Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12950088.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Morty_Smith
  Character:
      Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty), Morty_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Sexual_Relationship, Incest, Dom/sub, Risk_Aware_Consensual
      Kink, Sadist_Rick, Masochist_Morty, Light_Bondage, Wax_Play, Knifeplay,
      Edgeplay, Dacryphilia, Bloodplay, Biting, Daddy_Kink, Slight_Subdrop,
      Aftercare, Porn_With_Plot, Eventual_Happy_Ending, Smoking, Choking,
      Switch_Rick
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-20 Updated: 2018-03-30 Chapters: 2/15 Words: 36359
****** The Masochism Tango ******
by KLaxAddict, The-Clairvoyant-Rick_(MajixTrixx)
Summary
     Rick and Morty have been having sex, great sex, for a few months now.
     It’s fun, easy, and a good way to relieve stress as well as help
     Morty build up some confidence.
     But one night a previously unexplored side of their compatibility
     comes barreling into the light, and they’re left to struggle with the
     fallout and what it might mean for their relationship.
Notes
     Here we are lovely sinners! The day has finally arrived (a few hours
     later than we actually said it'd be) but we're finally introducing
     our baby to the world! It's been a journey, certainly. One that's not
     even close to being finished. We've got so much more in store for you
     and we can't wait to see how the first leg of our journey is
     received! Anyone that's ever said sexual frustration isn't a hell of
     a motivator can eat their own words while they indulge in this tasty
     treat(;
     Big thanks to LadyNyoko, Left-Handed-Rick and Squikkums for editing
     our first chapter! The beta process wouldn't have gonna nearly as
     well without the three of you.
     So, without further ado, we proudly present, The Masochism Tango!
     Xoxo, Clair & KLax
***** The Deep End *****
Nervousness radiates from every inch of Morty's body as he approaches the door
to Rick's bedroom with painstaking slowness. He shouldn't be nearly as anxious
as he is, shouldn't be feeling like his heart is going a million miles an hour
inside his chest, but Morty can’t help it.
Up until this point, he's never approached Rick sexually.
In the entirety of their weird, unspoken relationship, Rick has always been the
one to come to him first. Rick is always the one that offers him a choice,
always the one who notices how jumpy and horny he is, always the one who
decides to do something about it. Never the other way around.
Which usually isn’t an issue.
Morty likes not having to lead. There’s something freeing about letting Rick
take over so he doesn’t have to get all sorts of worked up. And normally, with
the active and exploratory sex life they share, he never has to wait very long
for Rick to make a move. Usually all it takes is a little subtle squirming and
some longing glances with those big, green puppy dog eyes that always seem to
draw Rick's attention to him but now... Now Rick is just being stubborn.
They haven't fucked around since he got his ass paddled on Helion Prime until
he was crying and begging to come in Rick's hand. That’d been nearly two weeks
ago. He's dropped plenty of hints since then, some of them more akin to what he
was used to and some of them new and a little beyond his comfort zone, but Rick
hasn't responded to either and Morty is starting to get desperate for the older
man's touch.
Morty gulps as he finally reaches the door. It feels intimidating from where
he’s standing, large and imposing, obviously shut against the rest of the
house. Morty's dick is more than insistent though, so without letting himself
think about it, the teen finds himself reaching out to let himself in. Heart
inside his throat, beating away and making it harder than ever for him to
swallow or even breathe, Morty takes a couple steps forward and shuts the door
behind him before immediately starting to wring his hands together.
"H-hey, uh, Rick? Are you, umm, are you busy?"
Rick is lying on his back on the cot in his room, playing idly with a busted
matter converter. He's not busy really, if anything he's bored out of his
skull. He's been avoiding the garage, the living room, pretty much anywhere it
would be easy for Morty to corner him and stutter out his sledgehammer-subtle
flirtations.
He turns the converter in his hands, pretending to frown at the casing while
sneaking a glance at his watch. Eleven days and just under seventeen hours
until Morty finally grew the balls to confront him on his own turf. Not bad,
considering he'd warned the teen against touching himself after the last time
he'd walked in on Morty with half his own fist up his ass, moaning Rick's name.
Accept no substitutions.
Now, if the little shit could just work up the nerve to ask for what he wants
in the right way, they'll be in business. It's about damn time too. Rick’s
passed up two fucking adventures that would have made him a bundle of cash this
week, all because Morty can't get his head together enough to ask for what he
needs.
Not looking up from the useless trinket in his hands, he snaps at the figure in
the doorway.
“I'm always busy, Morty. Wh-Who do you think I am, your fucking dad?”
The teen winces, but it's not from Rick's harsh tone or the easy jab at Jerry.
Rick can clearly see the tightening in his pants and see the hitch in his
breath, and knows it's from the memory he's deliberately alluding to.
Morty's face is buried in his arms, his fists close to tearing holes in the
sheets beneath him. Rick has been teasing him for the better part of an hour,
his fingers slowly rubbing careful circles in his ass, meticulously avoiding
pressure on the one spot that will make Morty scream with relief.
His voice is muffled as it shakes its way from his throat.
“F-fuck me, Rick. Please!”
“Uh-uh, babe. You know what I want to hear. C-come on, you agreed.” Rick gently
strokes a single finger, feather light, across his prostate, and Morty breaks.
“Fuck! Fuck me Daddy, Daddy, please, I -- I need it, I n-need your cock, please
Daddy I can't t-take it-”
Rick hides a smirk as he drops the converter on the cot and swings to his feet,
stretching nonchalantly. Morty's blushing, but it's a good reminder of what he
can get from Rick when he asks for things nicely.
“Well Morty, what do you want?”
All forms of thought quickly start to abandon Morty's brain in favor of
following his blood down south as  he watches Rick stand from his bed. The
brunet was already somewhat aroused just from being in Rick's room and all the
memories associated with that, but it gets so much worse when he’s suddenly
faced with the impressively full height of Rick's towering presence. Morty
doesn’t know how Rick manages to do it. The older man isn’t even doing anything
and he still manages to look large and in-charge despite being skinny as a rail
and well on his way to intoxicated.
Awkwardness flows through Morty like a river as Rick looms over him, clearly
waiting for an answer, but the words won’t come. He’s too nervous, unsure of
what to say, and even though he's practiced it no less than ten times back up
in his room, Morty can tell that Rick is getting impatient and that makes it so
much harder to get a grip.
Eventually though, after watching Rick's brow furrow and his snickering grin
morph into an annoyed semi-frown, Morty makes a genuine effort to find his own
spine and speak up.
"Well I uhh, I just wanted t-to, umm.."
The teen momentarily trails off, mentally flogging himself for his inability
say what’s actually on his mind, but, when he glances up and catches sight of a
well disguised glint of patience in Rick's eyes, he finally finds his voice
once more.
"It's just, we haven't..." Morty makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand,
"Y'know, done anything or gone adventuring for a while a-a-and I was wondering
if maybe you wanted to umm, y'know, maybe do something. Together."
Morty’s blush darkens a few shades and he forces himself to glance bashfully at
Rick through the dark fan of his lashes, hoping his sadist of a grandfather
won’t make him spell it out.
Rick hesitates a second or two, enjoying Morty's obvious discomfort. He could
make the little shit spell it out for him, but this game is wearing on his
patience already. Pushing is good, pushing is necessary, but he has to give a
little once in awhile. There will be time in the future to make Morty
articulate exactly what he wants with excruciating clarity.
Plastering a bright, shiny grin over his face, Rick is suddenly all cheer and
good humor without a trace of the dark mood he'd been projecting a moment ago.
“Well sure, Morty. All you had to do was ask!”
He turns around and starts to dig for a box under the cot, chattering the whole
time.
“There's a rock festival on Blarfacks-9 that's the fucking tops! It's been
going non-stop for 47 years, we eve- your grandpa even played it a ways back.
And they gave me… this!”
Triumphantly standing, he brandishes a dusty VIP pass and hits the button on
its front. A hologram pops up and hovers above it, showing a massive circus
tent surrounded by a tiny, undulating crowd.
“Y-you heard of glamping, Morty? Well that's some bourgie bullshit compared to
this. VIP all-access, all the best liquor and drugs you can handle, the hottest
babes in seven star systems, and a motherfucking chocolate fountain! Hey-o!”
If Morty seems thrown by Rick’s sudden 180 he doesn’t exactly show it, still
caught up in his grandfather's obvious enthusiasm. Rick lets the pass dangle
casually from his fingers as the teen steps forward and reaches for it,
grinning. No sooner than Morty’s fingers have made contact, Rick's fingers
suddenly wrap around his wrist like the vines of a carnivorous plant, his voice
low and urgent.
“Or, if you prefer, I could tie you to my cot and set every nerve in your skin
on fire until you forget your own name.” Rick's eyes are predatory with lust,
and Morty imagines he can see a hint of teeth in the smile that had been so
open and inviting only a moment ago.
“Is that more what you had in mind, Morty?”
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the hand releases, leaving Morty reeling for
balance on his own two feet.
Rick's hands slide into the pockets of his lab coat, the picture of ease.
“Your choice.”
There it is. His choice.
Morty's breathing speeds up, his pupils blowing wide with arousal.
There were so few times in his life where Morty was genuinely offered control
of a situation. Rick calls the shots. Rick decides where they go and what they
do. Even when his world doesn’t revolve around Rick, the anxiety that's plagued
Morty for most of his existence keeps him from doing what he really wants in
his "everyday" life. But here... Here he’s free to choose whatever he wants.
That alone has Morty's eyelids falling half mast.
The rock festival sounds like a dream come true. Though Morty isn’t much of a
drinker by any means, he can’t possibly deny the temptation of good music and
hot alien babes. Not to mention the fact that, wherever Rick goes, excitement
inevitably follows. He’d be a fool to pass up a VIP all-access pass to a rock
concert that was still going strong after 47 years.
But Morty already knows what he'll choose.
Even though he’s calling himself a fucking idiot for even entertaining the idea
of passing up an adventure that doesn't involve killing, stealing, or running
for his life, he knows he’ll pass on it and take Rick's second option.
Morty just can’t help himself.
He can't stop being drawn to the rough promise of pleasure in Rick's voice any
more than a passing comet can stop itself from being burned up in the grasp of
a far reaching solar flare. He can’t stop the way that hint of the unknown
twists up his insides, making him feel like he no longer fits inside his own
skin. He can’t stop the way his focus shifts to the sudden twinge in his groin
and the heat in his cheeks and all Morty can think about is want.
Taking an unconscious step toward Rick, who somehow manages to look so goddamn
cool and collected, Morty's lips part in a shaky exhale. The potential
enjoyment of a non-stop party with drugs, alcohol, and alien jams doesn’t hold
a candle to the blinding heat of Rick's undivided attention. Nothing does.
There’s nothing in the entire multiverse that compares to the way it makes
Morty feel to have Rick's focus on him, looking at him like an overly
interesting project, like he’s worth more than his brainwaves, and Morty finds
himself more hopelessly addicted to that desire than ever.
Especially when it’s right in front of him for the taking.
All he has to do is reach out and take it.
Morty takes another step forward and reaches out to grab the lapel of Rick's
lab coat. The material alone sends a shiver down the boy’s spine and, when he
looks up at Rick, taking in the utter lack of surprise on his grandpa's
features when he reaches for the man rather than the pass, a new level of heat
floods through Morty's frame.
"Th-the second one." He whispers, his tone somewhat choked and laced with more
embarrassment than he would've liked.
God, he feels awkward. He feels like he should say something else, but what was
he supposed to say?
Ravage me, Rick. Fuck my brains out like you hate me. Do whatever you want to
me, just look at me like I'm worth something.
Morty barely manages to conceal the way he cringes internally at his own
thoughts and the clingy, shameful nature of them. He doesn’t even try to
imagine the way Rick might react if he caught wind of his need to be
acknowledged. Though, knowing Rick, the man probably already knew.
He forcibly shoves those thoughts away, sinking back into the present.
"I want you to -- to fuck me, Rick." He says instead, his cheeks heating up
even more. "W-whatever you want."
Gazing down at the boy hanging off his front, Rick raises a hand towards his
chest. Morty nearly jumps out of his skin as it passes him, but he makes no
attempt to hide the blatant disappointment on his face when it reaches past him
towards Rick's flask.
Rick keeps his face noncommittal as he takes a deep swig, staring deeply at
Morty's face, the teen’s eyes averting to avoid the intense scrutiny.
“Whatever I want.” Rick repeats flatly, returning the flask to its resting
place.
That would almost be a tempting offer if Morty's embarrassment and inability to
articulate anything but the bare minimum of what he’s supposedly asking for
didn’t prove that he doesn’t know what the hell he's actually offering. It's
fucking dangerous, really. Somebody might take him up on it one day. But more
importantly, it’s also not the point of this little exercise.
“N-nice try, Morty.”
The look of fear and desperation that flashes across Morty's face is sickly
gratifying, but Rick stifles it quickly. No need to send the kid into a panic
attack over a minor misunderstanding. Running a hand through Morty's hair, he
leans down and speaks in a low, soothing tone into his ear, “That's not what
this is about, you know that.”
Relaxing Morty's death grip on his coat, Rick continues to pet him and gentle
him like a nervous horse. “I -- I want a hangover cure that works on Viklexian
Gin.”
“I want Jerry to stop using the word 'hashtag' in sentences.” Morty snorts
slightly at that, torn between leaning into the hand Rick has on his head or
pressing against the one wrapped lightly around his hip. Rick helps him choose,
rubbing small circles into the boy's hipbone and smirking slightly at the tiny
moan Morty stifles at the sensation.
“I want a method of time travel that's not more of a pain in the ass than it's
worth.”
Smiling now, he drops his hand from Morty's hair to tip his chin up towards
him, finally seeing that too-open, adoring gaze full on.
Which is when he hooks Morty's ankle and presses down on his hip, easily
tripping the teen and sending him flailing backwards onto the cot. Before he
can regain his composure, Rick is towering over him, caging awkwardly sprawling
limbs with menacing intent and hot breath.
“This has always been about what you want, Morty.” Rick nips at the the teen's
neck, taking the ensuing yelp as confirmation he has his full attention. “And
if you want to get railed on a stained old camping cot by your Grandpa Rick
instead of partying with supermodels, I'm happy to oblige you.”
With that, he strips Morty with brutal efficiency. Rick’s hands and breath
leave trails of heat and pressure everywhere they can, but he avoids touching
bare skin other than where absolutely necessary.
Once the boy is naked, he crosses Morty's arms at the wrist and holds them
above his head with one hand. Pulling a pair of zip-ties from his coat, he
wraps one around Morty's wrists and leans down to tighten it with his teeth.
“You know how these work, Morty. Struggling just makes them tighter, and I'm
not taking them off until we're done, s-so keep the thrashing to a minimum.”
The other zip-tie wraps around the aluminum frame of the cot itself and hooks
into the one binding Morty's wrists. The resulting view is something else.
Morty's arms are stretched above him, but there’s enough give to flip him any
way Rick might decide he wants. He's still short enough his feet don't reach
the bottom of the cot, though he's currently got his knees tucked up to his
navel in a manner that's probably meant to hide his erection and preserve some
fading sense of modesty, but the position just serves to make him look small
and defenseless.
Pleased with his work, Rick pulls two short, fat cylinders from the pocket of
his coat and holds them up for Morty's approval. One is pure white and the
other a pale gold. It takes a moment for Morty's brain to catch up and identify
them as candles.
“As a little reminder that this is about what you ask for, I will fuck that
tight little ass of yours, but you're not gonna get to come until I've melted
both of these allover you.”
Rick takes a piece of orange paper from the depths of his coat and snaps his
fingers against it, instantly igniting it into a bright green flame. He sets
fire to the wicks and places the candles on the table above Morty's head, just
out of sight.
“So Morty, we've got a few minutes before those burn down enough to get
started. You wanna try some of those 'I Want' statements again?”
Morty ignores Rick's invitation to speak up for the moment, carefully testing
the zip ties around his wrists and gently tugging against their hold to figure
out his range of motion. The sturdy plastic doesn't give an inch. It just bites
into the sensitive skin around his wrists, tightening a fraction like Rick said
it would, and the sensation leaves Morty more excited than he'd initially
expected.
Turning his head to the side with a quiet moan, Morty captures his bottom lip
between his teeth and starts to worry the supple flesh. It feels uniquely good
to be trapped. Morty likes knowing that he can’t escape without either Rick's
say-so or the use of his safeword -- a precaution they established surprisingly
early on and Morty still hasn’t had the opportunity to exercise. The idea of
being so easily held to Rick's bed in particular has the steady rise and fall
of his chest picking up speed. When both candles enter his line of sight again
though, it isn’t just his breathing that’s affected.
The muscles in Morty's abdomen instinctively clench and he moans once more at
the tightness it causes in the area surrounding his groin. There’s no way that
Rick isn’t able to see how turned on and eager he is just by the mere idea of
having hot wax poured all over him, not when his dick is betraying him so
spectacularly by reaching near full hardness before he's even uttered a single
one of his desires.
Sensing that his failed attempt at preserving his modesty is even less of a
success than usual, Morty straightens his legs and lets them slide down the bed
until they’re fully extended. The partially rough material of Rick's cot
against his calves and the backs of his thighs feels surprisingly good and
Morty doesn't hesitate to shift his legs experimentally against it, trying not
to pant when the sensation just makes him that much more excited.
Morty lolls his head back towards Rick and parts his lips in a shaky exhale,
his tongue darting out to lick at them uselessly as he tries to find his voice.
He knows there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Rick has seen him in various stages
of compromise quite a few times before and what he wants from his grandpa is
nothing new, but shyness still seals his lips. It steals his voice and forces
his fantasies silent, making it that much harder for him to summon his courage
and do himself a favor by simply asking for what he wants.
The teen swallows and glances towards Rick, accidentally locking their gazes.
Rick doesn’t look especially affected but his eyes are intense, like he can see
through the brunet in front of him without even trying, and Morty quickly
breaks eye contact and glances down towards Rick's lips.
The mere sight of them, thin and pink and just dry enough to be pleasant, has
Morty's stomach clenching and he’s suddenly desperate for them to be on him.
"I want you t-t-to kiss me." Morty said, surprised by the huskiness of his own
voice. "M-m-my lips a-and my neck and my chest... I want you to -- to umm, to
bite me."
"Please, Grandpa Rick," Morty pleads, squirming a bit as the blatant reference
to their relation -- their blood relation -- makes his arousal burn a couple
degrees hotter. "Make it -- make it hurt."
Rick might have growled a little as the reluctant, but honest plea makes its
way past Morty's lips. He's not sure, but fuck that's hot. A baby masochist
after his own heart. Not that he's too surprised. It's something of a family
trait, and one he's done his fair share to cultivate in the kid. Technically
Morty broke the rules set down at the end, but he's not going to reject a
'pretty please' to hurt him on a technicality. He's supposed to be honoring the
spirit, not the letter of the law here.
