him. "N-no no, you stay there." He aimed a weapon at the bed and
fired; it made barely a sizzle, but the hole in the mattress dripped and melted
in an acrid-smelling ooze, the ragged circle ever-widening.
"What the fuck?" Greg gasped, arms crossed across his torso and legs drawn up
in a defensive posture, crouched at the head of the bed. He watched Rick warily
as he stood at the foot of the bed, gun in one hand, flask in the other.
"Heard you fucked my girl." Rick spat. He raised a brow, fixed a glare on the
other man as if he would shoot him dead right then.
"What? I-" Greg stammered, desperate to say literally anything to placate the
man with a death ray pointed at his head.
"I-I'm just kidding, Greg," Rick sneered, and Greg slumped, momentarily
disarmed. Rick's sneer disappeared, replaced with an expression of utter
emptiness, grey eyes chilly. "I heard you hit her." He flicked a tab on the
weapon and it powered up with a whine, glowing dully. "So I'm gonna make it
hurt."
The first shot was a bullseye, neatly castrating Summer's abusive ex and
ensuring that he would shortly shuffle off the mortal coil. Greg was rigid,
eyes bulging, mouth open in a silent scream; entering shock instantly. Rick
eyed the damage, then the weapon he had created, with coldhearted appreciation.
"Full disclosure buddy, that one was because you put your dick in her. But the
rest are gonna be because you hit her, okay? Let's get started."
 
~(^)~ ~(^)~ ~(^)~
 
The predawn hours were becoming their time. Beth was sleeping off a wine drunk
in the master bedroom, door tightly locked against intrusion and the passage of
time. Morty played video games until the early hours and then crashed out
wherever he landed, often on the living room couch. Rick had commandeered a
room that had previously served as Jerry's office, making a small bedroom for
himself beneath the eaves of the attic and abandoning the closet to his ever-
encroaching work. It was closest to Summer's room and she often bumped into him
coming or going in the wee hours of the morning when they both felt the
restless stirrings of insomnia and mutual awareness.
He was awake when she opened his door and slipped into his bed, but he
pretended not to be, all approximately 183 centimeters of him and the somewhat
unsubtle beginnings of his morning wood. He lay on his back, for once actually
wearing grey pinstriped pajama pants and a black tee and not passed out in his
rumpled lab coat. One arm cushioned his head against the thin pillow, the other
at his side, quilt tangled around his long legs. She slithered in beside him
and lay there quietly breathing, watching him, her eyes tracing the lines of
his face in profile. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him and was
relieved when she finally spoke.
"My friend Katie? From Chicago?"
"Blonde girl. Nice legs." He didn't open his eyes.
Summer ignored the twinge of jealousy that fluttered behind her ribs, biting
her lip as she picked at the blanket. Katie did have nice legs - she had often
admired them, and a time or two wondered what it would be like to kneel between
them herself. She blinked. Rick was looking at her, and a blush rose to her
cheeks though she knew - or at least hoped - that he had not yet developed the
ability to read her thoughts.
"She said that Greg disappeared from his apartment. The cops said the place was
totally trashed, like there had been some weird fire. They said it almost
looked like acid or something." She kept her tone deliberately light, asking
nothing, implying nothing, merely sharing the information she had received.
Rick's gaze didn't waver. "No idea what you're talking about."
Summer gave a tiny smile, but her eyes were limpid jade pools again, mossy
green with amber edges, flecks of gold sparking in the dim light of his
bedroom. "Thought you'd say that."
Without a word she tugged the blanket free from his legs and turned her back to
his front, snuggling in against him without waiting for permission. Rick
stiffened, about to withdraw, his early-morning erection suddenly very
interested in the plump curves being pressed against him; then decided he was
tired of the uphill battle. Tired of pretending he didn't want what he wanted.
Tired of saying no when the answer was yes.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her tighter against him, and
pressed a kiss against the nape of her neck, feeling her shiver all the way
down to her toes. Her hair smelled like coconuts in the dead of winter somehow,
and he was instantly transported back to that moment in the hallway before
she'd left for college. He pressed his cock into her ass, unable to help
himself, and she ground back against him, moaning softly.
"F-fuck, Summer," The words were whispered into her hair, and she whimpered,
spine undulating prettily, her hips rocking into him and making him so hard it
was dizzying, exposing the little delicate bumps of her spine to his lips and
gently nipping teeth. She whined, taking hold of his hand, which was holding
her waist ferociously tight, and moving it up to cup her breast. "Ah,fuck, good
girl." He was lost, utterly lost. "Such a good girl." He played with the rosy
pebbled peak till she mewled plaintively for more.
"What do you want, baby?"
Summer stilled, her body quivering. He held her so tightly he could feel every
beat of her heart against his own chest; every shallow, hungry intake of
breath. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her own head. "Is it true
you're not my Rick?"
Oh, Jesus. "It doesn't matter, baby. It doesn't matter." He kissed the flutter
of her pulse, dizzy on the pheromones that pumped forth from her skin with
every beat of her heart.
"But what if I want to be your Summer?"
His Summer.
He snaked his free arm beneath her, curving long fingers possessively over the
bone of her pelvis as he growled. "That's what you want?" He tugged at the hem
of her pink cotton boyshorts, pulling them down under her oversized nightshirt.
"You're sure?"
Summer gasped, squirming, but nodded, tilting her hips to assist his efforts.
