Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7689937.
  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:
      Child_Abuse, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, sort_of_fluff_but
      like_manipulative_fluff?, rick_is_nice_when_it_suits_him, Incest, Shower
      Sex, Dom/sub_Undertones, Violence, Trauma
  Series:
      Part 8 of RickMorty_Trash_Pile
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-06 Words: 2854
****** Sugarbread and Whip ******
by trash_freak
Summary
     Morty is pushed too hard. Rick takes care of him.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
It’s breathtakingly beautiful here, a landscape made of diamonds, twinkling and
shimmering in the slowly rising sunlight. Morty lets out a long, impressed
breath, eyes watery with exhaustion and emotion.
They’re sat on a sparkling mountain, side by side, the rock cold and hard and
vast, the reflected light dancing unlike anything Morty has ever seen.
“It’s beautiful, Rick,” Morty whispers, like talking too loud will startle the
rocks and ruin the scene. Worth getting up so early for, a thousand times over.
Rick puts his hand to Morty’s shoulder and pulls him in, lets him lean against
Rick’s side, and Morty melts into him, comfortable and at peace. Rick’s hand
runs up and down Morty’s arm as they sit and watch the light refract.
It isn’t until Rick chips away one of the diamonds and gifts it to Morty that
the natives emerge from the mountainside, and then Rick and Morty are running,
and running, and laughing as they’re enveloped by the green glow of a portal.
-
“You think I give wuuuh-one shit w-what you think, Morty?” Rick spits over his
shoulder as he desperately punches at buttons labelled in a strange, alien
language.
They’re trapped, the ship huge, big as a city, the whole structure shuddering
and quaking violently, and Rick’s probably as scared as Morty is, but Morty’s
hurt nonetheless.
Maybe, Morty thinks, one day Rick’s words will mean nothing to him.
Morty stands a few feet behind Rick, afraid and dithering seconds before, now
upset and angry and stock still.
“Of course not, Rick,” Morty says with an eerie tone of calm. “Ricks never care
about Mortys.”
Rick's shoulders bunch up, and the fleeting glance he throws at Morty looks
troubled, but it lasts less than a second before he’s back to cussing at the
console beneath his fingers.
“What the fuck ever, Morty, you dumb- fuck, yes, I’m a genius! Hurry up, let’s
go.”
-
Rick smiles over his coffee at Morty at the breakfast table.
“I’ve thought of somewhere I know you’ll love, Morty,” he says, eyes sparkling
with excitement. “Can’t wait to show you, it’s, it-it’ll be fun, Morty.”
Morty grins at Rick, and his chest feels full with how happy Rick looks, how
relaxed and content he is in that moment, looking at Morty like he could love
him.
“I-I can’t wait either, Rick.”
-
Morty’s bleeding. His t-shirt is soaked red, trickling off onto the floor with
an audible ‘drip drip’.
Morty can hear a sound he thinks might be him; a squealing, like a rabbit being
eaten alive.
“Chruuuh-ist, Morty, will yoouuurgh-ou relax, geez,” Rick is mumbling beside
him as he rummages through boxes and drawers, looking for what they came for.
“I’ll patch you up, you’ll be, you’ll be fine, Morty, it takes, uuurp, takes a
while to bleed out from the gut like that.”
Morty tries to press down on the wound but it hurts too much and the blood just
keeps seeping out between his fingers.
Morty blacks out.
When he wakes, his head is cushioned on Rick’s lap, Rick’s thumb massaging lazy
circles at the back of Morty’s neck, the TV flickering but quiet. His stomach
aches, but not much, and Morty thinks Rick must’ve used some magic alien
medicine on him again or something.
-
Morty’s wrists are bruised, the bump of vertebrae at the top of his spine
bitten swollen, his hips marred by the edge of Rick’s desk.
Morty feels emptied out and full up, dull throb of an ache, hopelessly lost.
Drifting weightless into the stars with a stomach full of broken stones.
Morty feels like he’s fading.
-
Morty feels like he’s king of the fucking universe.
There are five reptilian bodies strewn about the cavern, only one left standing
upright amongst them with shaking hands and blank eyes.
“Drop your weapon, you slimy fuck breath motherfucker!” Morty screams, panting
hard and vicious, hands steady on Rick’s gun, Rick’s unconscious body heavy at
his feet. “Now, shitbrain!”
The alien blinks with a quiet ‘shwip’.