At least, that's what he tells himself. The truth is, he probably couldn't
resist giving into the kid on this one. That shy request already has his cock
harder than half the conquests he's had in the last decade. Morty makes a hell
of a picture, spread out and open like a Christmas dinner just waiting to be
devoured. The teen's chest is already flushed red, and Rick can only imagine
how it'll look covered in bruises and burns from the candle wax. Morty's
already biting his lip, but it looks less like a nervous tick or an attempt at
coquetry than a deliberate simulation of what he's asked Rick to do to him. His
eyes are roving up and down Rick's frame, and while it's doing wonders for his
ego, it's not exactly where he wants Morty's attentions right now.
Snagging a rag from a toolbox, Rick moves towards his grandson's bound wrists.
From here, he can see Morty tugging lightly on the bonds. They're already a
good deal tighter than he set them to be, digging into the flesh of the the
boy’s delicate wrists. The little perv is getting off on them. Still, best not
to let him get ideas.
“I've taught you how to break a zip-tie before, remember Morty?”
Morty nods, “You -- you made me practice 'til my wrists bled.”
“Damn straight I did. You know how stupid it'd be if we got captured a-and that
was what did us in?”
There's no response expected, and Morty doesn't give one, distracted as Rick
ties the makeshift blindfold around his head, blacking out the world.
Rick's disembodied voice hovers above his left ear. “I bring it up because you
need to remember, Morty. You can get out of this at any time. You don't have to
ask, or say a word, or beg me to let you go.”
The voice moves, coming to rest just in front of Morty's face. Rick grins as
the boy's mouth falls open automatically, silently begging for a kiss.
“You're tied up like a good little slut because you want to be, Morty. And
you're not going to break free because you fucking love it.”
Rick begins dotting wet, open-mouthed kisses down the boy's jaw, loving the
unabashed sounds falling from Morty's mouth already. He lightly sinks his teeth
into the boy's jugular and relishes the small choked sound it produces.
Greedily, Rick works his way across every inch of the boy's neck and chest,
lavishing attentions on the sensitive areas and leaving behind a constellation
of purpling marks. His hands remain firmly on the cot, balancing his weight.
No touching. Morty hadn't asked for that.
The muscles in Morty's stomach are fluttering, already contracting with
anticipation, as he bites along the prominent ribs. His hips are rolling,
desperate for Rick to keep up his southern assault, but Rick pulls away and
moves back up for a bruising kiss, teeth and tongue claiming already abused
lips. Morty gives as good as he gets, but he has no leverage from this
position, and it feels like Rick's doing his best to give him a tonsillectomy
with his tongue.
Morty’s gasping when he pulls away. Rick's hardly unaffected himself, but he
keeps it out of his voice as he reaches for the white candle.
“The view doesn't hurt, but for me, tying you up is mostly so you'll squirm
less like a little bitch when I do this.”
"For when you do what, Rick?" Morty asks breathlessly, relishing the phantom
hints of pain throbbing away along his neck and torso.
The silence stretches on between them and Morty finds himself straining to
hear, trying to figure out what Rick is going to do next. He’s just as enamored
by the idea that the older man is going to swoop in any second and suddenly
ravage his mouth in a flurry of painful, biting kisses as he is by the
possibility that maybe Rick’s just tormenting him with bated suspense. Morty
doesn't know which is the more appealing of the two but the waiting felt far
more intense in combination with his inability to see. The blindfold -- though
something he and Rick have messed around with once or twice in the past -
- isn't something Morty is used to experiencing in combination with being tied
up. Not being able to see or move his arms is far more intense than either by
themselves and the fact that Rick is hovering over him but not saying or doing
anything has Morty nearly going out of his mind with anticipation.
"Rick? What are you-"
The teen's sentence is cut off by a sharp and sudden gasp of startled agony as
Rick tips the candle and a dollop of hot wax finally meets his skin.
It burns.
As such, Morty's first instinct is to get away from the stinging sensation.
He tugs fruitlessly at the bonds holding him to Rick's cot out of pure
instinct, giving a clipped cry when it does nothing but tighten the proverbial
noose around him and force unyielding plastic deeper into his skin. Morty
forces his arms to go limp above his head when his wrists throb in response,
not wanting to cut off blood flow or be forced to escape them lest he suffer
Rick's retaliation for doing so. But that doesn’t stop him from whining and
doing basically everything else in his power to deal with the foreign
sensations racing along his nerves. Morty hisses and digs his heels into the
bed, his legs absolutely restless as they shift along the thin mattress, his
muscles tense and held tight, as though the burning sensation would stop if he
just sucked them in far enough.
Fuck, though. Morty can't even claim that he isn't into it. His cock is
positively aching between his legs and, since he’s been forced into hyper-
awareness due to both the blindfold and the fact that another drop of wax could
come at any second, Morty is painstakingly aware of every single throb
emanating from his groin.
As the blissful burn finally starts to retreat, Morty finds himself longing for
its return. He wants to be caked in wax, to feel that deep seated throb of
angry skin and tortured nerve endings all over his body, and the teen displays
as much by arching his back from the bed. He presents his chest to Rick, using
his shoulders for leverage as much as he can and, when the next drop doesn't
come immediately, the budding masochist groans in desperation.
"Rick..." He whines, drawing the older man's name out against his tongue. "P-
please, Rick, I want more. It -- f-fuck it hurts. I need more of it."
Morty searches for Rick in the darkness, straining his eyes and his senses
trying to find him even though he knows it’s impossible, but Morty feels drawn
in. He feels connected to Rick and Rick alone like this and he wants to be
good. He wants to do as he’s expected and be rewarded in the process, but
mostly he wants greedy, self-serving gratification.
"I wanna feel it, R-Rick." Morty groans, tipping his head back and baring part
of his throat in an act of submission. "I wanna feel your hands a-and your
teeth and th-the -- and the wax. Please give it to me?"
Rick can tell without a shadow of a doubt that Morty's mouth is going to get
him into trouble one day if he keeps saying shit like that.
“You're squirming like a fish on a hook, Morty. Lemme help you out with that.”
Swinging his leg over the supine teen and onto the cot, Rick effectively pins
the thrashing boy's thighs together with his body weight. Morty groans lightly
at the heat and pressure, the rough fabric of Rick's pants nearly chafing his
hypersensitive skin. With a huff of amusement, Rick lets a few more drops fall
along the curve of Morty's collarbone, watching the way Morty throws his head
back against the cot as he simultaneously thrusts his chest up towards the
source.
Damn, what a pretty sight. Giving into temptation, Rick leans down and licks a
path up the mottled path of Morty's throat, digging his teeth in again just
below the boy's ear.
“That's a good boy, Morty. Grandpa'll give you what you need.”
Any response Morty might have is cut off with the sounds of pain and shock that
fall from his lips as Rick trails a line of wax up the exposed undersides of
his arms, one after the other.
As the boy catches his breath, Rick sits back on his heels, palming himself
through his pants. Fuck it, he thinks, and sighs as he unzips, pulling his cock
free of his underwear to stroke it a few times. Morty freezes beneath him,
breathing hard. Whether he heard the zipper or just intuited what Rick's doing
is debatable.
“Fuck, babe,” Rick groans, fisting his cock a little harder to put on a show
for the blind audience beneath him. “There's nothing hotter than a filthy
little slut who knows how to ask for what they want.”
Bending down, Rick teases lightly at one of Morty's nipples with his tongue,
relishing the unbroken moans and chants for more coming above him. The kid is
starting to get the idea. Rick takes the nub between his teeth and grinds it
between them, adding sharp little flicks of his tongue every so often. The cry
Morty makes rises half an octave in pitch as Rick dribbles a stream of wax onto
his chest, dripping closer and closer until it hits directly on the teen's
other nipple.
“S-Stop!”
Rick immediately relaxes his jaw and sits back, staring intently at his
grandson's face. Fuck, were those tears starting to form under the blindfold?
The boy is shaking slightly, chin thrown back towards the ceiling as he tries
to catch his breath.
Morty's cock is still taking a serious interest in the proceedings though, in
fact... Oh for fuck's sake.
Rick rolled his eyes, confident he couldn't be seen. “You can't be close to
coming yet, Morty. We-we've still got another whole candle to go before I fuck
you.”
Actually the first candle was barely half gone, but there was no need for Morty
to know that. The kid has done admirably under the circumstances so far, and
Rick's patience is quickly fraying.
Humiliation pools in the pit of Morty's belly like hot lead and he whines
pathetically beneath Rick's weight.
He can hear the condescending edge in Rick's tone, the exasperation slowly
building toward annoyance at his lack of self control, but somehow that just
makes Morty’s arousal that much worse. There’s just something about hearing
Rick speak to him that way, about hearing the superiority in Rick's voice and
knowing that his Grandpa could probably do better, that makes him want to
squirm. It doesn’t help that, as his companion, Morty can completely invision
Rick expecting better of him. It sets the teen’s nerve endings on fire more
surely than the burning wax starting to cool against his skin.
Fuck, he’s so close to coming.
But he can't help it.
Pain radiates through his body in low, throbbing waves and every single one of
them is going straight to his cock. There was so much to focus on. Not only is
there the danger factor and the certainty that he'll be in deep shit if he
comes before Rick gives him permission, but there’s also the thrill of the
unknown. Anything could happen and he couldn't anticipate any of it. He could
be met with the burn of a fresh line of wax just as easily as he could be
rewarded by the slick, soft surface of Rick's tongue or the mercilessness of
his teeth. The only weapon he has is his voice, and Morty could barely wield
it.
"Fuck, I'm s-sorry just.." Morty stutters, trailing off as he takes a deep
breath, clenching his fists and digging the sharp, crescent moon tips of his
nails into his own palm.
The flicker of self-controlled pain is enough of a distraction to keep Morty
from coming right on the spot and getting himself into hot water, but Morty
knows that could change at the drop of a dime if Rick wanted it to. It was a
risky set of stakes, deciding whether or not to just ask for help, but the
thought of doing so was mortifying beyond belief. He doesn’t want to imagine
the teasing that'd inevitably follow his request, or the ridicule that'd result
in his reaction to Rick's taunting barbs.
It’s a gamble, one that Morty ultimately decides to take.
He gives a shaky nod of consent and clenches in preparation, but it isn't fast
enough. The moment he gives the green light to continue, Rick is trailing a
long, blazing line of fiery droplets down his sternum and the soft, quivering
flesh of his belly. Morty shrieks, his eyes going wide behind the blindfold,
and he starts to squirm under Rick's weight as the older man continues on, his
path getting slower and slower the closer he got to Morty's groin. 
The pain of the wax and the throbbing heat so close to the source of his
desperation was quickly forcing Morty up against the edge. He has no way of
knowing whether or not Rick will go the distance and drip wax directly on his
exposed length or if he'll stop. And, though it sounds utterly agonizing, Morty
is almost positive he'll come without a touch if a single drop lands on his
dick.
It seems Rick is feeling merciful though because suddenly the liquid fire stops
coming and a ragged, inhuman noise rips itself from Morty's throat. He isn't
sure if it’s from loss or gratitude but he honestly doesn't care either way. He
can feel his cock bobbing and he knows he won’t be able to take another round
of the wax without bursting.
Morty chokes back a sob and starts to tremble as thick, undeniable shame
tangles intimately with the arousal already flooding his veins, making him burn
hotter with every beat of his slamming heart.
"Rick...god!" Morty groans, his cock bobbing and slick with an embarrassing
amount of pre-come.
"Fuck..." He whines to himself, squirming to no avail beneath Rick, trying not
to use his arms as much as he can. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Rick, I can't..!"
Squeezing his eyes shut, Morty clenches the muscles in his stomach and tries to
take back control but it’s already too far away from him. He can't take another
drop without exploding and the brunet frantically admits defeat as he finally
breaks down in a rushed out babble.
"Fuck, Rick. I c-c-can't. I'm gonna come. P-please! I don't want to -- to be
bad. Can you -- do you have a..." Morty gulps, shame flowing through him, hot
and heavy. Fuck. "A cock-ring? I'm -- f-fuck, I'm sorry, Rick, but I'm
gonna..."
Rick blows out the candle and sets it aside. The little shit never ceases to
surprise him. He'd expected Morty to come early and ruin their fun. He'd hoped
Morty would ask him to pause for another breather, to take what time he needed
to regain the shreds of his composure. This request was not only a first for
the teen and his still developing stamina, but probably the first time he had
asked Rick for something he needed during sex, clearly and entirely unprompted.
And apparently what he needed was help to keep from blowing his load without
being touched so Rick could keep hurting him.
Rick pauses a moment, sitting silently on the teen's lap. Morty is writhing
with obvious embarrassment beneath him, but he doesn't want to touch or say
anything that might make his excellent behavior for nothing. Oh yeah, the kid
definitelydeserved a treat for this one. And Rick is going to give it to him.
The silent treatment is definitely helping Morty calm down, though he seems
almost on the verge of hyperventilation. He’s trying to bury his face in his
arm in shame, succeeding only in flaking wax from his bound limbs.
Rick reaches up and runs his fingers through the boy's hair, making quiet
shushing noises. “Shhhh, it's-it's okay, Morty. It's okay. Y-You did the right
thing by telling me, that's a good boy.”
Tugging at the knot on the back of the blindfold, Rick pulls it free. Morty's
eyes are shining with tears and they won’t meet his gaze. Rick isn't sure if
it’s from shame or if they’re still adjusting to the low light of the room.
Instinctively, the older man leans in and cups Morty's face, wiping away the
tear tracks and forcing the boy to face him. Still murmuring praise and
soothing nonsense, he lightly butterflies kisses across the teen's face, over
and over, before finally parting Morty's lips for a deep and slow kiss. When
Rick pulls away, Morty's breathing is shallow and his eyes are firmly fixed on
him.
Reluctant to break the intensity of Morty's gaze, but not wanting to lose sight
of his plan, Rick keeps talking as he climbs off the cot to rummage through a
drawer beside it.
“Such a good boy, Morty. You knew what you needed and you told me. Of course
I'll give it to you. You ask so nicely, how can I not-”
Cutting himself off as he starts to veer towards dangerous or sentimental
territory, Rick triumphantly holds up a small green mass of putty. As Rick
walks back towards the cot, Morty's eyes are no longer fixed on his face, but
the prominent and not-insignificant erection hanging from his open pants.
Smirking just a bit, the kid's mouth was practically watering for Christ's
sake, Rick applies the lump of gelatinous nanites to Morty's revitalized cock,
watching as they snap into place around his shaft and balls and start to pulse.
Morty keens, his head falling back with a thump as he tries to form words.
Rick digs his fingers into the muscle of the boy's thigh to ground him as well
as try to gain some of his attention. “Well Morty, do you want the blindfold
back on, or do you want to see what comes next?”
Busy, riding the high of success, Morty found it harder and harder to pay
attention to his surroundings as a pleasant fog crept around the edges of his
thought process.
He hadn't been mocked, hadn't been teased or spoken down to. He'd been
rewarded. Morty can still feel the gentle press of Rick's lips against his
face. He can hear the older man's praise ringing through his ears on repeat and
the teen is hungry for more. He wants to be good. He wants to obey and serve
and exist for Rick's pleasure, no matter how sadistic, and the introduction of
a brand new set of choices only has him falling that much deeper.
"Th-thank you, Rick." He murmurs gratefully as he rolls the option around in
his muddled brain.
There were pros and cons to both but, ultimately, Morty is still hoping he can
weasel his way into getting both. He has no doubt in his mind that Rick plans
to take off the blindfold eventually. There isa chance he won’t but Morty
doesn’t count on it. Rick seems to enjoy demanding eye contact at various
moments when they finally get around to fucking. Morty thinks it has less to do
with any sort of romanticism and far more to do with both a deep, primal desire
to have Morty know exactly who is ruining him so spectacularly and the
knowledge that it embarrasses the shit out of him. And perhaps that may just be
Morty's perception of him, but the teen doubts it. Rick is a possessive
bastard.
Morty licks his lips, feeling like his mouth is especially dry but the brunet
doesn’t mind. It’s all part of the experience after all.
"Will you leave the blindfold on until you're done with the wax?" Morty slurs
as he finally speaks up, his voice surprisingly free of stutters. "I wanna
watch you work but not -- not yet. I like not seeing the pain coming."
Mossy green eyes flutter shut and Morty takes a couple deep breaths, letting
himself float through the foreign feeling steadily trying to envelop him before
looking back up at Rick and asking, "Can I have a-another kiss, Grandpa? I
promise I'll be g-good."
The kid is definitely getting greedy, asking for more as soon as Rick showed
him the slightest indulgence. The urge to spoil the brat is an itch under his
skin, but Rick pushes it down. Plenty of Ricks serve as warnings as to what
happens when you give into a Morty's whims too often, and they’re thoroughly
mocked for it. Spoiled, cocky brats and pussy-whipped Ricks are not a winning
combination.
If you give a Morty a cookie...
“Not now, Morty.”
Rick ignores the hurt in the kid's eyes as he reties the blindfold around the
teen's mess of curls. Resisting the urge to drop a kiss on his forehead, and
where the hell had that come from, Rick contents himself with sliding his hand
down the side of Morty's head instead, pinching sharply at the cartilage of his
ear and chuckling at the shocked noise it elicits.
“You know better than that. Payment up front, it-it's the fundamental rule of
doing business.”
Rick digs his thumb into a particularly deep bruise he'd left on the center of
Morty's throat, watching as the pained moan he tries to make becomes a
stuttering cough while his breathing is hindered. Rick makes a note of the way
the kid's hips stutter as he tries to breathe normally and files it away for
another day. But for now...
Stripping off his own clothes as quickly and quietly as he can, Rick coaxes his
voice as low and smooth as he still can after decades of high-proof abuse,
murmuring down at the pliant boy beneath him.
“You gotta be a good boy for me before you get another treat, eh chiquito?”
Releasing the pressure on Morty's throat, Rick reaches for the second candle,
still burning too brightly and giving an almost eerie golden shine to the scene
it's lighting. The pale gold wax has melted down all over the table and Rick
hisses quietly as he tests a drop on his arm. Nervosian beeswax burns a hell of
a lot hotter than the paraffin he'd been using before, but more importantly it
tingles where it lands, refusing to settle into a dull burn even as it hardens.
Goddamn it's been awhile since he's felt a rush like that. He'll have to get
Morty to try it out on him one of these days. After he can teach the overeager
little klutz to do it without boiling off a few layers of his skin. There's a
measure of something fanged and bloody in his voice as he moves back towards
his willing victim, the flickering light of the candle throwing demonic shadows
into sharp relief.