He circled her clit with his fingers, ruthlessly efficient, showing her that
her pleasure had been at his fingertips all along. He kissed the base of her
neck, where the slender muscle curved down to merge with her gently sloping
shoulder, and his greedy teeth pressed into her flesh. "Mine?" He growled. "And
no one else's?"
"Oh, fuck, Rick, yes," Summer gasped, her climax robbing her of breath. She
squirmed, her smaller frame arching against him, hips rocking forward as her
body bowed to present a more pleasing angle.
"Good girl." Rick freed his cock from its cotton confines and slid home with an
exultant snarl, her inner walls gloriously wet and still quaking in the
aftershocks of orgasm. Summer opened her mouth to wail his name and the hand he
clamped over her lips still tasted of her essence; she bit down on his fingers
and moaned. "My good girl." He held her hips and fucked up into her, admiring
the way his cock looked as it disappeared into her nubile body; not at all
surprised when he lasted only a fraction as long as he usually would. He was
only human, after all.
She turned in his arms as he released her, the lazy, sticky slide of it a
pleasure in itself - he shuddered when the hypersensitive tip of his dick
slipped from her body. She looked as if she would like to stay, but his eyes
watched the door.
"They'll be up soon." He warned.
Summer appeared somewhat bereft, but in true Sanchez fashion, covered up the
emotion with sarcasm, rummaging in the side table. "Can I at least smoke a
cigarette?"
Rick smirked. "Babygirl." She caught his eye, saw the affection in the razor's
edge smirk. "Smoke as many as you want."
Cigarette smoke curled up to the peaked ceiling; a gauzy, insubstantial curtain
to shield them from haggard reality for at least a few moments more. Ugliness
to hide ugliness, stealing sweetness where they could. 
The devil you know.
***** Eat Me, Drink Me *****
Chapter Summary
     In which Rick contracts vampirism, and his already limited self-
     control is mightily tested.
Chapter Notes
     "How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads;
     to whom, sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing
     but sweet dreams." - Bram Stoker
     "Our virtues and our failings are inseparable, like force and matter.
     When they separate, man is no more." - Nikola Tesla
It was Jerry's fault, as most things were. For a moment Rick was almost
grateful to Beth's eternally disappointing, walking, talking abandonment
complex. The garage appeared disorganized to a layman, to be sure, but there
was a method to his madness; a certain order amidst all the chaos. His filing
system for various notes, artifacts and half-finished bits of tech required a
blood alcohol level of at least 0.1 to even interpret, let alone follow to a
specific destination on one of the rickety shelves.
Jerry, on the other hand, frequently possessed a blood alcohol level of zero.
An outsider in a family of addicts, Jerry teetotaled his way to a balloon-
popping early bedtime and was up bright and early most days, fiddling around in
the kitchen in search of a breakfast somehow superior to Beth's pancakes. An
unimaginative cook, he often settled on toast and reheated coffee left over
from Summer's study binges the night before. But Jerry being Jerry, he liked
his toast just a little bit darker than was favorable, as if there was some
extra manly merit in the charred, acrid, jam-slathered slices. He just had to
muck about with the toaster, had to assert his small bit of authority there in
the morning hours, raising his flag on the formica between the fruit basket and
the newspaper Beth had folded to the classified employment ads and covered in
red pen circles for him to peruse. Had to prove that, in matters of quadruple-
cooked bread, at least, he remained king of his castle - at least until Rick
stalked forth from his lair, glowering. Snatching the pilfered screwdriver from
Jerry's fumbling hands before he could break the modified Perfect Toaster, he
slapped his ill-favored son-in-law across the face before returning to the
garage and slamming the door.
Ferociously hungover, Rick jammed the screwdriver back into a box of random
tools behind the door with one hand, rummaging with the other in his labcoat
pocket for the hair of the dog that bit him. The origin, etymology and a
syllable-by-syllable playback of the phrase running through his brain on a
rusty repeat as it powered up for what would no doubt be a stimulating day; he
was momentarily perplexed when, from within the shadows of the box, the
proverbial dog bit his other hand.
For a moment his giant brain was at a standstill, cogs and wheels that turned
constantly locked into place by the sensation of a tiny sliver piercing his
sallow skin. Then he curled his fingers around the offending object,
withdrawing it from the box though he knew already what lay in his palm.
Scowling intensely, his mind lurched into high gear again, thoughts racing as
he dropped the bloodied stake into a plastic specimen bag - which would have
entailed a beautiful bit of hindsight, if Rick were the type of man to learn
lessons. He turned his scowl to the large, crimson-stained splinter lodged in
the heel of his hand, seeping dark blood - his own - from the base of his
thumb.
"Fuuuck," he breathed softly, and prised the splinter carefully free with
tweezers, placing it on a glass slide and under a microscope.
It could be nothing. It was probably nothing. He was a man of science, and
refused to entertain the mystic even when it came calling. What Earth virus
remained alive and viable after weeks without a host? What ancient and
unrefined strain could bring down a Rick?
He lowered his eye to the scope, squinting to blot out extraneous light as his
trained eye struggled to separate rigid wood cells from the rusty red wasteland
of dead blood cells - and beneath it all, the barely mobile, somehow still
multiplying individual strands of the virus.
