Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6152284.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Morty_Smith
  Character:
      Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty), Morty_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      young_Punk_Rick, fanboy_Morty, Masturbation, Language
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-03 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 4248
****** Steal My Records ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     The first time Morty sees The Flesh Curtains play is on his beat-up
     laptop, torrent file still open in the background. (Or, the one where
     Morty’s an emotionally unstable fanboy.)
Notes
     Warnings: underage, incest, language, masturbation, slight slut-
     shaming, AU-sort of.
     This is set before the events of season one. Morty hasn’t met his
     grandpa yet. All he knows about him is that he likes to get drunk and
     fight people.
See the end of the work for more notes
It begins like any other day. Morty is stretched out on the sofa in the living
room, his laptop balanced precariously across his knees as he periodically
refreshes his blog. The early evening sunset is starting to sink into night,
and he's caught between an uncomfortable juxtaposition of bored and horny.
There's nothing interesting online. He's stalked the Flesh Curtains fan page
enough to know that there haven't been any updates in months. He's got nothing
to do and nobody to do it with. Mom and dad are at a day spa attempting to get
their shit together before one of mom's relatives stays with them for the
summer. Summer is over at her friend's house, probably getting sloppy on wine
cooler and oregano. The house is completely his. Too bad it's wasted on him.

His phone vibrates next to him and he looks over just in time to see the last
vestiges of a text message from his sister. It's like she's psychic sometimes.
He picks up his phone and reads the message with a frown.


His face feels hot but he's counting down the seconds until the file finishes
downloading. The second it's done, he signs off with Summer; both of them
choosing to ignore what just happened. Hopefully, it's actual footage and not
Summer paying him back for some imagined slight. She can be bitchy that way.
He carefully sets his laptop on the coffee table and vaults over the back of
the couch, nearly face-planting on his way to double-check the locks. Stupid.
He never learns. Pausing at the curtains, he peers out the window, squinting at
the vague outlines of houses and cars lining the street. Who's to know if he
leaves them open? The neighbors might catch an eyeful because who's he kidding?
He's definitely going to jerk off to this video. But that would kind of be
their problem for peaking. He swallows, hand still holding the curtain aside as
he looks up and down the street once more. A few children run, screaming
playfully, out of their house only a few houses up.
He closes the curtains. As an added precaution, he turns off all the lights and
races back to the sofa, heart thundering in his chest. Maybe next time.
He eyes his cell phone, casually tossed aside in his earlier pique. He'd wanted
to use his laptop for better resolution but it might be easier to navigate than
transferring the file from his phone and waiting for it to download. Plus, he
wouldn't have to do that awkward jerk-shift that comes with trying to balance a
laptop while getting off. He picks up his phone and opens the messenger app,
clicking on the video file. Force of habit has him popping in ear buds but he
cranks the sound as a compromise. He hesitates only briefly before he's
awkwardly maneuvering his fly open with one hand and shoving his boxers and
jeans down to his knees. He kicks them carelessly to the side and sprawls
across the sofa, his thighs splayed dramatically.
He feels a little ridiculous, with his dick hanging out and his entire body on
display like some Warhol drawing. It's sort of appealing though; anyone could
come strolling in at any second and he'd be caught with his dick out. The idea
excites him, in a sick sort of way. Exhibition must run in the family because
he and Summer have both caught each other more times than they'd care to admit,
working out teenage frustrations in various rooms of the house. They never seem
to learn either. It's become a game in its own way, each unwittingly upping the
stakes every time they catch the other in a compromising position.
>He shoves that thought aside and turns his attention to his phone screen
instead. He briefly wonders if he should even watch the video, especially after
the episode he had last time. There had been cops involved and he'd nearly
scratched an eye out from…
But then the video starts and his thoughts turn to sludge. The screen fades in
from a superimposed image of a black and grey skull. The title scrolls across
the screen in familiar dripping red letters, reminiscent of shitty 90's
WordArt. Sweat beads on his brow and upper lip as the video fades into grainy
footage of a packed outdoor theater. The stage curtains are still drawn but the
audience members are cheering so loudly that they nearly drown out the rhythm
of the drums. A microphone squeals with too much feedback and a man's voice,
good-humored and throaty, fills the stadium.
“ARE YOU BITCHES READY?!”