“¿Puedes comportarte para tu abuelo? Si me preguntas bien, te daré lo que
necesitas.”
Morty doesn't respond, whether because he's failed to grasp middle-school level
Spanish once again or because he doesn't have a response, Rick isn't certain.
Settling back into his place over Morty's thighs, Rick groans as he
accidentally jostles the candle, cascading wax down his own knuckles. He gives
into temptation a little more than he probably should, grinding his aching cock
against Morty's bound one, reveling in the searing pain in his knuckles and the
first friction he's had since they started this. Fuuuucckkkthat feels good.
Morty made a nice call on the cock ring. Right now this view is better than any
half-assed apology face-fuck for coming too soon in the festivities.
“I'll tell you what niño,” Rick pants above Morty's choked cries, “Y-you make
it through the next five minutes without screaming and I'll kiss you 'til
you're dizzy if that's what you- if you want me to.”
It's probably a bit mean, setting Morty a challenge he has no intention of
letting him win, but he'll make it up to him later. Besides, it's good practice
for him to work on not cracking like a little bitch every time some
intergalactic mall cop takes a car battery to his nuts.
But truer, simpler, and more selfish than that is the fact that Rick really,
really wants to hear Morty scream for him.
Morty is dizzy with anticipation below Rick's body. He’s hyper aware of just
how aroused his Grandpa is as well, aching with desire, and he can’t stop
waiting for a new line of fire to make a home for itself somewhere along his
vulnerable flesh.
In truth, the teen is doing his best to prepare himself. Even though he'd
basically been trying to remain silent while Rick effectively tortured him with
one of the more unconventional forms of bliss they'd experimented with, his
challenge didn't seem all that bad. It certainly isn't impossible or Herculean
in nature, at least it didn't seem like it, but Morty's initial opinion on that
seems hasty at best just a few seconds later.
The moment Rick presumably tips the candle and starts drizzling wax over his
skin once more, Morty's lips part in a silent scream of pure agony. Despite
knowing that Rick would never do anything to legitimately harm him, it feels
like the wax is eating through the layers of his skin, burning through him like
fat beads of fiery napalm just waiting to drip along his ribs and into his
chest cavity.
The sensation wasn't like anything he'd expected or built himself up for and
Morty is forced to accept that he'd been woefully unprepared for the trick
hiding up Rick's sleeve. Radiating waves of painful, tingling heat spear Morty
like hot knives and, regardless of how unattractive it may have been, the teen
can’t stop opening and closing his mouth like a gaping fish as the searing heat
just continues to burn through him.
It isn't dulling, isn't getting any less intense, and Morty doesn’t know how to
handle it.
And maybe that's why, when Rick starts pouring an obscene amount of the hellish
shit back and forth in fat droplets across his torso in a casual zig-zag the
way somebody would put icing on a fucking toaster strudel, Morty doesn’t even
give a second thought to giving in and curling his toes with a high pitched
scream. It’s almost an out of body sort of experience, like a small portion of
his mind can't believe that he’s howling in such a way after so little, but
Morty is also readily able to admit that the release of simply screaming in
pain is like nothing he's ever felt before. In the controlled environment he
finds himself in, where he has the ability to make it all stop if he wanted it
to, where he is still the man behind the curtain holding all the keys, Morty is
free to take what he needs and express himself however he wants.
The pleasure of it is absolutely dizzying.
The brunet's hips stutter up in small, jerky rolls. His cock is begging for
attention, leaking pre-cum like a faucet, and he digs his nails even deeper
into his hand as he tries to ride it out. When Rick finally stops pouring and
the muscles in his arms and core unclench, instantly going limp seconds later,
he can feel his dick twitching where it rests against his pelvis.
"Rick..." Morty drawls aimlessly, his voice thick and rough from the screaming,
drawn out like he’s high on drugs and unsure of what he wants.
Morty doesn't know what else to say though. He doesn't know what to beg for.
It’s too much effort to think, the gears in his brain clogged and gummed up,
unable to turn, and Morty is wholly grateful that Rick is in charge. He doesn't
need to think. That’s Rick's job. He’s Rick's, Rick's canvas, Rick's fuck toy,
and as long as Rick is pleased with him then he’s good.
But all of a sudden he needs to know. He needs to know if he is good, if Rick
is pleased, and that’s worth thinking for.
"Rick... Am I -- am I a good boy? I tried to be quiet b-but it was just so -
- just so hot."
Morty lulled his head to the side and wipes the drool from the corner of his
mouth on his shoulder, feeling like that movement alone is more effort than
it’s worth. Next, he unclenches his fist and sluggishly flexes his fingers,
feeling like his palms are wet and sticky. He wonders, in a somewhat detached
manner, if he's drawn blood.
"Do we have water?" He asks, opening his eyes to look for Rick even though he
knows he won't see him. "M'so thirsty. Can I have a drink, Grandpa?"
Rick fishes for the jug of electrolyte-enhanced water he keeps under the the
cot, willing himself not to make too much noise at Morty's responses. Jesus
Christ he can't remember being so turned on.
Chugging from the carton's mouth, Rick wills himself to regain his composure.
Morty's unabashed screams are a new sound, one he’s worried he could become
unduly addicted to with little prompting. Holding a mouthful of water, he
surges against Morty's mouth, pressing insistently against his lips, feeling a
rush of satisfaction as the boy immediately opens against him. Pulling back
against Morty's desperate lips to maintain his credibility if nothing else,
Rick pulls away, gasping against empty air.
“Just try -- try harder next time, Morty.”
Ignoring the plaintive squeak beneath him, Rick sits up again, steadying
himself as he reaches for the lube he keeps within arms’ reach at all times.
“I-I know you're trying, babe. You gotta scream like a bitch for now but I'll
work that outta you eventually.”
Coating two of his fingers liberally in lube, Rick lets another point of wax
fall on Morty's chest as he jams two fingers deep into his hole, thrusting
sharp and shallow against the boy's rim. Morty responds beautifully, writhing
and shrieking on his fingers while simultaneously trying to thrust up against
the burn of the wax.
“It's only -- only going to get worse from here, Morty.” He warns, rubbing his
fingers in small circles against the teen's rim as he steadies the candle in
his definitely-not-shaking hand.
Watching the boy take a deep breath, Rick mimics him as he lets three drops of
wax fall against the boy's right thigh, enjoying the screech that comes while
the boy's cock spasms against its bonds. Pressing the pads of his fingers
firmly against Morty's prostate, Rick lets a single drop of wax roll down the
candle before landing in the crease of Morty's thigh and groin. It draws a
final shriek that makes his cock twitch like a puppet master has cursed his
dick, unintentionally grinding a final time against Morty's thigh.
Blowing out the candle, Rick throws it carelessly to the floor, hands shaking
with anticipation. Fuck, he wants to rut into Morty right now; to claim and
take and own like never before, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind stops
him.
Rubbing insistent circles interspersed with erratic thrusts, Rick's hands
burrow into Morty's skin, reveling in the sounds he draws.
“I wanna, wanna peel you clean,” Rick pants, his arousal an obvious line
against Morty's thigh, grinding down against his thigh without hesitance or
thought. “Wanna slice you, wanna peel you smooth for my touch. Say I can,
Morty, say you need it.”
Morty hears an indistinct rustling and then suddenly feels the cold steel of a
blade against his femoral artery as Rick slides what can only be a straight
blade against his most vulnerable points.
Adrenaline floods through Morty's system in the face of new danger. The chill
of sharp metal is a screaming contrast to the heat sinking deeper and deeper
into his body and it takes everything he has to remain still. But the teen
can’t get enough of it. He’s straining for more, trying to hear more, trying to
feel more. Every ounce of his focus is revolving around Rick and the fingers in
his ass and the metal pressed so intimately to his flesh. It’s drawn to the
arousal in Rick's voice, drawn to the need so clear in his request, and Morty’s
attention is held captive by the line of Rick's erection against his thigh like
a moth to flame.
Pain is torture, anticipation is torture, but none of that compares to being
presented with another option -- this one urging him to hold out and wait even
though he is so fucking close to finally getting what he wants.
Morty whines with growing desperation, fruitlessly tugging against the bonds
holding his wrists to the bed until the plastic is really starting to dig in
and cause discomfort.
He can feel Rick's long, nimble fingers in his ass, working him but not doing
nearly enough for how needy he is. He can feel that prodding touch against his
prostate and he wants more. Those fingers aren't nearly enough now that Rick is
otherwise engaged and he desperately wants to get fucked. He wants Rick's
methodical savagery, wants his cock, wants those merciless fingers digging into
his hips and the growl that echoes in the back of Rick's throat as they fuck.
But Rick wants him to wait. Rick wants him to want to wait, and though Morty
doesn’t want that at all, he’s all too willing to do it for Rick.
"Anything. Whatever you want." Morty finally croaks, carefully spreading his
legs just a little further apart in open invitation. "Whatever you want is wh-
what I need, Rick."
Morty pants as he imagines the picture they must paint. He imagines his own
body from an outside perspective -- tied to the bed and covered in wax, beyond
aroused, Rick looming over him with a knife and an erection that probably could
cut diamond. The thought makes his dick bob and he groans wantonly.
"I need it." He moans when Rick doesn’t make an immediate move, his muscles
clenching around Rick's fingers. "I need y-your hands all over me a-and the
rush when you hold the knife too -- too close."
Morty carefully shifts the angle of his pelvis. It pushes his erection further
up and the muscles in his ass tighten, making him feel that much needier even
as he tries to focus on the presence of the blade.
The younger man mewls at that lack of stretch though, wishing Rick was already
inside of him, pounding his desperate hole until he couldn't remember his own
name.
"P-please, Rick. I-I-I'm so hard, just get it off. Get it all off a-a-and fuck
me. I need it, Rick, need it, need it, need it." He whines, babbling out a few
more pleas for action as he curls and uncurls his toes, too hot and horny to
remain entirely still.
Rick grins and sits back, carefully pulling his fingers from Morty's twitching
ass and moving the blade carefully away from his skin.
“D-don't move, Morty. It'll end up reeeeaaalll messy if you do. I can probably-
I could patch you up, but it's better if you just focus on staying still.”
Dragging the flat edge of the blade along Morty's skin, Rick avoids the globs
of wax splattered across his chest and stomach, raising a thin sharp welt to
trace his progress as he winds his way up the teen's trembling arms. With a
quick flick the zip ties falls from Morty's wrists, revealing raw and reddened
flesh, a thin purple bruise already starting to shine beneath it. Morty gasps
as blood rushes back to his extremities, and Rick can tell he’s resisting the
urge to rub his chafed and aching wrists, uncertain where exactly the blade is.
The knife flashes again with a twist of his wrist, and the blindfold falls from
Morty's face. Rick presses the flat of the blade beneath Morty's chin, pressing
the point in with just enough pressure to bring Morty's eyes to his face. “You-
you wanna impress me, baby? You better keep still, cause you're not going to
have any help with that now.”
Morty resists the urge to nod and break his one instruction instinctively, the
razor-sharp point of the knife nicking his skin as he swallows reflexively.
Rick drags the knife across his chest, peeling away layers of dead skin along
with wax, leaving Morty feeling flayed and sensitive in its wake.
The few chest hairs Morty's managed to grow are shaved away as Rick curls the
knife again, digging deeper to flick away the wax coating his nipple. Morty's
doing a pretty good job of keeping his breathing shallow and holding still, his
eyes fixed on the knife, but Rick can't help giving him a little more of a
challenge. He breathes hotly on the flushed new skin he's exposed, enjoying the
small sound that escapes Morty's throat, but provokes nothing more than an
automatic twitch of his muscles. Not bad.
Rick then purses his lips and blows a hard stream of cold air over Morty's
newly exposed nipple.
A high pitched sound of betrayal escapes Morty's lips as Rick actively seeks to
sabotage him and his eyes go comically wide when Rick starts to tease his
nipple with an incredibly unwanted breath of cool air. The newly exposed flesh
is far more sensitive than Morty expected and it took everything he had not to
arch up into it when the small peak immediately puckers, just begging for the
heat of Rick's mouth.
However, while he managed to refrain from moving towards what he wants, it
doesn’t stop Morty from sucking in a sharp and startled breath at the zing of
unanticipated stimulation, his belly clenching reflexively when the blade nicks
him without warning a second later.
Morty hisses and squeezes his eyes shut. Christ. He never expected the skin
underneath all the wax to be sosensitive. He should've, it felt ridiculous not
to see that coming from a mile away, but he hadn't. Just like he hadn't
anticipated how much he'd enjoy the resulting sting and throb of Rick's blade
dipping into his flesh. That was bound and determined to be some sort of issue
in the future, Morty can already tell, but the brunet tries to push those
thoughts away as he fights to stay still.
"W-wait." Morty stutters.
He looks down at Rick and feels his heart throb with an unspoken series of
emotions he doesn't even want to think about when he sees the briefest flash of
concern in Rick's cornflower blue eyes.
"Just -- just let me..."
Not even daring to breathe lest the knife get the better of him, Morty slowly
rearranges his arms and reaches back to grab hold of the metal bar along the
top of Rick's cot. The angle is somewhat awkward and it’s pulling the sensitive
skin along his upper arms taut but it feels good to have something to grab
onto. Especially as arousal, danger, and an entire assortment of other
sensations pound through his veins and make it all the more difficult to stay
still.
"Okay, I'm ready." Morty whispers, smiling to himself when Rick rolls his eyes
and mutters something rude under his breath.
Maybe the older man is annoyed but it just seems like a lot of posturing to
Morty. Not that the teen would ever say that to the Rick’s face.
His amusement must have shown on his face though because, just a few seconds
later, Rick jumps directly into scraping wax from his skin and suddenly Morty
is in a whole new circle of hell. The portions he uncovers are screaming at the
foreign touch of open air. Compared to the insulated heat provided by the wax,
room temperature is far colder than it should've been and Morty whines
pathetically in the back of his throat.
He felt something slightly similar a few months ago when he got Fligarion
saliva on his arm and Rick had to regrow a portion of his skin but, to feel
hypersensitive nerves surrounded by average skin all over his upper half... It
was far more intense than he would've imagined. It feels like he’s covered in
randomly placed erogenous zones that've been highlighted in red and his skin is
a road map that Rick is taking full advantage of.
Morty grits his teeth when Rick starts to tease him, veering off course and
just gliding the flat of his blade over skin that’s already been uncovered. It
makes the teen want to tremble but he just grips the bar of Rick's bed that
much tighter, determined to do his best.
When Rick reaches for him though, when he lays a full palm against his chest
and rubs his hand across all that fresh, exposed skin, Morty cries out and
arches into it against his will. The resultant bite of metal is swift and Morty
moans in painful pleasure, able to feel the exact moment that blood beads up to
the surface and starts rolling down his skin like water off a duck’s back.
It feels wrong to like it, wrong to feel the pleas for just one more little cut
right against the tip of his tongue, but Morty shoves the unease aside with a
blissed out, danger-fueled groan when Rick makes a move to start peeling off
bits of wax closer to the soft, vulnerable expanse of his belly.
Rick wishes he had a drink, just to make sure his hands will remain steady. The
kid is purring like a luxury sports car beneath him and Rick is filled with
ludicrous thoughts of riding the kid ‘til one or both of them shake apart into
rattling pieces.
Sucking a deep breath in through his nose to ground himself, Rick fills his
lungs with the smell of wax and sweat, that undeniable musk of sex, and just a
tang of coppery blood. Shaving one of the last large gobs of wax from just
below Morty's navel, he resists the urge to curse aloud when the teen's
breathing hitches, and a new line of white appears in his wake, flushing pink
and eventually sending a single drop of crimson to the surface.
It would be so easy to gut him like this, intentionally or not.
When the fuck did the kid get abs?
When the fuck did he decide this would be a good idea?
Morty's hips are rolling in tiny increments, barely shifting. He probably isn't
even aware of it. But the constant rubbing pressure of his thigh against Rick's
erection is quickly driving him to distraction.
He's torn between the voices still whispering in the back of his head.
The sane, rational voice says he should pin the teen's legs again to keep him
still, regardless of what challenges he set. It reminds him that this little
encounter is supposed to end in mutual orgasms and takeout pizza, not another
trauma to leave the kid screaming through night terrors in twenty years.
But there's another voice, the one that always gets him into trouble of the
best and worst kinds, that whispers about finding ice cubes, and applying them
mercilessly to scorched skin. Of chilling the blade in his hand with liquid
nitrogen until Morty writhes and thrusts up into it, blood pooling across them
both while cold metal sinks into hot flesh. Of taking the kid apart in the last
way he hasn't actively tried.
The drop of blood reaches critical capacity and starts to roll its way towards
the curve of Morty's hip. Rick sucks in air between his teeth and digs the
fingers of his free hand into Morty's thigh, still frotting against him like a
pair of middle-schoolers at their first dance.
Time to be the responsible one. The better person. The best Rick he can be.
Which is to say, he compromises.
Settling himself between the boy's legs, he grinds against the slick crack of
Morty's ass, giving into the temptation to thrust his hips just a few times and
feel the clenching heat against him. Morty cries out, thrusting his hips back
to meet his movements shamelessly, his cock bouncing obscenely above him.
Rick barely has enough time to pull the knife away from Morty's ribs as he
lurches, and he releases his thigh to deliver a hard slap to the pink skin of
Morty's exposed belly.
“Jesus, Morty! W-What the fuck are you doing? You really enough of a slut for
my cock you're gonna- you're gonna get yourself killed over it?”
The kid tries to slur out apologies over his cry of pain, but Rick's
reconsidering his plan already. Right now he's torn between slicing just a few
thin cuts into Morty's thighs, of lapping at them and tonguing the abused flesh
until Morty cries before fucking him, but he's not sure the kid has the self-
control for that yet.
Fat, crocodile tears pool in Morty's eyes, making them glassy with the evidence
of his need before finally spilling over and sliding down over his temples into
his hair.
"P-please." Morty begs, his voice rough and high strung. "Just a -- just a
little more, Rick. Just a little l-longer."
It feels twisted, how desperately he keeps hoping Rick will slip up and cut
him. Morty hadn't anticipated that aspect of his sexuality. Before now he's
never once thought about being turned on by somebody cutting him up but, then
again, there are a lot of things that Morty hadn't expected to like.
The teen groans at that thought and a series of memories flood to the forefront
of his mind, painting vivid pictures of his more risky sexual exploits with
Rick across the back of his eyelids every time he blinks. Morty licks his lips
and pushes back against his grandpa's rolling hips, panting hard and ragged as
the firm length of his shaft rubs right up against his partially loosened hole.
Fuck. Everything he needs is so close and so fucking far away and it’s all
Morty can think about.