For a long moment he could only stare, watching the cells on the slide mutate -
his cells, he reminded himself numbly, 57% genius and 32% bitterness and 11%
grain alcohol, spilling over with wasted potential and Rickness and now,
apparently, vampirism. They engaged in mitosis rapidly, and he swore, taking a
stumbling step back from the scope and rubbing a hand over his eyes. The rate
of growth was absurdly accelerated, faster than he could have guessed for such
a minute factor of contamination. He fumbled for his flask, spinning its top
off with nerveless fingers and raising it to his lips. The single-malt inside;
his favorite; tasted like mud in his mouth. Still, he felt no different; only
vaguely aware of the slow thud of his own heartbeat in his ears...
And then he smelled it. A warm, teasing aroma; distant at first; jerking his
attention to the open garage door like a wolf scenting prey. He narrowed his
eyes, scanning the bright, sunlit horizon beneath one shading hand to locate
the tantalizing source; even as the trail grew stronger. He straightened,
striding to the threshold; and the shimmering mirage of suburban sidewalk
solidified into a parked cherry red car, a girl leaning against it, her back to
him as she bent into the window, talking to the driver with a languid
animation.
The curve of her hips, the soft curl of her russet ponytail as she twirled it
around one finger, caught his eye and held it. He breathed in, lips slightly
parted, and the scent on the air set his throat afire as if he was dying of
thirst. In his mouth, his tongue probed at the salt-and-metal razor's edge of
lengthening canines, and his jaw ached. Ah, shit.
Red teased at the edges of his vision - bloody sunset, auburn hair, glinting
flashy car pulling away - and he blinked, shaking his head to clear it and
retreating into shadow as the girl approached.
"Hi," the summer-sweet voice greeted warmly, rolling over his aural nerves in a
dulcet caress. Of course it was her. He was a fool to have thought for a moment
it could be anyone... Even for a moment, anyone else. The sound poured over him
like honey, her scent filling the space between in sweetness like an orchard
cultivated in sin; and Rick Sanchez, creator and destroyer of worlds, shivered.
Jesus.
"Summer." He greeted, not turning to face her; pretending to busy himself with
the microscope. The slide trembled, cracked, and shattered in his hands; shards
falling to the concrete floor. Excellent. More contaminant to concern himself
with. 
"...Rick?" She asked softly, drawing too near. "Are you okay? Are you sick?"
Green eyes wide with concern, she laid one hand, feather-light, on the sleeve
of his lab coat.
He spun, eyes dark, flinching back from her touch. The thudding of her
heartbeat had overtaken his own, a rush in his ears like the sea, a drumming in
his skull calling forth all the selfish base darkness in him that he did such a
subpar job of suppressing on an average day.
"F-fuck, Summer, fuck off," he snarled, jaw throbbing as he ripped the portal
gun from his lab coat, fired it over his shoulder into the space behind himself
and escaped from the garage.
The corridor in which he found himself was familiar, so much so that he quirked
a wry sneer in the dark, already damned and knowing it. His veins howled for
her, jaw aching to sink his teeth into soft flesh; and he knew with the
intuition that was his constant guide and burden that he would have ripped her
throat out if he had remained but one moment more.
He couldn't think, needed to sate the burning; the desperate thirst turning all
his thoughts to red. Synthesizing an antidote in this state was an absurd
proposition; laughable. A mostly functional alcoholic, the drive to drink was
not an alien one, but this was a depth of passion that he thought might kill
him if left unchecked, or simply drive him mad. Impulse control had never been
Rick's strongest point, and the primeval fever in his blood stripped all his
resistance bare.
But some part of him, the part of his brain clinging to rationality, knew he
couldn't hurt the girl. Not Summer.
Not his Summer.
The delicate, tantalizing fragrance calling to him from behind the thin bedroom
door was the same, just the same. He swallowed, teeth -fangs,call them what
they are, his scientific mind sneered - pricking his lower lip. Without
thought, as if in a dream, his hand found the door and opened it.
Summer - this dimension's Summer - was lounging on her bed, phone in her hands,
hair loose and spilling over her shoulder in soft ruddy waves. She sat up when
she saw him, sitting back on her knees, setting the phone aside as she frowned
curiously at him. "Rick? You ok?"
He said nothing, merely shut the door; leaning against it and staring down at
her through hooded eyes, using his height to disguise the way he reached back
and locked the door behind himself. He approached the bed, the lines of him
long and predatory as he knelt, leaned toward her; and Summer scrambled back
from him, surprised - but not as quickly as she really should have. Rick
gripped a heavy fistful of her rich auburn hair at the base of her skull,
tilting her head back with fingers tight on her jaw as he pulled her closer.
"Rick?" She whimpered, a little breathless, staring wide-eyed into his dilated
pupils with something like fear in her own. "What's going on? What did I-"
He silenced her soft, mobile lips with his own, kissing her hard, using his
hand on her face to demand she yield and open to him. She stiffened with a
whine, pressing both her hands hard on his thin chest as if she would shove him
off, and then abruptly dug her nails into his flesh, gripping the fabric of his
shirt in two tight fists and pinioning him to herself in a death grip. Her
heart hammered in her chest, loud in his ears as a thunderstorm, and Rick
growled low in his throat, pressing her back to the bed beneath him. Her thighs
parted easily and she wrapped her legs around his hips as if she'd only been
waiting for him to get close enough to ensnare him. As if she were the
predator, and he the prey. Poor girl.