It drops its gun.
Morty shoots anyway.
-
“You ever wonder, Rick, y-you ever think maybe all this is, is… you ever think
we’re the bad guys?”
Morty’s voice is a little slurred where his cheek is pressed against Rick’s
chest. Rick’s fingers are sharp and gentle against Morty’s scalp, making his
eyelids heavy.
“The-ere’s no such thing as- urrrgh- good guys and bad guys, Morty.” Rick’s
voice is a soothing rumble against Morty’s ear, and Morty is pulled into
unconsciousness by the whooshing of air rattling in and out of Rick’s lungs.
---
“You okay, Morty?”
Morty is pulled harshly from his thoughts where he's sitting slumped into the
couch, remote resting in his limp hand.
Summer frowns down at him, arms crossed.
“You look like shit.”
“Gee- geez, Summer, thanks- thanks a lot,” Morty slurs, rubbing clumsily at his
eyes.
“You sick?” Summer asks, and, yeah, Morty feels sick. He feels worn down. He
feels like sand.
“Think so,” Morty mumbles, letting his head sag back and the remote fall.
Summer sits beside him, phone in hand but screen dark, and Morty feels kind of
touched. He smiles shakily at her in appreciation.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go out with grandpa Rick for a bit,” Summer finally says.
Morty thinks she’s trying to sound casual but it comes out sounding worried.
“Yeah,” Morty agrees, though he knows it isn’t really up to him.
“Morty,” Summer says, looking over at Morty as serious as a funeral. “You
really should make friends your own age.”
Morty feels all kinds of ways at that. Indignant at his sister trying to tell
him how to live his life. Frustrated, because that’s so much easier said than
done. Paranoid that Summer knows more than she’s letting on.
“Yeah,” Morty says again, too tired to think of any other response. He turns
back to the TV and waits for Summer to leave before he lets out the long breath
he’s been holding.
Morty’s eyes burn.
-
“Morty, you lo-uuurgh-ook disgusting,” Rick says, later. “You catch space flu
or something, dawg?”
Morty shrugs. He hasn’t moved from the couch in hours, exhausted but unable to
sleep.
Rick comes to kneel between Morty’s sprawled legs, touches Morty’s face, wipes
the sweat from Morty’s forehead and takes Morty’s chin in his hand. Rick is a
blur to Morty, a vague shape of annoyed concern.
“You need a shower,” Rick says, revulsion heavy in his tone. He stands,
towering over Morty. “Come on,” Rick says, taking Morty’s thin wrist and
pulling him from the couch, making Morty’s head spin from the sudden elevation.
The toilet seat is cold against Morty’s ass, even through his jeans. Rick locks
the door behind them, the clunk of it like a full stop. Morty is shaking, weak
and tired, looking down at the blurring outline of his limp hands lying
helpless in his lap.
Rick turns the shower on, leaves the water to heat up, and comes to crouch
again in front of Morty with a grunt of effort. He puts his hands on Morty’s
denim clad thighs, lets them slide up to Morty’s hips, up under Morty’s sweat-
damp shirt, and Morty’s too tired to worry where this is going.
Morty’s t-shirt is pulled up and off, and he’s a little surprised when Rick
stops to smooth Morty’s messy curls away from his forehead. The room is slowly
fogging up, and Rick shucks his lab coat off, not taking his eyes from Morty;
lets the off-white coat fall forgotten to the floor beside Morty’s shirt.
“We’ll get you cleaned up, MoOurghty, get some- urrp- some food in you, look
like you’re wasting away, look at you,” Rick says, fingers tracing each line of
Morty’s ribs before wandering down to poke his thumbs in the dips of Morty’s
hipbones. “I’ll look after you, baby.”
Everything in Morty seems to ease up, go loose and content, at Rick’s gentle
touch, Rick’s caring words.
“Th-thank you, Rick,” Morty breathes out, touching his fingers to Rick’s shirt,
wanting to pull him closer, wanting something to cling to, but Rick slips from
his reach as he stands and pulls his shirt out from under his belt, slips it
off and throws it down to join the growing pile of their clothes.
“Come on, up you get,” Rick mutters, hands under Morty’s sweat-slick armpits to
tug him to his feet and lean him up against the wall. Morty’s dick half-
heartedly stirs as Rick’s fingers slip under the waistband of Morty’s jeans to
flick open the button. Morty’s too tired to hold back the pleased little noise
his throat makes.