He needs to be pounded. To be fucked and filled an inch past his life. He needs
the ache from the throb of broken capillaries where Rick is holding him too
tight and the hot, prickly tenderness of the faintly welting handprint on his
stomach. He wants the biting edge of Rick's blade and the warm embrace of blood
dripping over his skin, staining it red and painting his masochism across his
body in big, bold strokes.
Morty's cock jumps as he thinks about Rick making him bleed, his fingers
turning white as he grips the metal bar.
"I wanna touch you." Morty gasps, trying to distract himself from the darker
thoughts slowly pushing through, his hole clenching rhythmically as Rick ruts
up against him. "I-I'm trying to be good b-but I wanna touch you so- so bad,
Rick.”
Morty imagines saying something far darker instead. He imagined saying, cut me
open, imagined saying, reach in and find out what's inside, as he begs Rick to
make a mess and smear blood all over his body until there was more red than
white. He imagines how that'd look by the time they finally got around to
fucking. He can practically envision Rick with blood all over his belly and his
hips and hands, all over both of their hands, and the way it'd probably end up
all over the older man's face, neck, and in his hair.
The mental image has a fresh dribble of slick dripping from the tip of his cock
and Morty has no doubt that Rick's own blood would end up joining the mix from
where he'd inevitably rake his nails down his Grandpa's back while they fucked.
And suddenly there was nothing to distract him from what he wanted.
"Cut me." Morty finally begs, looking up at Rick with hooded eyes and swollen,
parted lips, his muscles tense and nearly afraid. "I-I know it's -- god,I know
it’s fucked up b-but I'm so f-fuckin' hard and thinking about it is making m-m-
my dick jump. Please Grandpa... M-make it -- god! Just make it hurt, R-rick.
Make it hurt so g-good a-a-and then fuck me. Christ, Rick, make that hurt too."
The teen looks up to meet Rick's eyes and it feels like all the oxygen in the
world is suddenly gone. His lungs have become more similar to the vacuum of
space than anything even remotely useful, and when Morty speaks again it’s
almost entirely unintentional.
"Break me." He whispers painfully. "Fuck me up a-and make me beg for every
second of it, Rick. P-p-please. Please do this for me."
“Sit up.”
The simple command seems to throw Morty off, back straining towards Rick while
his hands remain in a dead man's grip around the cot.
“Fucking let go and sit up, Morty,” Rick growls. This time it seems to sink in.
Morty's eagerly dropping his arms to his sides, and pressing his palms flat
into the mattress, trying to launch himself towards Rick before his aching
muscles can register the screaming pain the sudden movement has caused.
He doesn't get far. As soon as Morty's back clears the cot, Rick's arm is
slipping through the space it creates and wrapping tightly around the teen's
waist, halting his progress.
Raising Morty's hips until his feet begin to slide on the sheets, Rick forces
Morty to hold his weight back on his shaking arms. He’s effectively holding the
bulk of the boy's body on a single point, a bastardized version of a reverse
wheelbarrow. Holding his position, he watches as Morty's arms begin to shake
below him, threatening to send his head and shoulders crashing back down.
Before they can, Rick shifts his hips, and pushes into Morty with one slow,
excruciating thrust.
It's too tight, and by this point nearly dry except for the mess of pre-come
Rick had made of Morty's cheeks, but if Morty thinks he wants to be broken this
is as good a start as any. It's slow, and it feels as hot as the red patches on
Morty's chest, and if this is almost too much for Rick it must be agony for the
boy beneath him. Eventually he buries himself to the hilt and pulls a little
tighter against Morty's waist, likely leaving unconventionally angled bruises
on the top of his hip.
Shifting forward, Rick can hear Morty wail, but he successfully manages to seat
his hips below the teen.
“All right, Morty. You can grab my shoulders.”
It's an order phrased as a lenience and the specificity leaves no room for
exploration. Morty barely seems to hear him, his face flushed and jaw hanging
as he pants for breath, but after a second he makes a desperate grab for Rick
with one hand. It falls laughably short of its target, but eventually he
manages to dig short nails deep into first one, then both of Rick's shoulders,
settling his weight further into his grandfather's lap and pressing the girth
of his cock deeper into his prostate.
Morty behaves himself admirably. Rick had expected him plaster himself around
Rick like a cheap suit everywhere his body could press against him, but his
contact remains limited to his hands on Rick's shoulders, and the soft weight
of his thighs and ass across Rick's lap. Slamming his torso against Rick would
probably sting like bitch between his welts and burns anyways, but if that's an
attractive offer he makes no move towards it. Nor does he try to grind or fuck
himself on the cock he's been waiting for so patiently. He seems content to
stay exactly where Rick has placed him, like a pliable doll, shaking slightly
and panting while he seeks out Rick's gaze.
“That's a good boy, mijo. Don't move.”
Rick returns the knife he's held away to Morty's skin, this time scraping
lightly across the untouched expanse of Morty's back, relishing the small gasps
and renewed shivers that accompany the journey. Digging the point of the blade
between two of Morty's lower ribs, he waits until he feels the boy go totally
still.
Rick bodily lifts Morty a few inches, repositioning the pair of them and
leaning his back against the wall, allowing his legs to dangle off the edge of
the narrow cot.
The knifepoint drags across and around Morty's body, curving around his side
and down his leg to rest flatly against the top of his thigh. From his perch on
Rick's lap, Morty has a perfect view between his arms to the sight of the blade
dragging across the tops of his thighs, mere inches from his dripping erection.
He looks transfixed, and Rick allows himself to thrust up shallowly into that
gorgeous, tight heat a few times, just to assure he has Morty's full attention.
“I'm going to cut you five times,” Rick's eyes are deadly serious. “And while I
do you-you're going to tell me what you wouldn't let me do to you.”
The knife cuts through the skin of Morty's thigh like hot butter.
“That is, if-if you can think of any.”
Morty throws his head back and groans.
It feels like the sound is forcibly ripped from some deep, dark place inside of
him and, for a moment, he can’t even feel the pain of it. All he can feel is
the edge of Rick's blade parting his skin like wrapping paper caught in the
glinting steel jaws of a pair of scissors, exposing the flesh beneath to air,
and it's fucking divine.
That first cut has Morty clenching down, hard, around Rick's cock. It pulls a
sharp hiss from the man and, though the sound is fleeting, Morty latches onto
it with brilliantly driven focus.
That is, until the wicked sharpness of Rick's blade met his flesh once more.
"Well?" Rick demands, pressing the knife against his flesh enough to get the
teen's attention but not enough to break the skin a second time. "Speak up,
Morty."
Swimming in dopamine and serotonin, Morty is lost. For a lengthy second he
can't even remember what it is he's supposed to be saying, but then Rick digs
the blade in a little deeper and starts making the second cut, nice and slow,
and Morty is a gasping, panting mess.
"Fuuuuuuuck, yessss!"
Christ, how's he supposed to think? Morty doesn't know.
It's all too much. His body is on fire, and all of it is different. The bright,
splotchy red patches scattered across his skin like paint from a brush across
canvas have become a constant throb, a dull ache, but every time he moves they
flare back to life and seem to start the cooling process all over again. His
ass stings, his rim forcibly stretched around the thick, unshakable girth of
Rick's cock. And, while it was totally worth it just to be able to feel Rick
inside of him, hot and throbbing and ready to fucking wreck him, Morty can
still feel his abused hole fluttering around the base of Rick's cock as his
body tries to adjust to the unexpected intrusion.
The teen moans and digs his nails just a little deeper into Rick's shoulders,
relishing the meager ounce of control he possesses as he holds Rick tight
enough to break the skin.
Morty suddenly yelps when the tail end of Rick's second cut suddenly gets -
what feels like - a lot deeper.
Looking down between their bodies, a high pitched, needy whine slips from
between Morty's lips and he clenches down around Rick's length once more. The
blood is flowing. It’s dripping down his thighs and onto Rick's legs, maybe
even onto the cot beneath them, and it has Morty's heart beating dangerously
fast. He feels slightly light-headed but the brunet is almost positive that’s
simply because of how much blood is trying to force itself into his dick and he
doesn't pay it much mind.
"Morty." Rick growls, this time in warning, and Morty snaps to attention and
forces himself to look away from the dazzling display between their bodies. 
Right, fuck... What wouldn't he let Rick do to him?The thought feels foreign
and implacable, like a puzzle piece from the wrong box mixed in where it didn't
belong, and Morty is having a hard time processing it.
"I wouldn't let you..."
Morty trails off, his eyes unfocused as he tries to dig through the sticky,
molasses covered mess that was his own thoughts, trying to find the edges of
his limitations while everything felt so good and right and beyond him.
The teen swallows shakily and opens his mouth to speak but all that came out
was a breathless gasp as Rick shifts, effectively pressing his length even more
firmly against Morty's prostate.
Fuck, Rick is never going to fuck him if he can't complete this one stupid
thing. 
Morty tries to start simple then.
 "I wouldn't let you k-kill me... I wouldn't let you maim me o-o-or put me in a
-- in a gimp mask." Morty rapidly starts to babble. His words are quickly
starting to come out rushed and lumped together, his brain working too fast
after finally finding ground to push off from, and Morty can't stop it. "I
wouldn't let you pimp m-m-me out o-or fist me or let you fuck me in front of
mom a-and dad. A-a-and I wouldn't let y-you break my bones o-or fuck me dry
with zero prep or --"
Rambled off words are suddenly cut off as Morty sucks in a sharp, startled
breath and looks down to see the point of Rick's knife pressing into his skin,
ready to cut and eventually scar him for the third time.
Morty can't look away.
"Please." He whispers brokenly, his body trembling as he waits for the
inevitable sting of the third cut.
Rick feels steadier now, more in control. It’s hard to feel anything less than
heady with a nubile young body clenched around your dick, whimpering for you
while you carved patterns into their skin, but Morty's recitations had helped.
It was actually a pretty good list under duress. And it gave him an interesting
glimpse into how Morty's mind worked.
Don't kill me. Don't break me beyond repair or usefulness. Do whatever you want
as long as it's still you and me.
Plus, it was a good reminder for both of them, that Morty was the one choosing
to let him flay him raw, in everything but the most literal sense of the word.
Funny, the kid didn't look nearly as embarrassed about that as he had when
they'd started.
Rick ignores that second little voice in the back of his head again as he made
the third and fourth cuts, watching the blood flow to the surface.
He'd do anything for you, anything at all, with a little push you could have
him begging you to break half of his limits within a couple months. You could
break him apart and put him back together, rebuild him anyway you want, the Six
Million Dollar Morty-
It’s easier to ignore this time.
He switches to Morty's other thigh for the final cut. He makes this one deeper,
wiggling the blade just a little to widen the shallow gash, watching the boy's
eyes go glassy as the blood drips down the inside of his thigh towards the
place where Rick's cock is nestled deep in his ass.
Drawing the knife free for the final time, Rick observes the sheen of red
clinging to the blade. He wants to lap it off, to taste that iron tang again,
but he has a better idea. Bringing the knife up to Morty's lips, he presses it
against them, smiling as the flat of Morty's tongue slips out to taste himself.
“Clean it. Don't slice your tongue off while you do.”
Morty laps clumsily at the knife, eventually leaving it spit-shiny and silvery
clean. Rick snaps the blade closed and chucks it across the room, hungrily
smashing his mouth against Morty's as he chases the taste of copper and salt.
His hips start to piston up into the sweet heat in his lap, groaning at the
friction and the wet slap of sweat and blood. Pulling away, he mutters against
Morty's neck, drawing teeth along mottled skin to bring fresh flushes of blood
to the bruises there.
“So fucking good for me, baby. How do you want me to fuck you, huh? Dime
cariño. All done now, I'll make you feel-”
He cuts himself off as he finds the curve of Morty's shoulder, giving into the
temptation to bury his teeth deeper into unprotected flesh.
The buzz in Morty's blood quickly surges when Rick starts to move and, by the
time his grandfather sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, the
sensation has evolved into a full blown electric current, sputtery crackles
kicking up sparks behind his ribcage.
Rick is fucking him, finally fucking him, and the rough burn of raw,
unlubricated friction has Morty shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The brunet
releases one of Rick's shoulders and quickly slips his left arm under Rick's,
grabbing eagerly at his back with a wanton groan as he digs sharp little nails
into Rick's skin once more and starts to claw the shit out of him.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Morty chants, rocking his hips back and forth as Rick fucks
up into him.
The motion is pressing Rick's length against his inner walls, teasing his
prostate, and Morty quickly discovers that feeling the tantalizing brush of his
aching cock against Rick's stomach as the older man works him over is both the
sweetest pleasure and anything but.
Sliding his right hand up, Morty buries his fingers in Rick's hair and tangles
the short little digits in the strands, holding on for dear life as Rick fucks
him. He can feel the moment that Rick responds to it as well, sinking his teeth
even deeper into the muscle, and Morty howls in pain when he feels the skin
break under his Grandpa's savagery.
Morty whines Rick's name desperately and, unable to stay still and just get
fucked, Morty throws himself into the action. He starts bouncing in Rick's lap,
no longer actively accepting what Rick has to give but eagerly and aggressively
seeking out his own pleasure. He can feel the burn of his cuts being stimulated
with every movement, the slick, squelch of blood loud and impossible to miss
between them, and when Rick suddenly drives his hips up at a slightly different
angle, Morty cries out.
It’s pressing Rick's cock directly against his prostate, allowing the older man
to rub up against the little gland without jabbing it directly and it ignites a
crazy burn inside of the teen, coiling up tightly in his belly and knotting
like tangled thread under Rick's puppet-master touch. Lightning-bug flashes
spiral out from it, dancing along Morty's nerves in places that have fuck-all
to do with his dick or his ass.
How anybody has ever gotten Rick into their bed and let him walk away afterward
is so far beyond Morty he can’t even fathom it.
"There!" Morty mewls, desperately trying to grind down against Rick's shaft.
"Fuck me harder just l-like that. Hard and fast -- Fuck!"
The teen throws his head back when Rick takes up a somewhat faster rhythm and
he tries to keep up with it, fucking himself on Rick's cock as the older man
pounds up into from from below even though the muscles in his legs are
screaming in pain.
"Please, Rick, please." He babbles, clawing at Rick's back and leaving deep,
angry grooves in the other man's skin. "Fuck me, pound me until I scream! My s-
slutty hole feels so -- so empty without you. Use m-me, Rick, take your
pleasure from m-m-my tight ass. Whatever you want!"
The teen finally releases Rick's hair and slams his open palm against the wall
behind Rick, using it as leverage to keep his torso away from him. He can see a
thin sheen of sweat clinging to Rick's skin and, with the salt and the heat and
his newly scalded skin, Morty knows the contact would be agonizing. Even if it
israther tempting. And, cock ring or no, now that Rick is finally fucking him,
Morty has a feeling that the pain of that contact and the press of both of
their stomachs against his cock would make him come in an instant.
Morty tightens his muscles around Rick's cock with a sharp cry instead, just
barely able to hold it with how much more intense the friction became. Hearing
noise, and feeling movement, but barely processing it.
"More!"
Rick's only half aware of his surroundings at the moment, all points of
sensation reduced to the sharp pain and trickle of blood down his shoulders,
the incredible tight heat around his cock, and the taste of blood in the air
and beneath his teeth.
Morty's saying something, but Rick hasn't heard anything but the pump of blood
in his own ears for a while now. Suddenly a sharp cry comes cutting through the
fog, and when his brain finally translates what 'more' means, he's already
moving.
His hands dig firmly into that sweet ass, and lift as he stands, breaking away
from his prize beneath his mouth to look where he's going. He feels the air
around him disturbed as arms flail, small hands grabbing at him before settling
against his chest, pressing him away. But even as they do, long legs are
hooking further around his waist, and that gorgeous ass between his palms is
still clenching and grinding against his cock.
Dropping to his knees on the carpet, Rick ignores the jarring exhale that comes
from below as the wind is knocked out of the boy, sprawling him out on the
ground below him. He also ignores the parts of his body that weakly protest
that he's far, far too old to do this, easily overpowered by the wave of lust
that sings through him as he covers the teen beneath him.
He fucks Morty hard now, unwrapping his legs from around his waist to force
them further up, above his shoulders. Drops of sweat are falling down on
Morty's patchwork dappled chest, and his back must be turning to hamburger on
the thin carpet, but the odd words Rick can pick out from his wailing don't
sound a thing like 'stop' or 'no', so he ignores them. Rick can't be bothered
to figure out if any words are falling from his own mouth, but if they are they
can't be important.
Wrapping his hand around the soft inside of Morty's thigh to shove it higher
makes Morty shriek, and Rick pulls away. His hand is covered in tacky blood,
slowly clotting and salty with sweat. Wrapping his hand around Morty's arm to
soothe him, he grinds deeply around the boy's prostate until the sounds he
hears are pure pleasure.
He's left a near perfect handprint around Morty's bicep, like primary-red
fingerpainting, and the sheer possessiveness of the sight on top of the rest of
the numerous marks covering the small body is almost too much for him to
handle.
Christ, he's definitely going to come soon. He falls further over the boy,
tonguing at the bite on Morty's neck and running a coated finger over his bite-
bruised lips. Fuck he looks so good in red. How has Rick never noticed that
before?
Rick's eyes slip closed, his hips starting to stutter as his orgasm creeps
closer from the edges of his mind.
Ow, Jesus! That little fucker just about bit through his knuckle!
“R-rick! You-you're not listening! I-I'm gonna come. Please! Rick, ha -- have
mercy!" Morty sobs out, his toes curled up tightly as he tries to get Rick to
listen to him. "Let me, l-l-let me come, please!"
Long, dexterous fingers grab hold of the flesh just below both of Morty's
knees, forcing his legs even tighter to his chest and, though that isn't what
he wants, Morty can’t complain. All he can do is choke out gasp after broken
gasp as Rick forces his cock in even deeper, hitting spots that Morty hadn't
even known existed.
He wants the sight to match the sensation though and, despite being a strain on
his already screaming muscles, Morty forces himself to lean forward and look
down between their bodies. He can see where they’re joined. He can see Rick
sliding in and out of him just as easily as he can see the clench and release
of Rick's muscles as he flexes forward, in and out, driving Morty to the very
brink with the sort of fluidity that feels utterly impossible.
Unable to watch for a second longer without losing his mind, Morty throws his
head back. He ignores the burst of unpleasant pain when he succeeds only in
slamming his skull back against the unforgiving carpet, crying out Rick's name
as he does so. It’s a high pitched sound, broken and wanting, but Rick doesn't
seem to care in the slightest. He just picks up speed, pounding his length into
the brunet's loosened hole with renewed energy, and Morty is unable to do
anything but take it.
His grandpa continues on that way for a while, alternating between hard, deep
thrusts, and arrhythmic, deliberately uneven rolls of his hips, effectively
driving Morty to the brink and making him squirm as much as humanly possible
beneath Rick's hold.