She finally broke the kiss with a gasp, tilting her head back, the column of
her throat long and tempting - pink, white, summer-gold. There was a tiny cut
on her lower lip, the new sharpness of his teeth and his ruthless lust in
evidence. He kissed her again, sucking fiercely on the ruby gleam highlighting
the plump curve; uttering a low groan at the taste of her blood in his mouth.
Summer whimpered, squirming, grinding up against him; and him hard as diamond
between her thighs. Her head dropped back on the pillow, baring her throat to
him, and even as his lips brushed her skin Rick cursed aloud, words
a yearning hiss.
"Ah, f-fuck, fuck!"
That throat was so fragile, the girl it belonged to entirely mortal and reliant
entirely on his supposed good judgment and restraint. Her scent was dizzying,
the copper-floral-heat of her blood on the air making it hard to think, hard to
breathe, the edges of his vision turning crimson once again. He shut his eyes,
gripping her waist tight in stiff fingers to attempt control; but when she
wriggled beneath him, fingers aggressively jerking his belt buckle loose, he
let her. Teenage flexibility and eagerness made all the decisions for him as he
waited a long heartbeat, two; eyes dark and fangs gleaming in the low lamplight
and trembling with the effort of a more human patience. Could she see, in the
dim ambiance, that he wasn't quite her own Rick? Could she see the monster his
carelessness had made him into?

My, grandpa, what big teeth you have.

All the better to eat you with, my dear.
Summer licked her palm, a little smear of blood from her cut lip mixing with
slick saliva, and without preamble slid her hand between their bodies and her
snug grip over the head of his cock. Eyes widening, Rick thrust into her touch,
choking on the admonition that rose to his lips.
"J-Jesus Christ, Summer," and now it was his turn to bare his throat, eyes
rolling heavenward as she angled her pelvis to take him and he slid, inch by
slow inch, into her throbbing heat. He clamped his jaw shut, ignoring the ache,
ignoring everything, hips beginning their primal rhythm with a rolling snap
that buried him in her body to the hilt and made her mewl beautifully. Her
nubile body tried to echo the movement, undulating like silk, and he snarled;
pinning her wrists above her with one long hand. He wrapped the greedy fingers
of his free hand around her thigh, hitching her knee over his shoulder, and
Summer keened at the depth of the angle as he rocked into her with long, deep
thrusts.
"F-fuck, Summer," he groaned, a condemned man. "I c-can't..."
It was easy, fucking her. Her body molded to his like clay, all youthful
responsiveness and eagerness to please. She had resisted him hardly at all,
from the moment he stepped through the door, instead melting beneath his every
advance like gold in a smelter - he wondered if she even knew who he really
was, knew what he was there for. If she even cared. That true Sanchez talent
for self-destruction. Thinking about it made his jaw ache and his balls draw up
tight. It was too natural, too fucking good - an inadequate distraction from
her carotid artery pumping away just inches from his lips, filling his head
with pheromones and yearning. She tilted her jaw at a higher angle, eyes
squeezed shut as she panted and her inner muscles began to flutter around his
cock.
"Fuck, Rick, please don't stop!" She whimpered, flushed from cheeks to
collarbone and as desperate as he'd ever heard her. "Fuck, oh fuck, yes!"
He felt his own orgasm zinging down his spine at the pleading tone in her
voice, her breathless begging tapering off in a wail that pulled his release
from him as surely as a siren song. He growled, pressing her hips down hard,
thrusting deep and spilling his seed inside her. Marking territory, not that it
would matter. As she went limp in his arms, sated and dazed, he lifted her with
one arm behind her back. One hand brushed, with infinite tenderness, the hair
out of her face, away from soft green eyes. He stroked gentle fingertips over
the curve of her cheekbone, encouraging her to close them; then sank his teeth
into her throat.
Much later, he settled the still form on her pillow, disheveled, desecrated, a
white and silent monument to depredation. His sensitive ears detected a faint
heartbeat - or at least, he told himself he did. The green light carried him to
his home dimension and he did not look back.
***** Eyes On Me *****
Chapter Summary
     Summer needs an older escort for an exclusive event, but the course
     of an evening out never did run smooth.
Chapter Notes
     “You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you
     never had the courage to commit.” - Oscar Wilde, "The Picture of
     Dorian Gray"
     "Science does not know its debt to imagination." - Ralph Waldo
     Emerson
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Summer knelt on her bed, feet tucked under her in the oversized tee and panties
she had worn to sleep in; cell phone in one hand, embossed square of plastic in
the other. She bit her lip, frowning slightly as she looked from one item to
the other, replaying the scene she had just left in the living room.
"Where's Grandpa Rick?" Her younger brother had poked his head up from the
other side of the sofa like a groundhog from its burrow, fully prepared to
declare six more weeks of winter. "Aw, geez Summer, w-why?" The younger teen
asked with some trepidation, pressing the "pause" button on his video game.
"I need him." Summer bit off loftily, as if it were none of Morty's concern;
ignoring the way the boy stared at her quizzically. "Where is he?"
"He, uh, h-he's sleeping- Summer! S-summer, he said n-not to...!"