Morty knows that voice like the back of his hand; he's been jerking off to it
for years. There's novelty in fresh words being purred directly into his ear,
though, and he's hard as a rock in seconds, aching desperately. The audience
screams, almost as if they're applauding his perversion. It fuels his sickness,
making him spread his legs wider and gyrate his hips in needy little circles.
He runs a shaky hand down his stomach, teasingly. He purposely avoids touching
his cock, instead drawing his fingers lightly over the inner crease of his
thigh. A feminine voice sounds on the video, catching his attention. He watches
a woman, naked from the waist up and straddling a man's shoulders, throw her
head back and howl. His mouth waters at the slim curve of her naked back, but
he resists the overwhelming urge to take himself in hand. He's saving it for
that perfect moment. For the guitarist.
On the video, people stomp and jump as the beat gets more frenetic, and a
guitar joins in with a few carelessly played power chords. God, there he is.
Morty's whole body is thrumming with the knowledge that just behind those
curtains is the man he's been waiting for. The curtains start to rise.

As shitty as the video quality is, the band had been ahead of their time in the
costuming department. The lead vocalist, aptly named Bird-Person, is dressed as
a bird, complete with realistic, feathered wings that he fans out behind him
during every solo. He's poised at the front of the stage, head down and wings
out as electricity sparks and bursts behind him. Then there's a fucking
animatronic cat, Squanchy, wigging out on drums. His fur is matted and his
whiskers bent in sloppy detail, like he's just returned from a week-long
bender; Morty swears he's an actual cat sometimes… if cats could go on benders.
Lastly, there's the guitarist, Rick.
Electricity hums and whines throughout the stadium as the man steps forward,
making his guitar scream with his slim, skilled fingers. He's the one Morty's
been waiting for. Morty's whole body jerks as he finally, finallycups himself,
his skin hot and uncomfortable. He devours the sight of Rick, greedily drinking
him in as he wraps his fingers loosely around his cock. His hips move as he
starts stroking himself. The soft friction makes him taut and itchy, like he's
about to leap from his own skin and into the video. His tip is already leaking,
making each stroke almost seamless.
Rick is dressed differently. He's wearing black square-framed glasses that have
a small, almost plexiglass-like square over Rick's right lense. He looks hot
with glasses but it's an odd costume choice. The glasses are strange, almost
reminiscent to those Google glasses that had been the hype a few years ago.
Morty has to squint at his screen to make sure he's seeing it correctly, thanks
to the camera distance. From what he can make out, there's a sensor strapped to
the glasses, pressing into Rick's temple. It just seems like weirdly advanced
technology for the 80's. Morty's hand slows on himself as he's caught up in
trying to figure out the logistics of whatever the hell piece of costume that's
supposed to be. Or least he tries to but then Rick does a little hip thrust on
stage, and Morty's focus narrows in on the guitarist's lower half. And like any
red-blooded teenager, he trades common sense for lust.
Usually Rick favors low-slung leather pants that show off his rangy physique
and a hint of dark blue pubes. In this video, he's gone for a more conservative
pair of fitted jeans, which still hug his legs like a wet dream. Morty can see
every dip and curve, especially the impressive semi the guitarist's rocking.
There's always been rumors across the fandom that Rick is packing some serious
heat. Morty licks his lips. Looks like there's some truth to that. Rick's hair
is also different; what's usually an untamed blue mess of spikes, now looks
combed and styled. He's more polished than usual. He's still wearing his
beloved ripped tank top, though. Rick's got style. He even pulls off a dog
collar. It's this black, leather monstrosity strapped around his neck, with an
engraved dog tag hanging off it. There's a name etched on it, that's always
been partially obscured in almost every Flesh Curtains video. (There had been
one memorable video that Morty could've sworn showed his own name on there, but
the footage had been strangely absence when he tried to reference it later for
his Flesh Curtains fan page.) At certain angles, Morty can see the sharp
protrusion of his ribs and a glint of steel speared through brown nipples.
Morty's favorite thing about him, though, are the multiple piercings lining the
ridges of his ears. It's so punk, and Morty knows he shouldn't cater to trends,
but god, they really do it for him.
Morty tightens his fingers around himself and allows himself one more quick
pump, his mouth falling open at the fleeting pleasure. He's already starting to
feel on edge and the concert has only just begun. He stops, panting lightly as
he watches Rick's hips swivel again as he dances on stage. He imagines himself
sinking onto his knees before Rick and offering up his mouth for the guitarist
to use any way he sees fit. In that moment, he is Morty's god.