But there is only so much the teen can take.
His cock is aching, bouncing between them front and fucking center in-between
his legs, and every time Rick even so much as brushes up against it Morty is
positive that he'll explode. The ring feels too tight, like it’s strangling his
dick, and when tears start to leak from Morty's eyes he knows it’s because he’s
about to lose control.
He chants Rick's name like a mantra, looking up at him with helpless green eyes
as he begs the older man to take it off.
Rick growls low in his throat and suddenly releases one of the brunet's legs.
He claps a single bloody palm over Morty's mouth, effectively shutting him up,
and throws himself into their coupling. Rick's thrusts are more brutal than
ever, forcing him up the carpet and giving his back a good case of rug burn,
but Morty doesn't even care. His eyes are practically rolling back in his head,
the burn spreading through him and infecting his blood like a poison as he
grabs Rick's forearm and digs his nails in.
Without warning, Rick hitches his leg up, hooking Morty's knee over his
shoulder to free his hand. The angle is unexpected, making Morty whine behind
Rick's hand. When his grandpa leans forward though, forcing a sharp amount of
strain on his hamstrings while throwing his hips forward, slamming into him
hard and fast as he holds his face to the floor by the hand covering his mouth,
Morty loses it.
He screams against Rick's palm, hooking his other leg around the older man's
waist and digging his heel into the bottom of Rick's back. Tears stream freely
down his face and, despite being muffled and all but impossible to understand,
he pleads with Rick to let him finish.
The older man must hear him though because seconds later Rick is reaching
between them and making a grab for the ring squeezing his cock. Morty whines
desperately, his dick bobbing when Rick's hand gets close, and the second he’s
released Morty flat out sobs with relief.
"Come," Rick growls. "Come now or not at all."
Morty tries to hold on, he really does. He clenches down hard, holding on and
fighting a losing battle for control. Losing, and then lost. The tide crashes
over him, tumbling him like driftwood, leaving him washed up and devastated as
he comes without a single touch.
Rick's hand comes off his mouth the moment he finds his voice and, if Morty had
been more aware, he’d be embarrassed by the sounds he makes. The teen sings
like a canary, his cry breaking drastically in multiple places as he empties
himself between them, coming harder and more fully than he ever has before.
Rick is right behind him, unable to hold off a second longer as Morty clenches
around him like a fucking Chinese finger trap. The kid is still shrieking and
twitching as Rick pulls out roughly, fisting his sore cock as he comes, adding
more stripes of white to the mess he's already made of Morty's body. The teen
is covered from head to knee in layers of blood, sweat, come and tears, layered
over a spiderweb of burns, cuts, and bruises. He looks like he’s been worked
over by an escaped chain gang.
He manages to collapse beside Morty on the carpet as his legs give out, burying
his face in his arms. Groaning lightly, he realizes the haze of endorphins from
his orgasm have already started to give way to the protest of his joints and
abused muscles. With it comes the cold hard glint of sober reality he's been
trying to avoid.
What in the ever-loving fuck was that, Sanchez?
This was supposed to be a variation on the kind of shit Jerry would pull out on
a particularly desperate Valentine's Day to try to grab a shred of Beth's
interest. A little wax, some light bondage, another lesson in teaching his
grandson the importance of asking clearly for what he wants during sex. Orgasms
all around, and have Morty be less of a distracted, jumpy mess when he helps
Rick in the garage that night.
He guesses it's fair to say that Morty's masochistic streak runs a lot deeper
than he'd initially thought. Hell, deeper than either of them probably could
have imagined. But fuck, he'd let himself get way too fucking carried away, and
it was-
It was the best sex you've had in years, you fucking sadist.
He's never been one for the vanilla spectrum and, given Morty's rampant and
growing porn addiction, this is hardly the first taste of the wilder sides of
sex he's introduced him to, but this is ten and twelve steps beyond a little
spanking and name-calling.
Morty's silent beside him, his voice seemingly lost after that last desperate
sound wrenched itself from his throat. If it weren't for the steady rise and
fall of his chest (and the fact he'd seen Mortys survive far worse injuries)
Rick might have had a moment of panic. Still, just because there's nothing
wrong with him physically, nothing that Rick couldn't patch up in half an hour
at any rate, doesn't mean he hasn't done some irreparable damage.
He raises a hand to reach towards Morty and pauses, realizing it's still tacky
with blood and semen. Wiping it haphazardly on the ground beside him,  clears
his throat and opens his mouth to try again, only to realize he has no idea
what in the hell to say.
'Are you OK' seems like the stupidest question in the world, surpassed only by
'Do you hate me?'
Pulling his shit together, he sits up, looking down at the boy beneath him and
running his still sticky hand through his hair as he says the one sentence he
had hoped he'd never have to utter in this relationship.
“We should probably talk about this, huh.”
Laying on Rick's bedroom floor, ass empty and skin burning, Morty swims through
a pool of unimaginable bliss. His thoughts are slow, like each one is saturated
in the endorphins flooding through his system, working through a lake of pure
molasses and fighting to make headway.
But Rick's voice still manages to break through.
Morty hears it loud and clear through the fog of his afterglow. His voice seems
hesitant, like talking is the very last thing that Rick actually wants to do,
and the fact that he’s suggesting it before the sweat can even cool from their
bodies has Morty's endless swell of pleasure evolving into a rapidly growing
sense of anxiety.
What the fuck did they just do?
The teen's eyes snap open, glassy and far away but still somewhat focused, and
he stares at Rick's ceiling.
He begged Rick to hurt him. The wax was one thing, craving the burn, begging
for what Rick already planned to do to him, that was one thing. But where
they'd ended up... That was something different. He'd deviated from the plan,
took advantage of the introduction of the knife and begged Rick to cut him.
He'd pushed farther than he ever expected, pleading for things that sounded
absolutely insane in retrospect.. But his mind had never felt so clear.
Aside from the anxiety brought about by the idea of actually talking about what
happened between them, the edge of panic that usually rides Morty's
consciousness is gone. The weight he carries on his shoulders, day in and day
out, about his choices and his life and his mistakes is lightened. The cruel
voice in the back of his head that constantly says he’s worthless and ugly is
strangely silent and Morty finally feels like he can breathe.
That isn’t to say that Morty doesn’t feel like a freak. Because he does.
There’s definitely something wrong with him and the teen is terrified that he's
just shown it to Rick. The idea that Rick might cut him off, that he'll say
it’s too much and not what he signed up for when they silently agreed to fuck
on a regular basis, has Morty wracked with fear. He doesn't want to lose the
pleasure he's just discovered but he doesn't want to lose the fucked up
relationship he has with Rick even more and the thought of losing both has
Morty unshakably afraid of the conversation to come.
"Wh-what is there to talk about, Rick?" Morty asks, keeping his gaze firmly on
the ceiling.
But Morty can feel Rick's eyes on him.
Their icy scrutiny burns through him more efficiently than the wax and, when
Morty finally succumbs to the pressure and looks over to meet Rick's stare, he
knows the older man has seen through his flimsy deflection without even trying.
Tears immediately pool in Morty's eyes and threaten to spill over. Rick can see
right through him, Morty knows it. He's always been able to see through him and
Morty doesn’t know why he'd even bothered to lie or try and cover it up. Rick
deserves his honesty. If they were in this, then they should've at least been
in it together. In that moment, Morty can’t imagine anything more cowardly than
lying about his wants and needs to the man teaching him about his sexuality.
The tears slip free of Morty's eyes and, when he opens his mouth to speak, the
truth comes rushing out in a jumble.
"I d-didn't expect to like it th-that much. But -- but then y-you cut me on
accident and it felt good and I-I-I wanted so much more and I just..."
Morty looks to Rick with parted lips, his mouth opening and closing like he
wants to say something but doesn't know what. And what exactly can he say? Is
he supposed to ask Rick if he’s broken? Or is he supposed to ask if Rick
enjoyed it too? Does he ask for more? Or say that they never have to go that
far again? Morty doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything and he desperately
looks to Rick to take the lead and guide them both as he always does, but Morty
also knows the rules of the game.
Honesty is rewarded. Fortune favors the bold. There’s no reward for shame or
cowardice.
"It was... the best sex... I've never come so hard in my -- in my life, Rick.
I..." Morty swallows and forces himself to meet Rick's eyes, feeling like he’s
about to jump off a cliff as the honest truth lingers right on the tip of his
tongue.
But Morty takes the leap anyway.
"I want more. M-maybe not that intense right away... B-b-but I want more."
"If you do." He quickly adds on.
Rick stares at Morty silently in disbelief.
How the fuck can the kid say that now? Now, when his voice is raw and throaty
from screaming, when he's gazing up at Rick through tear-streaked eyelashes
because he's probably in too much pain to sit up to Rick's level.
But there he is, shyly asking for more, even as he begs to back it up and spare
himself for a while.
Has he really done such a number on the kid in the few months they've been
screwing around? Or did he start this earlier, when he first started
cultivating Morty's desperate need for attention of any sort to fit his needs
and shitty moods.
Rick is tempted to tell Morty it was over right now. To get up and walk away.
To pull out his phone and snap a picture of him just like this, to remind him
of just how close he came to ruining the boy forever. To spend the rest of his
days as far away from the kid as he can, shamefully masturbating to a photo of
his wrecked and bloodied grandson.
Once more the dark, bloodthirsty part of him perks up, quiet and sated for for
now, but still purring ideas about what could be if this isreally what Morty
wants. If he really did want Rick to build him up and tear him apart on a
regular basis. If this isn't just something he's done to warp the kid, but a
deep and twisted compatibility, just like all the other ways Morty conveniently
slots in his life.
And so what if it is? The voice whispers. May as well reap what you sow.
Fuck, he needs a drink. He needs all the goddamn drinks, and most of all he
needs Morty to stop looking at him like that. Fumbling for his abandoned lab
coat, Rick pulls out a healing serum. He hadn't expected to need the whole
thing for this evening's little adventure, but fuck if he isn’t almost looking
forward to the hangover he was going to spare the rest for now.
“We'll see,” Rick responds. And he was a parent long enough to know that's the
cop out answer for 'no'. 
It seems Morty is also at least partially clued in on what the term 'we'll see'
can mean because he instantly droops. ‘We'll see’ doesn't necessarily mean no
but it doesn't mean yes either. However, he isn't sure what else he can say. It
isn't like he can force Rick to do anything. Besides, if there was one thing
Morty knows about Rick it was that, if he pulled away and you made an attempt
to outmaneuver him through force or fancy word play he'd withdraw even further,
viciously guarded by barbed comments and icy indifference until he was far
beyond reach. 
So, backed into a corner and unable to do anything else, Morty simply frowns.
He looks away from Rick as the older man places the tip of the applicator gun
against his thigh and shoots him up with the healing serum. He can feel it
slipping through his veins, uncomfortable and vaguely cool as it heals the
damage. Morty's heart clenches with pained emotion as the map of Rick's
brutality is at least partially erased from his skin.
He really is a freak. 
Rick doesn't want to remember what happened. Rick apparently doesn't want him
to remember it either, like healing the damage will somehow make all of his
newfound desires go away. Morty doesn't think they will though. He can't stop
thinking about the pain and the mental release and how light he'd felt mere
seconds ago. He can't stop wishing that he could just whittle and beg Rick for
similar treatment in the future until Rick's answer was a firm yes instead of a
dismissive 'we'll see'.
But, most of all, Morty can't stop thinking that he really is broken. Too
broken even for Rick to handle.
The thought has tears prickling his eyes once more but Morty refuses to let
them fall. He wipes angrily at his face, trying to destroy the evidence of how
he feels. When he glances up and notices that Rick seems to be avoiding looking
at him anyway, Morty's heart breaks.
He did something wrong. He must've. Normal people don't want to be cut or hurt.
Normal people don't want to be fucked dry or to smell blood on their partner's
skin. Normal people don't want to be dominated and broken over and over by
their grandparents. He was weird, just as ugly on the inside as he is on the
outside, and if he knows it then Rick certainly knew it. Rick is a genius. Rick
can see through him in an instant. Rick has to know there is something warped
and rotten inside of him.
Maybe when he said they should talk he expected Morty to say that they went too
far. Maybe he expected Morty to be upset and, when he wasn't, when he realized
what a fucked up mess his grandson actually was, he closed the conversation
before it could get any worse. Maybe he didn't want to think about it. Maybe he
didn't want confirmation. Maybe he wanted to pretend that Morty was easier to
handle and that things were still normal and not a bloody mess in Rick's room.
Morty, is actively working himself into a full blown panic attack, feeling like
his mind is tearing itself to shreds.
It feels like something is wrong, something he can't place. He's never spiraled
so out of control in such a short amount of time, wracked with anxiety and
unable to breathe, and Morty doesn’t know what to do. He wants to ask Rick what
is happening but he doesn’t know how. Rick already seems upset, maybe not mad
but certainly bothered and firmly detached. He feels unreachable, and Morty is
drowning without a lifeboat. 
"You said I was good before." Morty blurts, glancing towards Rick and suddenly
wishing that he hadn't let himself speak up. But he pushes forward anyway. "Y-
you said that if I -- if I was good I could have another kiss... Can I...? 
The teen looks towards Rick's face, feeling his heart clench and twist at the
detached distance in the older man's features.
"Something is wrong," He whispers, pained and vulnerable. "I don't know what's
wrong b-b-but I really need a kiss. If... If you want me to go after that I
will but -- but please, Rick. Please don't say no again."
Rick watches as the last skin knits together along cuts, as bruises flush and
then pale, leaving unblemished skin in their wake. Without them, Morty looks
worse. Smaller. He doesn't look like he's survived something bravely, he's just
a kid, covered in a mess of blood and come and tears, looking confused as to
why he still hurts.
There's no way this was ever going to get fixed by a serum and a sedative, but
he's damned if he'll refuse a request to try. He'll mitigate what damage he
can, that's all he can do now.
Yeah, something's wrong, Morty. But it's not your fault.
He probably should have said that out loud, but his throat feels clenched and
raw. Leaning down to press a kiss to Morty's lips, he winces at the taste of
dried blood on freshly repaired skin. As soon as his lips meet Morty's the teen
is launching himself at him, wrapping arms around his shoulders and curling
into his body, desperately pouring his apparent anxiety into the offered
outlet.
Rick keeps the kiss light, pulling away every time Morty tries to deepen it
before returning with light brushes of lips and tongue. He runs his hands down
Morty's back, alternating slow strokes and small circles. Morty's shaking
starts to abate and his breathing begins to even out with the slow, steady pace
Rick is subconsciously suggesting. Raising his head, he ignores Morty's
protests and presses his head into his shoulder, running a hand through his
matted hair while he surveys the scene.
This hadn't exactly been a microchip assembly clean room a few hours ago, but
now it looks like someone shot a low budget horror movie in here. The sheets on
the cot are ripped and stained with blood.
The carpet isn't much better. Melted candles and flakes of wax are stuck to
everything, matching the globs of come spattered across the clothes and floor.
Perfect, he's made two messes for the price of one.
Wrapping his arm around Morty's waist and thighs in a disturbingly familiar
way, Rick groans and rises to his feet. Morty doesn't say a word about any
indignities of being carried bridal style, but his arms tighten further around
Rick's shoulders. He might still be crying into Rick's chest, he can't be sure.
The small body and frail limbs in his arms make the burn and creak of his knees
and the sharp hiss of the nail marks in his back feel even more obscene. The
kid is quiet as he walks them through the deserted upstairs hallway, eventually
setting him down on the bathroom counter and gently but firmly pulling his
hands away.
“Let's get you cleaned up, okay?”
"Okay."
The agreement feels vaguely disassociated, like he’s trapped inside of the body
as a mere spectator to the outside world, but Morty doesn’t try and fight it.
He just watches on from where he is -- behind the green eyes that are supposed
to be his -- feeling like he's somehow slipped into the Twilight Zone as Rick
puts a stopper in the tub and turns on the water for him.
The teen turns his head to the side, watching as Rick fiddles with the knobs
until the temperature isn't too hot or too cold, surveying the situation as he
dumps bubble bath under the steady stream along with a bunch of Summer's weird
bath oils. For some reason it feels weird to see Rick doing something so normal
and domestic. Even though he watches Rick do all sorts of normal, domestic
things day in and day out around the house, for some reason Morty finds himself
looking away for reasons he can't explain.
Maybe that's why he jumps when Rick returns to his side and starts running a
damp washcloth along his arm. It takes the teen totally off guard and he looks
to Rick, startled but open, as the older man gives him a quick wipe down. He’s
almost sad to see it all go. Rick is erasing their encounter even further,
wiping the tacky come from his belly with barely a hint of hesitation, removing
the bloody hand print from his arm without batting an eyelash.
He feels like he should be upset. In some ways he is. Morty liked the
handprint, liked the primal nature of it, liked the way it made his stomach
flutter to be claimed by Rick's hand in his own blood, but he also knows that
it couldn't stay. It was only temporary. Just like everything else.
Morty's focus wavers, his thoughts drifting lazily from one thing to the next,
but he’s still aware. He goes willingly when Rick ushers him into the tub and,
as he sinks into the warm water, unable to feel the sting of his burns, the
teen's heart also sinks. He should be happy, sitting in a bubble bath with Rick
doting on him. A few hours ago the idea would've made him sigh longingly,
wishing that something like that could actually happen, but now it just makes
him confused.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Morty doesn't know. He doesn't know why he feels so far away, doesn’t know why
he wants Rick to hurt him, doesn’t know why Rick is picking up the washcloth
and running it across his shoulders like he actually cares. This has never
happened before. Rick usually sends him on his way, no cuddling, no farewell
kisses, and that’s that. But this time is different, even to Rick. The older
man is treating him like he’s fragile and Morty doesn't know what to think
about that.
"Why are you here?"
The question feels blunt against his tongue, too blunt to be coming from his
own mouth. It sounds like something Rick would say, direct and to the point,
monotone and questioning. Morty doesn't like it.
"I don't mind. I like it. It feels nice. But why? You never do this sort of
stuff."
If Morty had been in a better state of mind he would've noticed his lack of
stutter but, as it was, he didn't notice. He just looks up at Rick from where
he is, surrounded by bubbles and nice smelling water, in search of answers.
Rick sighs. The kid just won't let him make this easy or simple, of course not.
That's half the reason they're in this mess now.
He still hasn't managed to impart the lesson to Morty that picking apart
complicated emotions usually only makes a mess, like taking a ball of yarn and
tangling it across a room in a three dimensional spiderweb. Rick has no energy
to try and explain the complexities of more intense BDSM they seem to have
tripped headfirst into after splashing in the shallows, and Morty doesn't seem
to have the capacity to absorb new concepts like 'sub drop' and 'aftercare' and
'complete and utter failure to engage in risk aware consensual kink' right now
anyway.