Summer ignored her brother's plaintive yelps from the living room as she strode
past him and to the hall closet that the manic genius patriarch of the family
had made his lair. Jerking the door open with a huff, she saw to her complete
lack of surprise that said manic genius patriarch was sprawled on his cot,
facedown, illustriously drunk. "Fucking fantastic." She cursed under her
breath, and turned to stomp back up the stairs to her room, fluffy robe and
slippers doing nothing to conceal her ire.
So now she sat in her bedroom, back to square one and faced with a decision.
She stared hard at the keycard in her hand, biting her lip and trying to quiet
the heavy fluttering in her abdomen. She could still hear the directive, spoken
in his irritable rasp.
And the next time you decide to have a stand-in fuck you in my workshop, make
sure it's a real Rick. I don't have time to clean up after other people's
unfinished business.
The needs she had in mind were a little more basic; less primal, more social.
Everyone who was anyone in the local scene was going to be attending the new
club's VIP cold open, but it was an exclusive event and her usual fake ID
wasn't going to fool a real professional bouncer. She needed a real adult to
get her in, maybe even show her a good time for once.
She needed a Rick. But hers was slumbering away downstairs, sleeping the sleep
of the unjust with a substance abuse problem.
Coming to a decision, she slipped her feet back into her slippers, leaving the
robe behind so she could easily squeeze down the hatch, and slipped downstairs
and into the garage, headed for the triple-authentication security hub that
guarded the entrance to the Phoenix Lab.
She squinted in the dark, first punching in a 5-digit code - the alphanumeric
keys lit up when she punched, in sequence, "B-A-L-L-S." She then swiped the
card, and the hub was illuminated with a green light as a panel slid up,
revealing a glass plate with a lens behind it. This was the moment of truth -
if Rick had actually intended for her to use the lab, her retinal patterns
would be added to the whitelist and the hatch would open. If he hadn't, she'd
probably be blinded. Holding her breath and thinking of mojitos and a place in
the upper social echelon, she lowered her eye to the lens.
"Scanning..." The security bot informed her politely. "...Summer Smith.
Welcome." For ostensibly non-sentient artificial intelligence, it seemed a
little surprised to see her. But the hatch slid open, revealing the chilly
gloom of the lab below.
Like a morgue. Summer thought before she could stop herself, and then cursed
herself roundly for staying up all night watching low-budget horror as she
descended the ladder.
When her feet touched the white tile floor, the lights came on of their own
accord, casting the sterile environment into sharp relief. Summer raised her
hand with a little cry of surprise at the sudden brightness, shielding her eyes
till they adjusted enough to look around and take stock of her surroundings.
The lab had been properly cleaned and upgraded since Rick's last visit and
subsequent tantrum down here; it was obvious he'd been busy. Two pods sat
empty; awaiting specimens. One held a specimen similar in age to herself; she
barely glanced at it. Not what she was looking for. The pod nearest to herself
held a Rick that was an exact copy of her own, right down to the scar in his
side and the faint lines that, even in repose, permanent bitterness and
derision had etched into his face.
He was in suspended animation, the clear liquid surrounding his nude form - she
stared openly, all hungry eyes and flaming cheeks - holding his body weightless
along with the cables that supplied nutritive supplements and electrical
stimulus for his enormous brain and lean muscle. She allowed herself a moment,
green eyes tracing the silvered hair that trailed down his abdomen in a thin
but tempting line... It was likely she would never be allowed to see him so
naked - literally and figuratively - again. Finding the control panel that
connected to the pod, she initiated the activation sequence. It was far simpler
than she assumed it would be. Rick really favored a point-and-click sort of
design style.
The vital liquid drained from the pod through a hole in its base, cables
snapping free from the cloned Rick's skin as their purposes, one by one, were
served; they hung loose in the pod like vines as he dropped to one knee,
seemingly quavering on unsteady legs. Thick hair hung in wet, unruly spikes
around his face as he bent over, gasping. Summer rushed to the pod, taking a
large blue towel that had been left helpfully folded on a nearby shelf in her
arms and pulling the lever to open the pod's sealed glass door. The great egg
opened with a hiss and the Rick inside lurched forward, gasping in great
lungfuls of air, and then suddenly coughed out a curse.
"Fuck, Summer, what the fuck happened?"
"What? I- How do you know...?" She trailed off, handing him the towel and
glancing away, red-faced as he stood up, still gloriously nude and wet.
"Everything? Cognitive upload, Summer, duh," he mumbled, tousling his hair with
the towel till it stood out in its customary spikes and ignoring her
discomfort. "You think I'm just gonna let some clone take over my life without
putting my consciousness in it first?Jeez." Finally noting her scarlet cheeks,
he slung the towel around his hips, smirking arrogantly. "So what happened to
my other body?"
"Um, nothing. You're asleep upstairs." She mumbled, looking at her feet.
"What?" He rounded on her, all height and menace. "You wasted a clone for
jollies, what the hell Summer?"
"What?” She spluttered, hands on her hips as she stood nose to nose with him.
“You’re the one who gave me the key, you told me to come down here if I needed
a f-... If I...”
“If you needed a what?” The seminude Rick demanded, leaning into her space,
glowering.
Summer took a deep breath. “The original you... Look he just told me to come
down here if I needed a f-fuck, okay? You gave me the key.” She waved it in
front of his nose as proof; such a precious item would have been near-
impossible to steal or replicate.