And what a god he is. Rick is a vision of punk-rock and coked-out indifference
as he stands at the edge of the stage, showing off a little as he continues his
solo. He steps up to the edge and grins down at a few screaming fans who are
closest to the stage. He says something to one of them over the vibration of
his guitar, and the guy tries to jump on the stage. Rick kicks him back into
the crowd, laughing, and the man resurfaces a minute later, fingers raised in
the universal symbol of anarchy.
Rick finishes his solo, skirting around grabby hands. He stomps over to a
microphone, all long legs and attitude, and yanks it off its stand. The stand
rocks violently before falling sideways. He kicks it out of the way, and rakes
his hand through his hair, messing up the casually styled strands. He doesn't
look like he cares too much as he's leaning in to the audience, bringing the
mic to his lips.
“Sup, freaks!” He rasps. “Wanna see something nasty?” The audience,
collectively, shouts their agreement in the form of screeches, howls, and
general fuckery.
And then in a move that Morty couldn't have dreamed about if he tried, Rick
runs his tongue up the stalk of the microphone, and flicks it slowly across its
mesh. There's a flash of a silver stud and Morty's hands start shaking. Rick
drags his tongue ring up and down the grated steel, and moans, long and throaty
as his left hand moves down to mess with his skull-shaped belt buckle.
Morty stifles a pathetic whimper, and fucks desperately into his hand, more
worked up at this obscene display than he's ever been before. The audience
screams and catcalls; Morty's heart pounds. Morty's thumb catches on his wet
tip on an upward stroke, and he nearly chokes on his saliva. He rubs over his
slit roughly, imagining that it's Rick's tongue licking his cock and swirling
it around the head; licking him all over his body; licking into his mouth with
the taste of skin and metal…
Rick slowly lowers the microphone from his mouth with a grin, a thin line of
drool breaking off from his lower lip. He grin turns more salacious, and he
drags his other hand upward away from his belt, taking a little of his shirt
with him; revealing the sharp cut of his too-skinny hips and his blue happy
trail.
Shameless with lust, Morty brings his hand up to his mouth and eagerly sucks on
his index and middle fingers, pretending it's Rick's cock. He can taste the
pre-cum on his skin and he sucks harder, trying draw out the flavor. He pants
around his fingers and buries them deeper in his mouth, gagging around them as
a poor substitute for who he actually wants inside of him. Morty drools as he
shoves his tongue into the webbing of his fingers. He removes his fingers and
nuzzles his hot cheek restlessly against the cool side of the couch, feverishly
wishing for someone he can never have.
“Fuck.Y-you like that?”Rick asks suddenly, his voice husky and dripping sex all
across the amphitheater. Morty fumbles the phone, swearing, accidentally
exiting out of the video and almost dropping the device on his dick. The ear
buds are ripped out of his ears as he gets tangled up in their wires doing a
last-minute save. He's embarrassed but he gets himself sorted. He tries to open
the video again, with little luck. He jabs at the file helplessly, his fingers
clumsy with fading arousal and saliva.
“Ah g-geez…..just….c-come on!” His brain catches up with him and he wipes his
fingers on shirt. It opens on his next attempt, still playing from a little
after where he left off. He tries to rewind it but the video file is missing
both the fast forward and rewind buttons. It's as if it's streaming in real
time, which is an impossibility; Morty dismisses the thought. He hastily shoves
his ear buds back in and jams the maximize button. It catches Rick mid-
sentence.
“--about damn time.Pay attention, Mor-moron...s.”Rick is saying. He looks
fucked out, an obvious erection tenting his jeans and what looks like a flush
creeping up his neck and into his ashen cheeks. Morty isn't sure what he missed
but he's sorely regretting it. Why isn't there a fucking rewind button?
On video, Rick stalks back and forth across the stage, looking keyed up and
mussed as hell. The crowd has gone relatively still. The vibe, despite Rick's
lewd appearance, grows thick with anticipation. Even Morty notices, struggling
to pay attention with everything going on at once. The humiliation had helped
quell Morty's arousal a little but it's still there, simmering just below the
surface as he watches Rick pace like a malcontent wild animal.
Rick stops abruptly after roughly thirty seconds of painful silence. Morty
sighs in relief as Rick finally speaks, his throat gravelly. It goes straight
to Morty's cock. “So you shitheads are gonna have to listen to me make a little
bitch outta myself.”