Still, the kid's right. The last person he probably gave this kind of attention
to was Beth, when she was small enough she only pretended to drown her rubber
ducks instead of asking him to make ones that would quack and thrash while she
did it.
So he bites down a sarcastic remark and gives the most honest answer he can
while fishing for the bottle of all-in-one shampoo in the corner of the tub.
“Just because I don't do it a lot doesn't mean I never do it. And what we did
tonight wasn't what we usually do either.”
Morty's still staring at him with glazed eyes as he starts to work a lather in
his matted curls. Choosing his words carefully, he still manages to trip over
them.
“You let me- I did some pretty... pretty rough stuff to you back there, Morty.
And if this makes you feel good after that, I'm-I'll do it.”
Morty acknowledges that Rick is right. What they did tonight isn't what they
usually did. It makes sense, in retrospect to his question, that things would
be handled differently. And itdid feel good. Good enough that Morty idly starts
to daydream about pain and bubble baths in equal measure.
Morty's eyes fall half mast and he lets out a breathy sigh as Rick's long,
spidery fingers continue to massage his scalp. It feels wonderful, to be taken
care of after being handled so roughly, and the teen simply lets himself fall
into it. He lets himself be soothed by the generic scent of cheap shampoo, lets
himself sink under Rick's spell as the older man cards soapy fingers through
his curls, lets himself exist without expectation.
The teen glances up at Rick when he feels a gentle hand on his back as well as
his chest. He’s momentarily confused but, when Rick applies pressure, he slides
back trustingly and lets himself be positioned under the tap. Rick is
incredibly thorough. He shields the teen's eyes when he turns on the water,
protecting them from soapy run off, and he makes sure Morty doesn’t get cracked
in the skull by the edge of the faucet when he sits back up.
Sometimes it’s easy to think of Rick as somebody that'd already been a parent
once in their life.
Upon sitting up, Morty looks to Rick once more and feels his heart jump a
little when he catches a shadow of the expression floating just under surface
of Rick's mask. It looks worried. Or maybe ashamed. It doesn’t look
indifferent, that’s for sure, and Morty wonders what it means.
"I felt good during the rough stuff, too, Rick." Morty says, suddenly
remembering that Rick had spoken to him a few moments ago.
The words feel heavy against his tongue but, for whatever reason, they seem
important to say. And he means them of course, that also seems important, but
Morty is surprisingly more concerned for Rick than himself.
"But I like this too. I always like when you're nice to me."
The words are too personal, too true in Morty's heart, but his filter is under
maintenance and he still feels weird. The brunet decides that it doesn't really
matter. The worst Rick can do is tease him and then just not give him this sort
of treatment again. Which, all things considered, doesn't feel like that big of
a loss considering he's never had it before now anyway.
With that thought in mind, Morty simply drapes himself halfway over the tub,
enjoying the cool porcelain against the phantom heat still radiating from the
wax that'd been dripped on and peeled from his skin.
Letting Morty rest in the water a minute, Rick steps away, running a final
reassuring hand through the boy's hair. Kneeling by the tub hasn't done his
aching joints any favors, and even as he cleaned Morty up he still felt filthy.
Ignoring the crusty washcloth floating in the tub, and the sickly pink tint the
bathwater has taken on, Rick stretches and stands up in search of a new one.
Scrubbing roughly at his own chest, Rick grimaces down at the mess of dried
blood and come tangled in his pubes. Fuck, it looks like a crime scene.
Can't rape the willing, Ricky boy.
He doesn't know what the fuck he wants.
Rick rifles through the first aid supply on hand in the medicine cabinet and
snorts at the pitiful selection of painkillers. No antibacterials either. He'll
just pour a shot of vodka over the cuts on his shoulders later. He can probably
spare one.
But he said he liked it.
He's high out of his mind right now, and I intend to follow his example as soon
as possible.
He considers joining Morty in the tub to try and soak out some of the ache in
his muscles, and wipe the last layer of grime from his skin. As soon as he
looks over though, he knows he couldn't bring himself to invade the tiny
sanctuary he's managed to create for the teen. Morty's eyes are slipping closed
as his head lolls against his arms, and Rick is full of fantasies of sliding
into that warm water with its fading layer of bubbles behind him, of wrapping
his arms around that too-small chest and burying his nose against that set of
teeth marks the serum wasn't quite strong enough to erase entirely.
Instead he clears his throat lowly, and fixes what he hopes is a comforting
smile on his face when he gains Morty's heavy-eyed attention.
“Hey Morty, ready for bed?”
There’s something about Rick's smile that seems fake. The expression feels
wrong somehow, like the tilt of Rick's lips and the softness of his voice are
more of a distraction than a genuine display of how he actually feels, but
Morty isn't surprised.
Rick so rarely put his actual emotions on display. Morty doesn’t expect this
time to be much different.
And really, in the state of mind he’s in, who’s he to judge how things actually
are? His own perceptions are wracked with inaccuracy. His thoughts are the
unreliable narration of his own story and, all things considered, Morty tries
not to put too much stock in them. Instead, Morty occupies himself with the
crackle of popping bubbles as he moves and the ripple in the water around him.
He focuses on how heavy he feels as he stands.
Water rolls off his skin effortlessly, dripping back into the tub to become a
single entity once more, and when Morty steps out he’s surprised to realize
just how sore his muscles are. The physical signs are gone but the pain is
still there. It’s hidden under the surface, like a well concealed secret, and
it reminds Morty of his well-hidden relationship with Rick. Like unseen strain
hidden under re-knitted skin, their family looks just as normal from the
outside.
Morty makes a pleased sound when Rick wraps him up in a towel and he burrows
into it. The fabric is soft but still partially coarse against his skin. Morty
doesn't hesitate to gently rub it against his cheek as he trots along beside
Rick, not wanting the older man to leave without him. He idly wonders about the
tub, wonders if Rick will go back to drain it or if he'll just leave it for
somebody else to deal with. It seems like something he should be worried about
but, if Rick doesn't care, then Morty doesn't have the capacity to care about
it either.
When they arrive at his bedroom Rick opens the door for him but Morty doesn't
cross the threshold immediately. His room feels alien, too chilly compared to
the bathroom, not nearly as dark or intimate as Rick's. He always feels like a
child here, surrounded by half the stuff he'd grown up with just rearranged to
make the room look like it has character. Like he has character. Now though,
looking at it through whatever filter has settled over his eyes since he broke
apart in Rick's arms, Morty doesn't see character at all. He sees loneliness.
He sees the remnants of early adolescence and small pieces of himself that he
still carried -- his love of space, his Rick-based enjoyment of science, his
sentimentality -- but nothing more than that.
The room lacks direction. It lacks confidence just as much as Morty does, and
suddenly it feels like a far more accurate description of his mind than Morty
wanted to think about.
Not wanting to be alone just yet, Morty tests the boundaries of Rick's patience
and asks, "Will you tuck me in and sit with me for a minute? It's okay if you
don't want to. I know you're busy, Rick."
Morty doesn't even look at him when he makes his pitifully reasonable request.
Rick's chest hurts just a little. Jesus, is he really still coming off as that
much of an asshole? He knows he fucked up, but he's really trying here. It
isn't exactly as if he's sending the kid off to bed without dinner- wait, shit.
That’s exactly what he’s doing. He completely forgot.
“Of course, Morty. I was planning on it. I was just going to run downstairs and
grab us something to eat. Can you wait here for me?”
Morty nods, tension suddenly lining his shoulders again as Rick gives them a
squeeze before he steps through the doorway. Rick turns and walks as quickly as
could still be written off as nonchalance to an outside observer. He doesn't
look through the doorway of his bedroom as he passes, despite the lure of
pants, a mostly full flask, and his portal gun. He can feel a prickle on the
back of his neck as he passes, catching a splash of red from the corner of his
eye. 
Wandering through the kitchen Rick grabs a couple bottles of water and a can of
soda from the fridge, pouring through the cupboards for something with
moderately more nutritional value than a wafer cookie or sugared cereal.
Eventually he finds a battered orange and a couple of granola bars. Not exactly
a gourmet meal, but it's better than nothing. He debates calling for inter-
dimensional takeout but the eerie silence from upstairs makes him decide on
speed rather than quality.
He's about to slam the door to his cupboard shelf closed when he stops and
grabs the bottle of single malt he's been saving from the back. Seems as good
an occasion as he's going to get.
Climbing back up the stairs is a bitch between the cold of the drinks against
his bare stomach and the protest of his joints. Fuck, he should have grabbed
the kid some better painkillers from the garage. Oh well. Dropping the bottle
of whiskey on the ground outside of Morty's door, he sticks his head through
the door and grins.
“Oh shit, I got the snacks, dawg!”
Morty's curled into a ball on his bed, knees tight against his chest beneath
the covers, and he looks more than a little stunned that he came back. Rick
decides not to take it personally. He's had his fill of that tonight.
Walking through the door, he drops his armful of mediocre provisions in the
center of the bedspread, and hip checks Morty further towards the wall so he
can sprawl on top of the blankets next to him. At least it looks like Morty's
still naked too. Seeing the teen in pajamas always makes him feel like more of
a pervert than he usually does, and that's kind of the theme of tonight's party
already.
Morty waits for Rick to get settled in beside him, watching as he props a
pillow up behind his back and sits up against the wall. Rick somehow manages to
look both tense and at ease simultaneously. It takes less than a minute for the
older man to get comfortable but, to Morty, it feels like far longer than that.
The moment Rick settles in, Morty leans up against him. He nestles in against
the side of Rick's leg and rests his cheek on his grandpa's thigh, smiling to
himself at the soft tickle of hairs against his cheek. Maybe it should seem
more sexual than it is, especially considering that they’re both naked and his
face is less than a foot away from Rick's uncovered dick, but the moment
doesn't feel sexual in the slightest and Morty enjoyed that facet of...
Whatever this is.
Morty jumps a little when Rick's fingers touch his face, not expecting the
contact, but he falls into the sensation almost immediately. Rick's fingers are
light against the side of his cheek, fleeting as they ghost over his skin, like
he’s tracing his features, and when Rick's thumb brushes over the tips of his
eyelashes Morty has the strangest urge to simply lean in and nuzzle at Rick's
partially open palm.
He doesn't though.
It feels too intimate, like something lovers would do. Morty tries to ignore
the ache in his chest that comes along with that distinction and why it doesn't
apply to them in the least.
As if Rick can sense his mood, the older man runs his fingers through Morty's
curls just the way he likes and the anxiety building up inside recedes just as
quickly as the fleeing tide.
"You hungry, Morty?" Rick asks.
The teen opens his mouth to say no, not feeling hungry in the least, but the
moment food legitimately crosses his mind Morty suddenly realizes how starving
he is.
"Yeah, a-actually." Morty replies, watching with greedy eyes as Rick reaches
out to pick up the orange he'd brought from downstairs.
Watching Rick peel an orange is a surprisingly mesmerizing sight. He doesn't
peel it in chunks like most people do. He peels it in a thin spiral, starting
from near the top and working his way down, and when he gets to the middle he
rips the curling peel and sets it aside. Morty is confused as to why he's
stopped in the middle so suddenly but, when Rick gently coaxes the orange open,
removing the core and helping to loosen the sections up, he realizes that his
grandfather has effectively made a small fruit bowl with half the rind still
intact.
It’s totally unexpected and Morty continues to remain in awe of it right up
until Rick wiggles one of the pieces free and offers it to him with his
fingers.
He could take it of course. He could easily feed it to himself but it’s so much
easier to just lean forward and bite off half of it while the end is pinched
between Rick's fingers.
And Rick doesn't seem to mind. At least Morty doesn't think he does.
Sweet flavor bursts to life across Morty's taste buds and the brunet hums in
pleasant satisfaction, quickly chewing and swallowing before eagerly going for
the second bite. His lips brush Rick's fingertips as he steals the second half
and, for no reason other than the fact that he wanted to, Morty finds himself
licking his lips as he pulls back for that exact reason. The pads of Rick's
fingers taste bitter from the rind but Morty doesn’t mind. Rick himself is a
bit bitter, like strong coffee or unsweetened cocoa, and the teen finds the
taste more appropriate than he should.
They remain quiet for what feels like a long series of moments, each portion of
time measured by how long it takes for Morty to finish each slice of orange. It
feels comfortable like that, almost as if it’s a necessity to his enjoyment,
but in the end Morty longs for the roughness of Rick's voice.
He longs for it almost as much as he desires the answers to his unspoken
questions.
"Hey Rick?"
Rick acknowledges him with a sound, opening the floor to whatever he wants to
say, but Morty doesn't speak up right away. He takes his time. He steals the
last bite of orange from between Rick's fingers instead and, allowing himself
to be just the slightest bit bold, he brushes the very tip of his tongue
against Rick's pointer finger as he sucks the bite free of his companion's
hold.
Morty chews, considering his question with care, but when it comes right down
to it there is no gentle way to ask what he wants to know. He can't put it
lightly, can't phrase it better, all he can do is ask and wait for an answer.
Though, Morty has a feeling that Rick will appreciate his bluntness far more
than he would've enjoyed any sort of beating around the bush.
"Am I a freak, Rick? F-for y'know, liking that stuff from earlier? Am I..." Am
I broken?
Morty closes his eyes.
"Is there something wrong with me, Rick?"
Rick stares as the unreality of the situation starts to sink in. He's been
fucking his definitely-no-longer virginal teenage grandson six ways to Sunday
for months, and those are probably some of the less questionable positions he’s
put the kid in during their time together. He's turned the kid into a thief, a
hell of a liar, a spree killer, a smuggler, a polyglot, an unlicensed
paramedic, a nihilist, an accessory and accomplice to a laundry list of Rick's
own felonies, and apparently somewhere along the lines, a hell of a masochist.
And now the little minx is licking and nipping at his fingers like he wants to
start something again.
He can't help it anymore. He laughs.
Morty flinches at the sound, but his eyes fly open as he watches Rick laugh low
and deep, shoulders shaking, stomach twisting, the whole nine yards.
Rick clasps a heavy hand on the back of Morty's skull, dissolving into
something suspiciously similar to giggles.
“Yeah, you're a freak, kid. But there's nothing wrong with that.”
A wide smile breaks out across Morty's face at Rick's response to his question.
Everything is fine.
He is a freak, yes, acknowledged and confirmed by Rick, but somehow that’s
easier to swallow. Morty doesn't know how he would've reacted if Rick tried to
sell him some bullshit about being normal. It’d be a lie and Morty knows it.
Wanting to be cut up and getting off on that sort of thing isn't normal. Normal
people didn't think about that type of shit.
But he and Rick had never really been normal to begin with.
It wasn't normal to rip through the fabric of space and simply walk through it.
It wasn't normal to converse with alien races on a daily basis, wasn't normal
to constantly worry about another outbreak of highly infectious, memory
crafting brain parasites. It wasn't normal to be in a deeply problematic and
incestuous relationship with a family member. Especially one that could've been
his father twice over.
But that was just them and it had been for a long time.
And Rick says it’s okay.
Rick wouldn't lie to him, not while he was so obviously vulnerable. Rick is an
asshole but he isn't a monster and Morty trusts him.
Wiggling an arm behind Rick's back and around his waist, Morty captures his
grandfather in a partially awkward hug and nuzzles his little face into the
older man's side.
Relief courses through Morty's veins and he can physically feel the tension
fleeing his body like shadows from the rising sun. Rick, for as callous and
emotionally constipated as he can be, seems to always know just what to say
when it really matters.
"Thanks, Rick." Morty mumbles, smiling to himself as he releases his grandpa
and settles back against his thigh. He stretches out, sprawling shamelessly
across the majority of his small twin bed as he hugs Rick's thigh and looks up
at the man in question with a sleepy, trusting little smile.
"Will you feed me granola too?"
Still chuckling, Rick reaches down for the pile of food, bringing up a bottle
of water.
“Sure, Morty. Just drink some water first.”
The kid is practically a puddle against his leg now, and it looks like he's
twenty seconds from REM sleep. Rick's dick resolutely does not twitch at the
sight of his pliable and warm body, smiling into his hip like he's the world's
boniest teddy bear. He's also definitely not affected by the easy way Morty
stretches his neck and effortlessly chugs most of the bottle Rick places to his
lips, like his gag reflex and the need to breathe are both minor annoyances
that he worked out long ago. ...Well, obviously not too long ago.
Pulling the bottle back, Rick drains the last of it before chucking it to the
floor. He reaches for the granola bar to unwrap it, when he notices Morty's
breathing has gone slack. Looks like the kid's finally passed out.
Sliding his leg free, the teen protests in his sleep, trying to tighten his
grip. Rick manages to slip off the side of the bed, and scoops Morty up again
before settling him further under the covers. He leaves the remaining drinks
and granola bars on the nightstand and chucks the orange slices in the trash by
Morty's unused desk. Looking back as he flips off the light, he sees Morty curl
around his pillow, holding it tightly in the same way he had Rick's leg a
minute before.
Rick closes the door quietly, and grabs the single malt from the carpet as he
trods back to his room. The red wax of the bottle's seal cracks and joins the
rest of the white flakes and red stains littering the floor.
***** Fallout *****
Chapter Notes
     Apologies for chapter two taking so long! This poor chapter has been
     stuck in editing and beta limbo for literal months, and we're both
     delighted that it's finally seeing the light of day.
     Please note that fic tags have been updated. However, there is one
     instance of self-harm that we made the decision not to tag the fic as
     a whole for in this chapter for reasons. If you are concerned about
     potentially being triggered, additional details are available in the
     chapter notes at the end.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It’s been four days since that night.
Three days since he woke up and found Rick missing.
Two days since he found the courage to go in Rick's room without permission,
finding all evidence of what happened gone and swept under the rug.
One day since he started entertaining the idea that Rick might not come back.
Morty steadily wears a hole in the carpet of his room as he paces back and
forth, ruining his fifteen day streak of not biting his fingernails. He has no
idea where Rick is, no idea where he could've gone, and Morty is starting to
feel like he’s slipping away. He hasn't gone to school, hasn't left the house,
hasn't eaten more than he has to, and all he thinks about is Rick. Rick and
where he might be. As terrible as it is, it’s a good enough distraction for not
thinking about how pathetic he is for crumbling without RIck in such a short
amount of time.
His thoughts start off simple enough, as they have the past couple of days. He
runs though all the obvious ideas he’s already considered -- Rick went to the
liquor store and got sidetracked, Rick is out on business, Rick is meeting with
a shady contact he doesn't want Morty to accidentally end up crushing to death
in a random Federation outpost. Then come the more obscure ideas -- Rick is
trapped in some unfortunate circumstance after a solo adventure gone awry, Rick
ran into Unity somehow and is currently engaging in God knows what with
whatever the entity managed to assimilate for him this time, Rick fucked up his
portal gun and is trying to fix it. He’s even entertaining the standard worst-
case scenario ideas more frequently than he has before -- Rick is in prison,
Rick is dead, Rick fled to another dimension without him.