Rick raised both brows in a long, heavily silent moment of surprise, then let
out a harsh, barking laugh. “I’m a sick fucker.” Even as the words left his
lips, however, he snaked an arm around her waist, cool damp skin through her
nightshirt growing warm against her own. Her thighs shifted as she squirmed
against him in surprise and she felt his cock twitch under the towel in
definite interest. Ah, fuck.
“No no, I-”
“No?” He raised a brow, wolfish, and she was reminded powerfully of that moment
in the garage, the heat and the hunger and the powerlessness of it all. Should
we just pretend that I don't know?
Summer shivered, blinking a few times to clear the memory from her mind and
attempt unsuccessfully to steady herself. “There’s this party-”
“Si, en mis pantalones,” Rick snickered, unable to help himself, then glanced
down. “In a manner of speaking.” He punctuated the juvenile humor with a very
adult snap of his hips against hers.
Summer gasped, but plowed on, determined nonetheless. “No, it’s at this club.
In the city. It’ll be fun.” Rick was eyeing the curve of her neck, tuning her
out, wondering where would be the best spot to sink his teeth in to get her to
make that breathy moan he liked - and then she said the magic words. “There’s
an open bar...”
He straightened up regretfully, still holding her tight but with a wry smirk
that pulled at one corner of his mouth like a fishhook dragging him to shore.
“Well... I guess we could make an appearance.”
Summer backed up a step, thrumming from head to toe but victorious. “Awesome.
Wait... Can you drive the space car?”
“Ugh, yeah, Summer, I built it.”
 
* * * * * * *
 
Summer skittered about in her bedroom, knocking over bottles and tubes on her
vanity dresser as she tried to apply makeup with trembling hands. She had, for
all intents and purposes, defied Rick by waking one of his counterparts from
sedentary slumber for a date. The possibility for repercussions were literally
infinite. But even as one dire prediction after another flicked through her
mind like scrolling through a webpage, she had difficulty focusing on them.
Instead her thoughts were on the heat of Rick's hands on her skin as she
shimmied into her red satin cocktail dress and pulled her hair into a quick,
casually disheveled up-do and slicked on red lipstick and winged black eyeliner
and mascara. Her heels she left for last, holding them in her hand along with
her phone and small clutch as she tiptoed down the stairs and slipped out
through the garage; having used the same escape tactic many times throughout
her coming of age. Even after the arrival of her household's new de facto
leader, Rick was far more tolerant of her late-night wanderings than her
parents ever would have been, a fact that Summer had never failed to
appreciate.
He certainly appeared tolerant now, waiting by the ship with his flask in one
hand and a cigarette in the other; wasting no time whatsoever in inundating
this new body with all the toxic habits to which the old one - still passed out
under the stairs, incidentally - was accustomed. Summer's jaw dropped for a
moment when she spotted him but she shut it again, trying for all the world to
not appear like the gawky teenager that she still, ever-so-slightly, in quiet,
secret moments, really was.
Rick cleaned up well. He'd either located, replicated or outright stolen a
sharp black suit, excellently tailored; clinging to the long lines of his body
in all the right places; pale pinstripes accentuating the lean planes and
angles of him. When she got close, under the wan glow of the streetlight, she
could see that the faint ash-colored lines were not simple pinstripes at all,
but the text "f u c k y o u" printed over and over in repeating lines down the
fabric. Definitely a Rick original. She smirked, straightening his electric
blue tie as he tucked the ever-present flask into his breast pocket and
blatantly admired her decolletage.
"Nice suit."
"Nice dress."
She blushed, a little; it was unusual of Rick to be so free with compliments,
and she wondered just how much like him this copy really was. Ninety percent?
Eighty? Sixty-five?
I guess I'll find out. She thought, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw
a little stubbornly, climbing into the ship's passenger seat.
 
* * * * * * *
 
Some things never changed. Upon their arrival, Rick was suddenly nowhere to be
seen - a ghost, vanishing into the crowd as soon as his purpose was fulfilled;
slipping her past security with a tight roll of bills slipped into the
bouncer's hand and the practiced ease of someone who has done such a thing many
times before. Summer did her best to not feel a little put out, standing on her
own in a crowd of people, feeling the weight of passing eyes on her like the
prick of so many small, judgmental needles. Straightening her back, she tucked
her clutch under one arm and wove her way through the crowd, headed for the
bar.
Though she'd occasionally sampled alcohol in her parents' home or on adventures
with her brother and grandfather, Summer's experience with cocktails was
somewhat limited. She decided to stick with what she knew, thus avoiding
embarrassment, and ordered in a bored tone that mimicked the venerated
alcoholic who had brought her here: "Vodka martini."
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't question; the music was too loud to
allow for much in the way of conversation and it was the bouncer's job to check
for young women in slinky red dresses who were below the legal drinking age. He
shook the drink in a steel tumbler with crushed ice and strained it, with a
flourish, into a conical glass. Sliding it across the bar to her, he dropped in
a lemon twist - unusual, compared to the classic olive, but this was a trendy
spot and Summer appreciated the gesture.
"Thanks." She accepted the drink and sipped it gratefully, burn of vodka and
vermouth soothed by the chill of the liquor as it slid down her throat. A
martini was not a warm-up drink; like a cosmopolitan or a bay breeze, something
to be enjoyed with girlfriends around a karaoke machine. Martinis were for
going from zero to sixty; the burn in her belly heating her up from the inside,
making her cheeks flush. The lemon twist sitting alone and forlorn in the
bottom of the glass, she slid it across the bar, raising her hand for another.