At the collectively confused silence, Rick laughs. “I've got this hot piece I'm
tryin' t-to get in good with and- Aww fuck it. Why am I explaining it to y-you
when I could be SHOWING YOU!” The last part he yells into the microphone,
suddenly all hyped up, feeding his manic energy into the crowd.
They go wild, as expected, but Morty's stomach does a disappointed flop. A very
familiar territorial haze starts creeping into his thoughts, and he desperately
tries to squash it down, frantically recalling his last episode. Like, he knows
that obviously this man's probably long-dead from drug overdose or, more
optimistically, holed up somewhere with several beautiful ex-wives and a
handful of illegitimate kids but Morty can't help the prickle of jealousy that
shoots through him at the idea the guitarist has someone he cares about enough
to do… whatever it is he's trying to do.
As if in answer, Rick starts fiddling with his guitar, almost self-consciously
tuning it with nimble fingers. A strand of his hair falls over his eye and
despite himself, Morty wants to tuck it behind the man's ear. He's such a
virgin, getting overly possessive of some guitarist from an 80's garage band.
Two girls, apparently incited by the same instinct as Morty, yell, and draw the
camera's attention. They whip up their shirts and scream Rick's name, much to
Morty's displeasure. His hands shake and his mouth tastes like ash. Rick must
notice the camera because, off-screen, he shouts at the camera person to pan
the fuck back over to him. The camera person does, although they must have
pressed the wrong button because the angle is suddenly at an uncomfortably
tight close up of Rick's coolly unimpressed face. The smaller details, like the
faint lines around Rick's mouth and his unibrow, are in sharp detail, though;
throwing Morty off somewhat. He's never seen the man in such sharp definition.
Morty tries to memorize each small detail, hungrily taking in everything from
the bags under his brown eyes to the admittedly unappealing pool of booze/drool
on his bottom lip. He should be put-off but, if anything, it excites him more.
Rick looks slightly off-screen, probably at the screaming girls as he
says,“Y'all are gonna put me in the doghouse. I've gotta be faithful now,
comprende? I'm a taken man.”
“O-okay, w-w-we get it, Rick. Damn,” Morty mutters, swallowing sheer murder. He
wants to smash the phone into a thousand pieces or just jerk off to some hetero
porn like any normal teenage boy, but he knows he's not going to. Rick may have
been a drug addict back in his heyday, maybe still is, but he's Morty's
personal brand of heroin. And like a good little addict, Morty settles in for
the long haul, sacrificing all of his dignity for a quick hit of sex and rock
n' roll.
Or, at least, that is Morty's sentiment before one of them throws their bra at
Rick's feet, and he sees red.
“SLUT,”Morty hisses, irrationally angry at the guitarist. It'd be comical
except it's not. Morty's heart just fucking aches.“I c-could treat you right.
I'd doanything fory-y-you!Y-you're MINE, RICK!”His voice cracks slightly. He's
angry at everything: at this immortalized version of Rick whom he can never
touch; at himself for being a crazed fanatic; at groupies of indeterminate
genders for getting to touch Rick when it should be him, dammit.
It's only then that Morty realizes he has pulled himself up onto his knees, and
is seething at a phone screen, bare-assed. Raging jealousy quickly gives way to
quiet humiliation and a pounding headache. Another fucking episode. He's
exhausted with himself.
Avoiding eye-contact with the screen, he forces himself to remove his
headphones and grabs his underwear and jeans. He's so far past the mood to jerk
off anymore but he needs to do something to alleviate this possessive black
hole. He pulls his underwear and jeans on woodenly and picks up his phone,
purposely ignoring Rick moving around on the screen. He obstinately opens up
text. His first instinct is to talk to his mom, but what would he even say to
her? That he can't handle watching concert recordings without losing his shit?
That this isn't the first time he's gotten possessive over some obscure 80's
band? That he has episodes where he'd gladly kill someone for even looking at
Rick?
He's always been intensely private about this aspect of his life. He's not even
sure his mom likes music enough to relate to him. What if she dismisses him?
What if she sends him to some sort of asylum? Sure, he deserves to be in one
but still. And doesn't she have a relative who used to be a band member? What
if she tells them? As much as he loves his mom, she's a bit loose-lipped when
she gets to drinking.
Is it even worth talking about?
After some consideration, he shoots a text over to Summer. She had a fling with
a drummer once. That hadn't ended well, and she'd blown up his car. She'd be a
hypocrite not to understand.