But then, as he paces and tries not to let his thoughts wander too far, the
darker ideas he tries to avoid come to light. They’re the type of ideas that
creep through his mind like a cancer, infecting everything and making Morty
feel even crazier than he already does. He thinks that maybe Rick doesn't want
to deal with such a freakishly complicated Morty so he went and found a new
family instead. A family with a regular, vanilla Morty that wouldn't ask to be
cut up like a piece of meat. Maybe the Rick that hurt him wasn't his Rick at
all, maybe they were an imposter that'd taken one last jab at the rogue while
they still could as his Rick was laying mangled and half dead in a ditch
somewhere. Maybe Rick was reaffirming his edge of control by staying away and
driving Morty out of his mind until he could come back and have Morty be putty
in his hands for fear that he'd leave again.
Maybe none of what he remembered actually happened and Rick is just out being
Rick.
Unease sweeps through Morty to the point where it leaves him physically
nauseated. His midsection is cramping, twisting hard enough to make the teen
legitimately worry about losing the contents of his stomach, and, to distract
himself further, Morty forces his mind back to the morning after his last night
with Rick. He immerses himself in it, reliving those early moments of naivety
over Rick’s absence while also denying that he’s also trying to remember
anything his past self might have missed.
He was met with the smell of buttermilk pancakes.
Even from all the way upstairs, he can make out the tantalizing aroma of melted
butter and warm syrup. A loud rumble from his belly brought back the reality of
his desire for food and, in a surprisingly good mood even where good moods are
concerned, Morty chuckles as he throws back the covers and slips into the first
shirt and pair of pants he can find laying on the floor.
He’s not sure if they look good together but, since it’s Sunday and he doesn't
have anything else to do after, Morty doesn't really mind and he treks
downstairs with a pep in his step.
He feels lighter than he has since the very first time he slept with Rick.
Morty can still remember how relieved he was then; when they’d finally stopped
dancing around each other. When he was able to start thinking about his
unnatural attraction to his grandpa as something shared rather than some dirty,
unspoken secret that he'd probably be stuck talking about in a therapist's
office thirty years down the road. At the very least, if that was the future he
was doomed to experience in a couple decades, he wouldn’t have lived that shame
alone. Regardless of the probability that Rick would probably be dead and
buried by that point anyway.  
Even so, easy-going and undeniably eager for breakfast, Morty can't stop
feeling like something fundamental has changed between last night and this
morning. Everything looks the same -- same house, same family, same yellow
shirt -- but it’s different somehow. It reminds him of the feeling he gets when
he and Rick are forced to abandon yet another reality and relocate. The more he
concentrates on it, the more it feels like a persistent hangnail in the back of
his mind -- a tiny, insignificant catch that keeps reminding him that things
isn't the same as they’d been the day before, or the day before that.
Only this time, instead of something as simple as being in another reality,
he's come to the unexpected internal conclusion that he’s a masochist and that
he gets off on being hurt by his sadist grandfather.
The blunt thought sends a shiver up Morty's spine. He tries to ignore the
familiar stirring in his groin as he finally reaches the dining room and
catches sight of his returned family. It isn't hard to ignore when he realizes
that he isn't the only family member missing from the table.
"Where's Rick?" He asks nobody in particular.
Summer doesn't bother looking up from her phone and his dad makes some sort of
noncommittal noise, one that tells Morty he doesn’t really care where Rick is
and that he’s probably happier than a pig in shit to enjoy his breakfast in
peace without being belittled by his father-in-law. Neither of those answers
are particularly unsurprising and Morty already half expected it from them. The
teen turned to his mom. If there was anybody even half as obsessed with Rick
and what he was up to enough to ask the old man where he was going, it’d be
her.
Her smile seems sympathetically apologetic though and, even before she opens
her mouth, Morty is 90% sure that she doesn’t know either.
"He hasn't come down yet, sweetie. But you know how your grandpa Rick is. He's
probably just sleeping or out on some adventure. Did you check the garage?"
Morty nearly snaps that, no, he hasn't checked the garage already. That he's
just woken up. Just come downstairs. That she should've known he hasn't checked
the garage because he would've had to pass right by her to do so. But he
refrains.
Instead, Morty takes her not so subtle suggestion and pads barefoot through the
kitchen, poking his head out into the garage in search of Rick. His stomach
twists a bit when he doesn't see him, but Morty assures himself that it’s fine.
The ship is still in the garage and all of Rick's stuff is still there. He’s
probably just sleeping.
But that doesn't quell his fear.
Morty tries to reassure himself regardless. He makes an effort not to be
anxious as he returns to the dining room, sitting down at his usual spot like
it’s any other day. When he looks down at his pancakes, he feels Rick's absence
more heavily than even a moment ago. Pancakes are Rick’s favorite and, without
him there, Morty is forced to admit that they don't look nearly as appetizing
as they smelled from upstairs. The teen idly hopes, for the sake of his
appetite, that Rick will suddenly appear with a witty joke and a snide comment
for his dad but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.
As the minutes tick by and the family slowly starts to drift away from the
table one by one, each going about their respective days, Morty decides to stop
holding his breath for Rick to reappear and he trudges into the kitchen to
scrape his plate. His pancakes are far beyond that critical point of syrup
absorption by the time they meet the trash.
The memory is just as unhelpful as it was the first time he recalled it and
Morty reaches up with shaky hands to gingerly prod at the spot on his shoulder,
going from anxious to panicked when the dull, aching pain he's been using to
remind himself of the other night turns out to be nothing more than the
slightest twinge of discomfort. Morty's eyes dart over to the orange peels he'd
pulled from the trash like the pathetic, needy soul that he is. He re-imagines
Rick's fingers, imagines them peeling it so steadily just above him, imagines
him being fed the fleshy inside, but a flicker of doubt niggles in the back of
Morty's head.
It asks him why Rick would do such a thing. Why he'd be nice, why he'd peel
something as meaningless as an orange with such poise and grace. It whispers
doubt into his ear more easily than the serpent to Eve and, as Morty starts to
legitimately wonder if he'd simply imagined it, if it’d all been a dream, he
feels himself sink that much deeper into uncertain instability.
 
===============================================================================
 
If you're a Rick, and you want to go on a self-destructive bender without the
hassle of actually finding a shithole with adequately strong liquor, drugs, or
whatever other vice you're intent on overindulging in to numb the fucking noise
in your head, there's no better place than Sector 7S in the Citadel of Ricks.
Or at least, that's what the brochures say.
And it's true. The drinks are strong as shit, the drugs are pharmacy-grade
pure, nobody sticks their fucking nose in your business, and 'over-serving'
laws are non-existent.
It's a little bit like Disneyland though, in a way. You're less likely to end
up lying dead in a ditch than if you'd pulled that shit anywhere else. You'll
just wake up in a Citadel medical facility with a smirking Rick cracking shots
about how he's had Mortys that can handle their liquor better.
The other thing about going on a self-loathing bender in the Citadel of Ricks
is that you have to stare at your own fucking face the entire time. You can't
get away from it. But you can usually find another Rick in the exact same state
that's willing to mutually try to kick your teeth in behind the bar.
So in the end, Sector 7S - or the Seven Sins District as it's rather hackily
nicknamed - appeals mainly to a certain kind of Rick, looking for a very
specific type of bender. Rick chose it over some other popular options for a
single reason: you'll almost never see a Morty in Seven Sins. As deep as a
Rick's self-destructive tendencies go, a Morty's trained and ingrained survival
instincts have them staying as far as possible from a place where instability
is encouraged to thrive.
“Are you Rick C-137?”
Rick groans, not pulling his head from the sticky bar where he's sat for...
three? Four days? Fuck, this place is worse than Vegas for keeping track of
time.
“Look buddy, f-find some other Rick to knock some teeth out for your pretty
necklace. I'm tired and my knuckles are still fucked up from the last guy.”
There's no reply, but the presence behind him doesn't vanish, just moves closer
and settles beside him.
“What're you, a fucking Jerry? I said piss off, I'm not open for business.”
“Well that's a shame,” the voice says, now close enough to his elbow that he
could probably just jab back with it and knock the wind out of this asshole.
Cracking open one eye, Rick's vision swims as he sees a Morty perched on the
bar stool next to him, waving down the robot serving as a bartender.
“Because I am. Open for business, that is.”
Rick sits up, rolling the knots out of his scabbed shoulders, and assesses the
Morty at the bar next to him as he knocks back the rest of his whiskey.
Plain yellow t-shirt and jeans, short hair, no makeup or jewelry. He probably
even has on boring cotton boxers if he's bothering to wear underwear.
“Aren't you a little plain to be a whore? I thought most of you Hooker Mortys
specialized.”
“A maid costume is a lazy substitute for acting skill. Plus, those garters
chafe like a bitch.”
The teen accepts the coke the bartender sets before him. Rick didn't notice if
there's anything added to it or if it's just a chaser. Taking a sip, the Morty
doesn't look at him as he asks, “Aren't you going to ask me my dimension
number?”
“What's your dimension number?”
Turning to face Rick, the Morty gazes up through dark eyelashes and adds a
slight quaver to his steady voice. “W-whatever you want it to be, Grandpa
Rick.”
Rick barks out a laugh. It's said with the dry, biting humor of a veteran
whore, and damned if he doesn't like it.
“You know who I am though.”
“Well of course,” the Morty says, gesturing to the Bartender to refill Rick's
glass. “You're the Rogue.”
Accepting the drink without a comment, Rick relaxes and leans back against the
bar.
“So what brings you to this neck of the woods then?” There are plenty of Red
Light Districts all over the Citadel, each of varying levels of repute, but 7S
is the kind of place where Ricks would rather beat the hell out of each other
until the loser finds himself choking on the victor's cock. There's no money to
be made, and plenty of opportunities to damage the merchandise.
“You, of course. One of my regulars came to see me with a busted jaw and three
cracked ribs yesterday, thought it would make it slightly more impressive if I
knew the Rogue was the one who did it.”
Rick snorts. Not at the idea of trying to impress a hooker, he could definitely
see that this Morty had his charms, but at the pathetic attempt to turn a
beatdown into a brag. “Well I hope you charged him extra.”
The Morty laughs, pushing his drink away and turning to place a hand high
enough on his thigh to be an unmistakable invitation.
“Enough to earn you a freebie. How about it?”
 
===============================================================================
 
After a few more hours of internal debate, Morty stands outside Rick's bedroom
door, staring at the plain, unassuming wood as he tries to figure out what the
fuck he’s doing and why.
It makes sense for Rick to be off somewhere. It makes sense that he'd be
pickled at the bottom of some bottle or neck-deep in the equivalent of alien
pussy. It makes sense for him to be dead or lost or trying as hard as he
possibly can to avoid responsibility. What doesn't make sense, though, is for
Morty to even entertain the idea that his last encounter with Rick had never
happened and was just a dream, further gaslighting himself into the depths of
ridiculous idiocy. And yet, of all the ideas he's rolled around his head,
that’s the one that sticks. That’s the one that really set him on edge and
makes him feel like he’s about to break out in a cold sweat any second. It’s
the one he fears the most.
So maybe he’s there for proof. Maybe he wants to find something that says ‘what
happened was real.’ Maybe he wants to be close to Rick somehow, or maybe he
just wants to know that the release he felt after being hurt wasn't something
he made up or imagined. Morty doesn't know. He doesn't know anything, and as he
reaches out and opens the door, taking a single step inside Rick’s room and
shutting it behind him, he lets that uncertainty guide him.
The room is clean, of course, just as he had known it would be. It isn't clean,
clean. Not tidy. It’s free of blood, clean. Lacking even a single flake of wax,
clean. Clean in the sense that if he was anybody else he wouldn't have the
faintest idea of what went on in this room just a few days prior.
Morty swallows heavily, trying not to think about what'd happen if he really
was just living in some fucked up daydream.
He tries to distract himself from that, getting on his hands and knees to
search for even a hint of blood in the carpet. He keeps his mutinous thoughts
at bay by hunting for the knife and the used candles, anything that'd convince
him that he isn't a nutcase.
But there’s nothing.
Nothing but the marks on his legs.
Biting his lip, Morty stands from where he’s kneeled down on the carpet,
ignoring the throb of renewed life and blood flow to his legs as he takes a
seat on the edge of Rick's cot.
There’s a part of him, a small part but a part nonetheless, that knows his
paranoia isn't entirely about Rick. Morty knows at least a portion of his fear
is about him -- his worries, his insecurities -- but it was far easier for him
to put the blame on Rick and make him the focus instead. Rick is always the
center of everything else, so why should this be any different?
But maybe he doesn't need Rick. Not for the sort of vindication he desires.
Morty barely hesitates before standing up and removing his pants, only doing so
for the illusion that he actually has enough self control to think about his
actions. The teen sits down and spreads his legs almost immediately, feeling a
crashing wave of relief go through him when he finds the fading cuts on his
thigh once more. They’re thankfully still there but Morty knew that wouldn't
last long. The marks will be gone soon and, thanks to Rick's stupid serum,
Morty knows they won't leave a scar. His skin will be just as creamy and
unblemished as it'd been before everything happened and that, though incredibly
handy for the majority of their other adventures, is the very last thing Morty
wants.
He wants those marks, wants to remember what happened. He wants the mental
release that'd followed just after his orgasm and the memory of Rick looming
over him, looking like he's hit the jackpot on his first spin. He wants
confirmation. He wants physical proof that he isn't making it up. And he
doesn't want the potential for what'll happen when those signs are gone and
he’s left wondering if any of it happened. Especially without Rick there to
confirm or deny.
Mouth dry, Morty prods at the faint marks just as he'd done with his neck,
imagining there was more pain, more time, than there actually was. But he knows
better. They'll be gone by tomorrow, maybe the next day at most, and he'll
probably never see them again. If Rick comes back and he asks about it, there’s
the very real possibility that Rick could just raise half a brow and ask him
what the hell he was talking about. And Morty would have nothing to refute that
denial.
The miniature nightmare has Morty right on the edge of hyperventilating but, as
he looks to the side and catches the shiny glint of a razor blade from of the
corner of his eye, he stills. It’s just sitting there, clean and ready to be
used to scrape the protective coating off the ends of Rick's wires. The
wickedly sharp edge make him feel curiously elated.
Morty's frantic heart calms.
If Rick isn't there to soothe him, then he'll find his own form of comfort. 
 
===============================================================================
 
Morty gasps as his back is slammed against the wall of his apartment, digging
his heels in deeper to the curve of Rick's ass as C-137 fucks up into him for
the third time that night.
Rick snarls as short nails dig into his shoulders in exactly the same place
they had days earlier, reopening closing scabs and sending a drop of either
sweat or blood down the center of his back. Squeezing again at the darkening
bruises that litter the Morty's hips, he raises a hand to slam it around the
teen's neck, pinning him to the wall like a butterfly on a cork-board.
Green eyes blown out to the size of saucers bore into Rick's, and a vicious
grin rips across the boy's face, the expression far more victorious than anyone
in his position has any sane right to look.
“Fuckin', just do italready, Rick. Don't be a pussy!”
Scabbed knuckles tighten around a pale throat with no hesitation, barely
allowing the coarse drag of air for a second or two before closing it off
completely. Even without air, Morty keens high in his throat, and Rick can feel
it vibrating through the vocal cords beneath his palm.
Rick curses, and drives his hips faster into the incredible heat above him. He
isn't going to last much longer, but Morty is dragging his eyes back from their
spot in the back of his skull and looking at him pleadingly, even as his lips
turn purple. Rick can trace the pattern of bursting blood vessels making their
way like freckles across his cheekbones.
Without a moment's thought, he pulls his hand from Morty's throat and backhands
him as hard as he can. The teen's head slams to the side of the wall with
enough force to reverberate down his spine. Morty comes as he sucks in a
desperate, rasping breath, clenching hard around Rick's cock and digging his
nails even deeper into those forming crescent-shaped scars, dragging Rick over
the edge behind him.
 
===============================================================================
 
Poised on the edge of Rick's bed with a newly sterilized blade in one hand and
the other pulling his skin taut, Morty is having a hard time focusing.
The tension coursing through his body feels different than the danger of the
blade Rick wielded. He’s less turned on for sure, his dick barely interested,
and Morty isn't sure that he can go through with his experiment. It feels weird
to be the one in control, to be the one in charge of his own sensation, and
Morty tries not to think about how much he wishes it was Rick.
Morty clenches his jaw at that last stray bit of thought. He doesn't need Rick.
If Rick isn't gonna be here to help him figure this shit out then he doesn't
need him anyway.
Fueled by his unanticipated anger for Rick and the indignance he feels at being
alone after such a startling revelation, Morty drags the edge of the blade
straight down the middle of the lone wide cut.
Pink lips part in a sharp gasp and Morty stares as his skin parts, watching as
blood beads to the surface and spills out, a bright splash of color against
ivory skin. The pain isn't as dulled by need this time but Morty knows his dick
is starting to get interested and, determined to push forward, Morty drags the
blade lightly over the top of the open wound once more.
Already he's made the cut deeper than Rick did the other night and that edge of
control, that difference between the two situations, is like gas on the
smoldering coals of a haphazardly banked fire.
Clasping the blade between his fingers, staring at the part in his skin, Morty
idly starts thinking of what he’s doing as him being willing to do what Rick
wouldn't, what Rick couldn't. In the sanctum of his own mind, Morty imagines
how fucked up he has to be to find the edge of Rick's limits, to out-do his
deranged grandfather in a ‘ Who's Kinkier’ contest, and he owns it. He lets the
seedy rush of victory drive him to trace over one of the other fading marks,
going two cuts deep on the first try, and he groans, watching the blood start
to drip down his thigh and onto Rick's carpet.
Now he has proof. All the proof he could ever need. There’s no way he made it
up, no way he could be this warped or unpromptedly creative. Rick was creative.
Rick knew what to do. Rick showed him the way. But Morty doesn't need Rick. Not
right now.
Morty bites his lip. His attention is caught between the trickle of blood
flowing freely and the sudden straining interest of his erection behind his
underwear as his stolen blade remains poised over one of the other cuts, ready
to go for round three.
 
===============================================================================
 
Rick collapses back on the bed that dominates the small studio apartment, and
the Morty falls off to lay beside him, coughing slightly and laughing emptily
at the ceiling. Glancing over at the bruised frame beside him, Rick has that
same slight itch under his skin telling him to wrap the boy in his arms until
their breathing returns to normal. It's easier this time to ignore it.