"Damn, girl, you in a hurry?" The bartender asked, mixing the second round even
more promptly than the first.
"Something like that," she muttered, and took the glass, drinking it as she
wandered away from the bar, eyes scanning the club. She had come here to see
and be seen; and she noted a few students from the community college pointing
her out and whispering behind hands, subtle covetous eyes and intrigue in the
angle of their youthful bodies as they leaned toward her when she passed.
Doubtless she could mingle, make a few connections, have a good time. But the
heavy bass was throbbing through her in time with her heartbeat, the bitterness
of spirits on her tongue making her mouth water for something... else.
Something more crepuscular; hidden and fragile, forbidden. Underage drinking
was par for the course. Now the wool had been pulled from her eyes, she could
not put it back.
The crowd parted for her subtly, like fish disturbed by the presence of a
brooding predator, sensing danger but unable to determine with any accuracy its
prowling source. She ascended a short, wrought-iron staircase, the club's
baroque pretenses confused by the presence of illuminated violet and emerald
panel lights and the glass-block bar. At the top of the staircase was a velvet
rope, intended to keep out intruders, like herself. Finishing her drink, she
set down the glass on the metal stair with a crystalline clink, the sound
somehow definite and resolved against the thud of bass against her back.
Lifting one black kitten heel after the other, swaying a little with vertigo as
her solitary ankle wobbled on the staircase, she stepped over the barrier and
into the shadowy lounge.
The music was softer here, muffled by the lower ceiling and the art-deco
architecture of the room, the far wall rounded like an egg. The floor was
carpeted in plush, deep crimson and the walls were painted a deep, visceral
magenta, the ceiling white. But all this she took in in the space of a
heartbeat, the time it took her to blink, her pupils to dilate and contract; an
involuntary parting of her lips as she saw him.
There was no one in the room but him, a dim light from a lone ceiling sconce
illuminating the fine black suit and moonlight hair and every drunk, smirking,
condescending line of him. He sat dead center on a small white sofa, thighs
parted proudly as if he were a king astride his throne, arms thrown over the
back in an expansive slouch. The brilliant blue tie was absent, no doubt lost
amongst the revelers, and his blazer hung open, the black linen shirt beneath
it unbuttoned to the navel. That same silver trail of hair that had so
tantalized her earlier caught her eye again now, the barest whisper above his
belt buckle. A highball of whiskey dangled in one hand, suspended in the
laconic grip of thin fingers seemingly by magic, liquid swirling ever so
slightly - the only thing that revealed he was not a magnificent statue, a
monument to debauchery.
"Was wondering when you'd show up." Rick drawled, tip of his tongue running
over his teeth as he sneered at her.
Summer's hand pressed to her abdomen unconsciously, trying to still her stomach
as it flipped over, quiet her heart hammering away behind her ribs. He'd been
expecting her. Of course he had. He... He had seen everything, knew everything,
was a genius, some kind of fucked-up god. Abruptly, like someone had opened an
airlock, she couldn't breathe.
"Drink?" He tilted the glass forward approximately one millimeter in welcome,
and she was stumbling forward, suddenly coltish legs unwilling to obey her
commands, unsteady on five-inch heels and two strong drinks. She halted just
before his chair, attempting imperious and achieving only awkward, staring down
at him with eyes that seemed to glow in the single spotlight. She snatched the
glass from his hand, silent in bravado, and gulped it down before she could
reflect on how much she truly loathed the taste of whiskey, or what a genuinely
awful idea it was for a fairly amateur alcoholic to mix clear and dark liquor
on a night out. None of it mattered if she could wipe that self-satisfied smirk
off Rick's face.
Yet the smirk persisted. He stared up at her from beneath lazily raised brows,
one lock of tousled silver hair falling into cool grey eyes. Setting the glass
down on a brushed steel table, ostentatious and stylistically vague, that
rested nearby, Summer pressed her hands into Rick's shoulders, bracing her
weight and catching him off-guard for the first time as she slipped, with
almost casual ease, into his lap. He covered neatly, bringing long hands up to
sweep over her strong thighs, to cup in his splayed and greedy fingers the ripe
curve of her ass.
"Yeah, babygirl, that's it." He smirked, confident drawl back again. "Give
Daddy some sugar."
Summer scoffed, reaching up to pull her hair free from its confines, letting it
tumble down her back, presenting him with a fascinating vantage point as she
did so. "You're not my Daddy."
"Baby," Rick sneered, nuzzling between her breasts with warm lips and a hot
knowing chuckle against her skin, "We both know that's bullshit."
She shivered, carding her fingers through his thick hair, scraping her nails
down his neck, gripping his collar and pulling him tighter against her skin.
Perhaps if she pulled hard enough she could pull him into her, under her skin,
past her creaking ribs, let him devour her heart and fill her up and take the
place of all that dark emptiness inside her.
Summer, I've always loved you!
Yep.
She rolled her hips, gripping his suit for leverage and grinding down hard.
Rick grinned, kissing her roughly as he slid one long hand with its nimble
fingers up her back and pulled the zipper of her dress down, down, down; the
purring drag against her spine interminable and erotic. He peeled the dress off
her like peeling the skin from some lush fruit, letting the silky material pool
at her hips, palms skimming over her trembling sides, sliding over her ribs. He
pressed his hands between her shoulderblades, drawing her close, pressing his
face between her breasts and inhaling deeply and she smelled like sweat and
lemon and the alcohol already seeping through her pores, and all at once he was
hard as concrete in the expensive trousers. Good goddamn.