“You like being looked after, baby?” Rick asks as he pulls Morty’s jeans down
slow, lowers himself down to a crouch as he works to help guide Morty’s feet
from the denim. Morty nods, sleepy and at ease. The elastic of his underwear
brushes down his half-hard cock in a way that seems deliberate but he can’t
focus his eyes anymore to see Rick’s expression.
He’s being walked backwards, told, “Lift your feet, Morty, in you go,” and then
the water envelops him in cleansing warmth and he sighs.
Rick follows a moment later, as naked as Morty is, lets Morty lean against him
for support. Morty laps at the water gathering in Rick’s collarbone, and Rick
hums, pets down Morty’s back.
The water sends shivers through Morty’s body, little wet caresses sliding down
his feverish skin making Morty sigh happily. Rick scrubs soap through Morty’s
hair instead of shampoo like the old man he is, and it makes Morty smile
sleepily against Rick’s chest.
Morty is almost too relaxed to stand, trying to cling around Rick’s neck with
arms too heavy, wobbling, and panting, at the effort he’s exerting, and the
close proximity of Rick, his soft, comforting touches making Morty’s belly
flutter.
Rick’s fingers trace along all of Morty’s scrapes and scars, some fresh, some
old, all of them there because of Rick. Little raised lines on Morty’s arm, and
the crescent shape of teeth marks on Morty’s calf, and the thickly ruined flesh
across Morty’s belly, months old by now.
“Such a-uh strong boy,” Rick says throatily, kissing at Morty’s soapy skin.
“D-don’t feel all th-that strong right now,” Morty mumbles, stroking clumsy
fingers at the back of Rick’s hairline, sighing at Rick’s slippy hands touching
him, under his arms, down his back, petting lightly between his ass cheeks and
around his balls.
Morty almost slips on the suds as he tries to widen his stance, but Rick
catches him easily, and the slight lurch sets Morty’s heart racing, makes him
feel desperate for it all of a sudden, struggling to breathe through the steam.
He grinds up against Rick weakly, and Rick chuckles, gently mocking.
“Don’t wanna, don't wanna over-exert you when you’re not well, Morty,” Rick
says, but he doesn’t mean it, his finger flicking back and forth against
Morty’s hole, quick and light. “Don’t think you’ve got the energy, babe, baby
boy.”
Morty whines, feeling petulant and irritable, and puts as much effort as he can
into rolling his cock against Rick’s, the slow, firm drag of wet skin making
Rick grunt.
“Alright, burgh-baby, don’t over-do it, take it easy,” Rick says, biting oh so
carefully at Morty’s earlobe, running his hands restlessly across Morty’s body
like he can’t touch enough. “Let your- let your granddaddy take care of you.”
Rick wraps one firm arm around under Morty’s arms, keeping him steady, and
lines their dicks up, lets their heads catch and rub against each other with
practiced perfection. It takes the edge off, makes Morty moan high and breathy
when Rick takes them both in hand, but Morty’s too out of it, on the brink of
unconsciousness, too weak to come.
Rick is panting against Morty’s cheek, the water beating down on Morty’s
shoulders and gliding down his back, and Morty is stuck, teetering on the edge
of bliss, unable to take that final step. Tears spill hot from his itching
eyes, and he clutches at Rick’s wet hair, trembling.
Rick’s hand slows, a maddeningly perfect sensation of pure pleasure, making
Morty’s breath shallow, feeling at the peak of a rollercoaster, suspended in
anticipation.
And then it stops and Morty cries out too loud in frustration.
“Shh, baby, relax,” Rick groans deep in his chest, breathing just as hard as
Morty in the cramped shower stall, hands grabbing hard at Morty’s ass and
pulling him close for Rick to rut absently against. “Trust me. You trust me,
Morty?”
“Yes,” Morty says without hesitation, frantic and willing to say anything. “I-
I-I trust you, I trust you, Rick, please.”
“Sh-sh-sh, won’t have to wait long, be pa-atient, Morty.”
When Rick turns the water off the silence is deafening, the chill in the air
instantaneous and making Morty quiver, making him press up against Rick in
search of warmth.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Rick says, his voice vibrating through him like the
growl of a hungry predator.