Or she might use this as fuel for humiliation and torture, he belated realizes
just as she's responding. But by then, it's too late. Her curiosity is piqued.
Once that happens, she's like a hound with a scent; there's not shaking her off
until she knows everything. Or at least that's the excuse he gives himself as
he shakily spills his heart out to her.
As he waits for her text, curiosity gets the better of him-- or maybe
masochism-- and he flips back to the video. Rick looks up then, almost likes
he's been waiting for Morty; the camera still zoomed in on his face. It's
probably Morty's imagination but Rick's pupils look shot to hell, all blown
wide and manic.
“Shit, baby,” Rick says. He sounds breathlessly. “You-- you're really making
this tough, y'know that? Look, I'm straight-up trippin' balls right now and y-
y-you obviously aren't getting it. I shoulda figured you for a stubborn, stupid
little--”
Morty's heart clenches and he's reaching for the power button when Rick
suddenly chokes out a loud,
“MO--WAIT!”
It shocks Morty enough to still his hand, flinching a little at the odd
coincidence. He watches Rick pace the stage, the man nearly jumping out of his
own skin in obvious frustration. “I had to do a lot of weird shit just to get
this to you, so quit being pig-headed and listen. I-I've only got a few
minutes.”
Morty stares, dumbfounded; a tiny nagging suspicion starting to itch at him. It
creeps into his thoughts as the guitarist glares pointedly at the camera.
“Listen,” Rick pleads. Morty's not even paying attention to the audience at
this point; he's too caught up in the barely disguised desperation lacing the
guitarist's words. “I--Imma be old as dirt by the time we meet but you better
not fool around before I get there, kid.” He shoves a hand through his hair
again, his hand trembling slightly. “Don't be an impatient little shit, o-okay?
If I have to wait thirty years for y-you and fuck some blonde ali--chick just
to touchyou then you aren't allowed to-- to have a goddamn age preference.”
Morty's heart is hammering at this point, his head fuzzy and confused. Rick
sounds choked up. The guitarist turns his back to him then, pulling something
metallic from his back pocket. He brings it around to his front and tips his
head back, chugging the contents of what's now obviously a flask. When he's
done, he tosses the flask behind him, into the crowd. A few people wrestle for
it before a man emerges victorious, brandishing the flask like a trophy of war.
“Enough of this pussy shit.” Rick growls. “Squanch, hit me with a beat.”
Morty is starting to have a weird inkling of a thought. He doesn't quite
understand it but...
The cat chimes in with a slow, moody tempo. Bird-person kicks a stool over to
Rick and he hooks it with a scuffed combat boot, turning around and dragging it
under him in a well-practiced move. He sits down, legs spread obscenely wide,
and positions his guitar on his lap. He strums out a few experimental chords
before deciding on a rough, lilting melody. Morty's chest aches. He doesn't
know how but he knows this tune. He knows The Flesh Curtains haven't played it
before because he's managed to get his hand on every one of their albums. No,
this is something deeper; it's like his-- his spirit or something can recognize
the notes as Rick strums them on his guitar.
Rick begins to hum, his voice a soothing rasp that Morty wants to envelope
himself in. Rick doesn't usually sing, preferring the guitar to anything else;
Bird-person is the main vocalist. The few times Morty's heard Rick have been as
either part of the chorus or as a rough tenor accompaniment to Bird-person's
smoother bass-centric voice. So when he opens his mouth, Morty doesn't know
what to expect.
“Get the goddamn hint,” Rick sings, his singing voice sex-rough and drawling.
Morty's blood is like ice in his veins at this point and he just knows. He can
just feel the realization clicking into place in his chest, and suddenly, he
can't fucking breathe. The walls are closing in and he's going to faint and the
world won't stop spinning and—god, he can't--
Rick looks up, brown eyes locked on on the camera. He seems more clear-headed
now. His eyes are heavy-lidded and earnest; his face serious. Morty rubs the
goosebumps on his arm. Rick licks his lips and Morty touches the screen,
running a finger down the screen, captivated. Rick stops playing and mirrors
his movement, reaching up to caress the lens over his eye as his gaze locks
onto the camera. Morty's breath hitches. He's caught up in the moment, his
mouth dry and his heart thundering in his ears as Rick leans in close to the
microphone.
“You're mine, Morty.”
The video goes black.

End Notes
     Title is from the song, “Come Pick Me Up” by Ryan Adams. That song is
     pretty much my headcannon for what young Rick’s singing voice sounds
     like.
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