He muttered something against her skin, a growling rasp that she couldn't
discern beneath the pounding music and her howling nerves demanding attention.
"W-what?" She whined, squirming, desperate to increase the friction though she
was already wet and utterly ruined.
"Touch yourself."
Summer whimpered, biting her lip, hands trembling as they clung to his much-
abused lapel. One hand still splayed between her shoulderblades, the other
wrapped around her wrist, bearing it inexorably lower. Then he closed his lips
over her nipple, tip of his wicked tongue darting out to flicker over the
sensitive pink bud as he stole a generous mouthful of luscious youth, and
Summer stopped thinking. Her hips bucked involuntarily, a harsh grind against
the hard ridge of him in his pants, as she slid her hand over the soft, warm
quaver of her belly and curled fingers into her ginger curls. Her panties were
flimsy black lace nothings, barely there to begin with; and if she had wondered
before if she'd worn them for him, she now knew with a certainty as she tugged
them impatiently aside, stretching the delicate fabric carelessly beyond repair
and thrusting eagerly swirling fingertips into her heat. "Oh, f-fuck, jesus,
Rick..."
He didn't need a hand to hold her any longer; her craving for his touch was
will enough to stay fixed in place (a theme that played itself over and over
again on repeat between them, like a worn-out tape). The hand between her
shoulderblades went lax, slyly sliding around her waist, up her thigh, to where
his cock strained beneath her tender, bitten-lipped ministrations. With the
practiced flick of one hand, he had his belt and trousers open, and wrapping
his hand bruisingly tight around her thigh, he dragged her forward to thrust
roughly against her, the thick head of his cock nudging her clit as she rocked
her hips down.
"Ohh fuck Rick my fucking god please don't stop," she whined, on the verge of
total incoherence as she babbled, losing all semblance of rhythm or seductive
guile when his naked cock touched her. She bowed into him like a willow in the
rain, scent of whiskey on her breath as she mewed and panted, clinging to him.
She'd begged him not to stop, but it would have been more accurate to beg him
not to move - to remain still, as he was, only occasionally rising up to meet
her in shallow thrusts, or licking the beads of sweat that gathered in the
hollow of her throat; as she frigged herself desperately on the head of his
cock. It was helplessly scintillating, the girl shattering all of her own
accord, her hot little pussy spasming and bathing his cock in her essence;
ruining his suit and her reputation with a wail that the revelers below may
have heard were it not for an exceptionally well-timed bass drop.
She came around slowly, blinking till his image came into focus, and when she
did her throbbing sex immediately clenched in anticipation, a wave of heat
prickling over her skin. The smirk was back.
"My turn."
In a movement so smooth it belied his years, Rick pressed her back into the
sofa, entering her fully and pulling her thighs up to his ribs to increase the
depth of his thrusts. He set a punishing pace, and Summer tried to shut her
eyes, to let the coiling low in her belly carry her up again.
"Oh, no you don't," he rasped. "Eyes on me."
She locked her gaze on his, eyes wide, and almost immediately his rhythm
hesitated and broke. "S-shit, jesus." He swore, but held the gaze, pupils so
blown they were nearly black, biting his lip hard. She dragged her nails down
his back, digging them in sharply, and he grunted, cock hammering home inside
her and pulsing as he came. Summer melted, feeling an answering throb, feeling
another climax pulled from her exhausted body in the form of a long, slow burn;
a rolling wave.
"That's my girl." He said affectionately, at long last, slapping her flank as
he slid out of her and sat up. He pulled his clothes back on and for the first
time she noticed he was well and truly disheveled, having gone commando and
missing both cufflinks in addition to the tie. Such details seemed
insignificant in comparison to the rubbery, wrung-out feeling in her limbs. She
had lost her clutch and her phone. Neither mattered. She dragged her panties
down her legs and dropped them, discarded detritus, beside the now-infamous
white couch. Placing her hand in his, she allowed herself to be led like the
conquest she was; down the stairs, through the club, out the back door, to the
secluded corner of the parking lot where they had left the cloaked ship.
And there, in the back seat, unconscious and bound but otherwise unharmed, was
Rick.
Her eyes snapped to her companion, who had lately had his prick inside her. "R-
Rick?"
He sneered. "What, like I'm going to let this asshole tag in for me? I thought
we discussed this already, Sum-Sum - accept no substitutes."
And suddenly, it all made sense.
The Rick in the back - unconscious Rick, that is - was bound hand and foot with
duct tape, but an electric blue tie gagged him - the same one that had been so
conspicuously absent earlier. He wore only boxers and socks; his tall, underfed
form had been stripped bare...
C-137. Of course.
"Jesus fucking christ, Rick," she muttered, too exhausted from the alcohol and
the adrenaline and the endorphines to even contemplate the matter. "What the
fuck."
"Who's your Daddy, baby?" He smirked, sliding into the driver's seat and
powering up the ship that would carry them home.
Chapter End Notes
     This is a continuation of Summer Sweet: http://archiveofourown.org/
     works/11892690/chapters/26862714
     The two works complement each other but can be read alone.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!