He bundles Morty up in two towels, one at his waist and one around his
shoulders, and guides Morty to sit back on the toilet seat. When he kneels back
down to tenderly dry Morty’s feet, Morty’s heart clenches sudden and unexpected
in his chest, makes him gasp at the rough loops of fabric dragging and catching
at the sensitive underside of his soles. Rick looks up at the sound, and
through the haze of illness Morty thinks, distinctly, that Rick looks ready to
consume everything Morty is.
When Rick stands he squeezes his own straining erection for a second before
throwing his clothes back on, not bothering to dry himself, and then turns on
the sink tap.
“What are you-?” Morty asks, cut off in puzzlement as Rick splashes water all
down his front.
“Gotta- gotta make it look like I- like I kept my clothes on, Morty,” Rick
explains, scooping Morty up and guiding him out of the room. "Gotta at least
try to- to pretend grandpa can keep it in his fucking pants."
Sure enough, as Rick predicted, they run into Jerry on the way to Morty’s room.
“Jesus, Morty, are you okay?” Jerry asks, concerned, hopefully not looking
Morty up and down as carefully as he seems to be to Morty’s paranoid mind. “You
look…” Morty is going to die, he’s going to actually die right now from
embarrassment alone. “Well, not good. Sounded like you’d hurt yourself in
there.”
Morty is glad he was already so flushed as wave after heavy wave of humiliation
cascades into him. He wants to hide his face in Rick’s damp shoulder.
“What the fuck does it look like, Jerry,” Rick says, cutting and scornful. “I
ju-uurghust had to help the poor kid fucking shower, how do you think he is?
Little bastard soaked me.”
Thank god for Rick, Morty thinks as Jerry makes an excuse to scarper from
Rick’s angry glare.
And finally, finally, they’re safely in Morty’s room, sinking into Morty’s
sheets, and Rick sets about keeping his promise, kissing down Morty’s skinny
little body to lick at his still-erect dick, not put off in the slightest by
Jerry’s interruption or Rick’s wet clothes. Morty thrusts up, tactless and
lethargic, grips weakly at his sheets, feeling like the mattress is made of
marshmallow, feeling like his bones are made of lead.
Rick swallows Morty’s cock, pets up and down Morty’s thighs, scratches through
Morty’s pubes, runs ticklish fingers up Morty’s belly to Morty’s hard nipples,
and Morty finally, deliriously, comes apart, slipping into unconsciousness
almost immediately.
He’s woken by Rick shaking him roughly by the shoulder, Rick’s irritated voice,
“Morty, wake up. Hey. Wuh-ake up you lazy little fucker.”
Morty makes a noise that was meant to be ‘what’ but sounds more like , “Whuur?”
His throat hurts, and his mouth tastes like come, and he tries not to think
about it.
Rick snorts, amused.
“Sit up, Morty, come on,” Rick says, redundant as he pulls Morty up the bed and
props him against the headboard. “Here, drink. Drink up.” He presses a mug of
soup to Morty’s mouth, and Morty’s too tired to be hungry but he swallows
obediently anyway. “Good boy, just a little more a-and then you can sleep.”
Morty gets about half of it down before he pushes Rick away, feeling queasy.
Rick swaps the mug for a glass of water, holds Morty’s jaw the same way he does
when Morty blows him, and again Morty drinks it down unthinkingly.
“Good boy,” Rick praises warm and soft, filling Morty up with it. “Alright,
baby, you can go ahead- you can rest now. Lie down.”
It’s like Morty’s body isn’t his own as he follows Rick’s instructions, relaxes
back, half expects Rick to follow and press down into him, but he doesn’t, just
pets Morty’s hair briefly and then leaves him to sleep.
Morty slips easily back into unconsciousness, warm with fever and the slightest
pulse of arousal, full of soup and the feeling of safety, content.
End Notes
     i wasn't even planning any smut in this one but these guys are such
     horny little bastards they went and did it anyway.
     i've been poorly the past couple of days, and yesterday i felt so
     tired the room was actually wobbling. apparently that means i had to
     make lil' mort mort sick as well, sorry little guy!
     this was gonna be just little snippets of the swings and roundabouts
     of rick and morty's relationship, but ended up falling into actual
     fic at the end there, so, you know, mort mort is sick because stress
     and emotional whiplash is bad for you!
     got the title and the general idea from GnaCat's lovely wonderful
     comments - many thank, doll!
     thanks for reading, guys and pals. i hope this makes some kind of
     sense ^_^
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