A small hand gestures loosely at the bedside table. “Can you pass me a
cigarette?”
Obligingly, Rick sits up, switching on the lamp as he digs through the pile of
condoms, lube, and nipple clamps in the nightstand drawer until he finds the
battered pack. Slipping two out, he fishes for a lighter in his abandoned lab
coat before turning back to the boy on the bed and stopping short.
In the light cutting through the shadowed apartment, Rick can clearly see for
the first time that Morty's chest and legs are littered with crisscrossing
scars. Some are white and faded with age, while others are still raised, red
and angry. Realizing he's staring, Rick sticks the cigarettes in his mouth,
lighting them before passing one to the teen on the bed and laying down again.
The Morty smirks and takes a long drag, immediately falling into a coughing fit
as it burns against his abused throat. Rick raises an eyebrow as he watches.
“You sure it's a good idea to smoke right now?”
The kid sucks in another lungful of smoke, nodding tightly before coughing it
out. “Oh yeah, if I do it right I'll feel it for hours.”
“Suit yourself,” Rick snorts, stubbing out his half-used cigarette on the
nightstand and standing in search of his pants.
A voice rises from the bed behind him. “You can ask, you know.”
He pointedly ignores it, shrugging on his undershirt and looking for his socks.
Sighing, the prostitute sits up, and points him in the right direction.
“You know, most Ricks aren't total assholes. They just want a Morty to hop on
their dick and beg for their approval. Maybe spank me a little once in a while
to watch me squirm. Which isn't bad, it pays the bills. It's just not my bag.
I'm so glad I heard you were in town.”
His sweater has a hole in it, but he throws it on as quickly as he can while
the Morty on the bed continues.
“It's been a while since I had a Rick that was total bastard.” Green eyes go
dreamy and a little unfocused. “My Rick was like that.”
Shrugging on his lab coat, Rick opens a portal and sneers back at the boy on
the bed.
“So nice to know I can live up to a Rick that leaves his Morty looking like a
Jackson Pollock painting.”
The hooker stares at him uncomprehendingly for a second, before starting to
laugh.
“You think he did this to me? Oh, honey, no.”
The Morty takes the smoldering stub of his cigarette and jams the lit end into
his shoulder, hissing as the smell of sizzling flesh permeates the room.
“I did this to myself.”
Rick turns and flees through the portal so fast he can still smell the scent of
singed hair when he steps through into his room.
...And face-to-face with his Morty, sitting on Rick’s bed with one hand
clasping a razor blade and the other digging fingertips into a bleeding gash on
his leg.
Time is suspended in that moment, like the entire multiverse is holding its
breath around them as Morty stares at Rick with wide, startled eyes.
He hadn't expected him to just appear. Which, in retrospect, feels exceedingly
dumb since that's what Rick does, but still. He hadn't expected it, hadn't
expected Rick to see him this way, hadn't expected to be caught in the older
man's room with blood on his hands and fear in his face.
He'd been too hasty in his decision to jump right in. He should've waited, but
as Morty thinks about how much time he'd already spent waiting without answers,
his face screws up in a frown.
That shift - the transition from startled to upset - seems to snap Rick out of
whatever thoughts he’s currently having and suddenly the older man is all but
yelling at him.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He snaps, on edge and obviously
perturbed, but Morty doesn't care.
He doesn't need to explain himself to Rick. Hell, if anybody should be
explaining, it should be Rick. Rick is the one who left for three days without
a word. Rick is the one who left him, confused and at the mercy of his own
mind. Rick is -
Finally yelling.
"Morty! I asked you a - a fucking question! What the hell do you think you're
doing?"
Morty's resolve over staying silent - playing the sullen and unspokenly wronged
teenager - suddenly snaps. In less than a second, Morty’s leaping to his feet.
He’s glaring up at Rick, angry, hurt, and ready to go toe-to-toe if that's
really what Rick wants, entirely oblivious to the blood running down his leg.
"I'm dealing with th-th-the mess you abandoned me in you inconsiderate dick!
What the fuck areyoudoing, huh? Wh-where have you been? Probably having a-a-a -
a grand ol' time while I was stuck here losing my goddamn mind and trying to -
to figure out what the hell to do with myself!"
In a flash Rick's hand shoots out and wraps around Morty's wrist, digging his
thumb into the back of his ring finger and twisting, breaking the teen's grip
on the razor still clutched, forgotten, in his balling fist. Rick almost breaks
his hand, too, and Morty cries out as the bones in his hands grind together,
forcing his posture into an awkward hunch to prevent his wrist from snapping.
“You stupid little shit ,” Rick seethes, barely seeming to notice the tears
starting to well in Morty's eyes. “You don't know what the fuck you're doing.
You really want to bleed out on this shitty carpet so fucking bad?”
Morty isn't looking at him, and Rick drops the portal gun to grab his chin,
forcing his eyes towards him with a little extra pressure on his joints.
“I leave you alone for a couple of days and you end up cutting yourself like a-
like a fuckin'-”
Like a 15 year old with a shitty home life and abuse issues.
“Like a fuckin' what, Rick? Huh? Like a fuckin' what!"Morty yells right back,
irate tears scalding his face as they escape the corner of his eyes and fall
down his face.
Taking advantage of the fact that Rick's grip on his wrist has gone somewhat
lax, Morty jerks his hand free. He tries not to think about how much he
preferred having that hold now that it’s gone. Instead, he reaches out and
shoves Rick with no real power behind it, feeling the walls he constructed to
keep himself in line during Rick's absence start to crack.
"A-a-and what was I supposed to think, Rick! What was I supposed to do! You
were gone! No -- no note, no warning. Not even a text, Rick! Nothing! And I
thought.. I thought.."
Morty shakes his head, the action somewhat awkward with Rick still holding his
chin, refusing to let that contact be broken.
Rick stares at Morty's face for a moment before letting go and stooping to pick
up the bloodied razor and the portal gun, lying abandoned on the carpet where
they fell. He sets them down with a heavy finality next to each other on the
table, an unspoken, vague threat implicit in the gesture.
When he does speak again, it's quieter, calmer, but still crackling with so
much barely concealed rage that it makes the air in the room feel tight.
“All right, Morty. Tell me what you thought. I'm genuinely fucking curious to
know for once.”
Taking a deep breath, Rick gestures around the room. “Because if you were
really concerned, there were a dozen fucking options you could have chosen. You
could have called the Citadel of Ricks on the phone I specifically left the
family for emergencies . You could have asked your fucking father for the shit-
eater's contact info and had him trace me. You could have just gone to your-
your precious school and tried to hit on that stupid redhead in your class. But
I am at a fucking loss as to why, out of all those fucking options, you chose
to sit on my goddamn bed and bleed yourself like stuck pig.”
There's an intensity to Rick, a blaring warning that even Morty's
underdeveloped sense of body language recognition skills can see and
understand, but Morty isn't backing down.
If anything, Rick's calm demeanor makes him that much angrier. And that much
more honest.
"I'm here because I thought you abandoned me." Morty hisses through clenched
teeth. "Because that's - that's what you do, Rick. When you don't wanna deal
with something, y-y-you leave it behind like a shucked off condom and go drown
in the - in the bottom of a bottle until you can swallow the guilt."
Morty barks out a laugh, the sound mean and unforgiving.
"Y-you had no issue ditching two other realities. One of them even had y-y-your
real family in it, so why should I be any different? You find out your Morty is
a -- is some sort of fucked up freak that you don't wanna deal with anymore so
you pet my hair a-a-and feed me some oranges and then disappear and move in to
some other dimension like a fucking hermit crab!"
"Is that so hard to believe, Rick? Is it!" Morty demands.
Morty doesn't wait for an answer though. Because he already knows the answer.
And he’s pretty sure Rick does too.No. No, it isn't hard to believe.
"No,” he says aloud, “It's not hard to believe. Because you've done it before.
Is that what you did for my mom, Rick? Did you tuck her in, maybe bring her a -
a snack, and then disappear for twenty years like it was nothing? Because that
what you did to me for three days! You left without a goddamn word and didn't
give a - a single shit about me or this bomb that just got dropped in my lap!"
"So I decided to figure it out myself. Without you! I don't need you t-t-to
figure my shit out you flighty old fuck!"
“Noooo, Morty,” Rick drawls sarcastically, looking down at the slow stream of
blood dripping from above Morty's boxers. “My mistake, you clearly don't need
me here at all.”
Pulling a roll of bandages from his coat pocket, he shoves Morty in the chest,
knocking him back on his ass, a harsher, less personal replication of the last
time he'd tripped the boy to the same bed. Morty squirms, clearly still pissed,
but he stills a little when Rick digs his fingers into his thigh warningly and
starts to wrap the bandage around the bleeding limb.
“So tell me, Morty. The bomb dropped in your lap was what, exactly? That you
get a hard-on when someone pulls your hair a little rougher than you'd thought
you'd like? Well excuuuseme for not recognizing that would shatter your world.
As you so rightfully pointed out, we've changed realities a couple times now, I
guess that's on me for thinking your tolerance for handling shit was a little
higher. And- and in case you didn't notice, Morty? I didn't disappear for
twenty years. I left for three measly Earth days. You can leave a cat to fend
for itself that long, but I apologize, it was clearly too much for you.”
Tying off the bandage a little tighter than was probably necessary, Rick looks
up at the teen, sprawled on the cot.
“And if I did? You should thank your lucky fucking stars if all that happened
to you was getting left here. Do you-you know what they'd do to you in the
Citadel, huh? Oh they'd love to get a hold of my Morty there. Sell you off the
highest bidder and beat the shit out of you every day until you call some fat
Rick-pig 'Grandaddy' while you bounce on his dick.”
Rick's voice is beginning to rise again, as he practically spits the last words
at the boy beneath him. Sliding the rest of his weight onto the cot, Rick grabs
ahold of Morty's chin again, and forces him to meet his gaze, inches from his
face.
“But if it'll put your mind at ease, Morty. I'll tell you why you don't have to
worry about that. Why I've dragged you across dimensions when I could just as
easily not do it. Because you're basically my fucking pet, at this point,
Morty. Complete with all the whining, begging for attention, and making a
fucking mess of all my shit.”
Morty's breathing hard now, but Rick can't tell if he's going to cry to take a
swing at him. Tangling his fingers in the teen's hair, he yanks on it.
“Well, speak up, Morty. Is that what you want, huh? To be grandpa's pet? To sit
my feet and get smacked around when you're bad and have me pet your hair and
tell you you're a good boy afterwards?”
"Maybe it is what I want!"
Morty hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to snap that far or speak that
loudly, but the walls holding it all back are gone. They’re ash in his hands,
soot against his skin that could no longer protect him, and suddenly everything
is pouring out like pus from a wound left to fester for far too long.
"Is that what you wanna hear, Rick?" Morty poses heatedly. "Do you wanna hear
me tell you how - how badly I want to be your little dog, Rick? Eating up
scraps of attention w-w-wherever I can get them? Lapping it up like I'm
starving when you humor me a-and give me a little extra?"
Morty leans forward as much as he can without actually touching his face to
Rick's.
"Because I do andI hate it."
Breaking the intensity of their connection, Morty looks away. He glares holes
in the wall, part of him wishing the entire house would just explode so he
didn't have to talk about his own feelings or the laughable desires he has for
somebody so unachievable.
"That's what there is, Rick." He says flatly.
There is no anger in his voice this time, no rage or resentment, just
acceptance. But it’s bitter. It’s the sort of acceptance that comes with being
diagnosed as a terminally ill patient, the sort of acceptance that comes with
no alternative.
"That's all I'll ever be to you, Rick. Some fucking pet. A tag-along. And if I
want your -- your attention and your... your fucking love, then that's what I
have to do for it. Be some desperate dog at y-y-your feet."
That hurt. It hurts to know it but it hurts so much more to say, and Morty
knows Rick will know it too. He can fake that sort of pain just as much as he
can hide it from the man above. Which is, of course, not at all.
Tears pool in Morty's eyes and his lips quiver as he parts them to speak but he
refuses to cry. He refuses to give Rick that as he says this. But he can hear
it anyway, even though the tears stay firmly in place.
"I'm some plaything you drag along and taunt a-a-and use when you're bored. And
I mean nothing to you. Even worse is that I know it!"
Morty reaches up and wipes angrily at his eyes.
"I'm not somebody you respect, Rick. I'm not somebody you listen to o-o-or care
about for more than how my presence benefits you."
Rick is too close, too close to him physically, emotionally, all of it, and
Morty can feel himself getting boxed in.
Panic claws itself up his esophagus like bile and partially digested food and
Morty is desperate to get away from it. In a flurry of lashed out limbs and
movement, Morty kicks out and pushes Rick as far away from him as he can before
clambering back, making a soft, hurt sound when his back meets the wall a short
second later.
Morty pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, making
himself as small as possible as he lays his forehead on his kneecaps and tries
to regain control.
But his control is gone. It’s nowhere to be found, and Morty’s body is heaving
like he’s sobbing even though he refuses to let the tears come.
So he tries to move away from his own insecurities, tries to move away from the
heart-aching cycle of take, take, take that he has with Rick and he tries to
move on to something easier. But where he ends up isn't any easier to talk
about, even if it still needs to be said.
"You have no fucking idea what the other night did to me." He chokes out. "You
have no idea what I was imagining while you were - while you were cutting me up
like a-a piece of meat."
Morty looks up and glares at Rick from where he is, all but daring the man to
try and interrupt him, but it seems that even the Rogue Rick doesn't have
enough balls to do it.
"I'm used to you pulling my hair and being rough! I can handle that! But y'know
what? That's different than wanting your partner to carve you the fuck up like
a Christmas ham, Rick! That's different then wanting your grandpa to gut you
like a-a-a fucking fish while he's balls deep inside of you!"
"You have no clue what sort o-of shit was running through my head or how much
more I wanted, Rick." He whispers, feeling that truth free itself from his lips
and the tip of his tongue like sharp burrs being ripped from clinging fur. "You
have no - no idea how I felt when we were finished."
But then there is anger once more and Morty clings to it like a sinking
lifeboat, knowing he won't win this argument anyway, no matter what he says or
how right he is. There is never any winning with Rick, not really.
"You have no fucking idea how I felt and where my mind was because you shut
down!" He accuses. "You opened the floor to talk a-a-and I tried to reach out
and you shut me down and then shoved me in the - in the tub!"
Rick is deathly silent, his hands clenching and unclenching against the empty
air beneath him, staring silently at Morty as he shakes and sobs dry, heaving
breaths a foot away. Suddenly standing, he spins and storms to the other side
of the room, digging through a box until he finds an unmarked bottle. Pulling
out the cork with his teeth, Rick chugs a good third of it, sinking into a
crouch and observing the hyperventilating teen from his perch.
“You can't - can't say shit like that, Morty. You have to- you have to stop,”
he chokes out eventually. “You can't keep lying there and begging me for more
when you have no idea what you're asking for.”
Even now, with the boy shaking and gasping against the wall, trying to hold
himself together, that part of Rick is screaming with delight at Morty's
imagery, telling him to take, break, consume, mark, claim, Mine.
Steadying himself with another drink, Rick glares at the shaking teen. “I'm-
I'm trying to protect you, you little piece of shit. And you keep begging me to
rip you apart.” He doesn't break eye contact as he takes a swig, treating Morty
like he's the dangerous one in the room, and continuing once the glass leaves
his lips.
“And I'd put you back together, Morty. And I'd love you for letting me do it.
But you- you wouldn't be the same anymore.”
The room is silent except for ragged breathing for a minute as Rick drinks and
Morty struggles to regain control of his limbs.
“You were supposed to be learning to say no, to the things I want to do to
you.” Rick mutters, draining the last of the bottle. “It's bad enough I did
this to you, all I can do now is stop.”
Swallowing even though his mouth is dry as a bone and not the least bit
interested in offering him anything to swallow, Morty holds Rick's gaze,
searching, trying to understand.But it’s hard. He feels more confused than
ever. It’s difficult to fathom the idea that Rick might've left to protect him,
that he might've fled because of what Morty was offering and how badly Rick
wanted to take it.
Rick isn't the sort of man that passes up what he wants. Their sexual
relationship is proof of that. The way he’s speaking though - the way his words
paint a scenario where Rick wants to take what’s being offered but where he
chooses to restrain himself for fear of damaging his grandson instead - isn’t
exactly something Morty stop trying to and twist around and misconstrue.  What
Rick is admitting to is entirely unselfish, and even though Rick hasn't said
anything in regard to Morty's words about his own feelings, Morty knows that
isn't how Rick would treat a pet.
After a long, heavily tense and drawn out moment of consideration, Morty
finally asks, "What about what I want, Rick?"
"You're talking a-about trying to teach me how to say no to you... But what
about when I want to say yes? What then, Rick?"
"The entire time we've known each other you've been content to - to treat me
like the village idiot, and I’ve let you, but this time can't you just
acknowledge that I - that I've got valid thoughts and feelings too?"
Morty breaks eye contact momentarily and looks down at his knees, trying to
sort his thoughts and figure out what he wants to say. Even after what felt
like the longest thirty seconds of his life, Morty still doesn't know exactly
what to say. So he just settles on whatever comes out of his mouth.
"And you're right -- I don't know what I want o-or what I'm asking," Morty
admits, owning up to that portion of his own inexperience. "But I know that
this, whatever it is, has already changed me, Rick. A-and it's not gonna go
away... Not when I already know how it feels to have you take m-m-me apart like
that."
"So I need you to either take that night out of my memories... O-or to help me
figure out what I want a-and what I'm asking for."
Rick's mind screams in protest against the easy out Morty is offering him. It
would be so simple. A single blast and they could go back. They could just be
Rick and Morty again - adventuring by day, fooling around by night. And Rick
could lock the sight of Morty, writhing in pain and begging him to flay him
open more, deep in the back of his mind, only to be drudged up in the small
hours of the morning on his lowest nights.
But Pandora's Box is wide open now, and Rick knows that no amount of cramming
is going to be enough to shove this mess back inside. Even if he does give in,
they'd just circle back around - Rick's lack of self-control forcing him to
push Morty too far again, his patience with the boy crumbling a little further
every time.
He could see Morty's face, slack and shocked and so very open, every time he
realized he liked what Rick was doing to him, over and over again.
It wasn't an option. Which left Morty's other ultimatum.
“Christ, Morty. You-you're not exactly jumping in the shallow end here. Can't
you just- You can do some research and come to me with some questions. I can
tell you what's total bullshit and what's not.”
Morty frowns, looking at Rick with a slight edge of disappointment.
Rick isn't denying him. He isn't jumping all over the idea of wiping his memory
and just being done with it, but his fatally skewed moral compass is choosing a
hell of a time to make itself known. Morty wishes Rick would just be selfish.
Morty does agree though. They’d jumped right into the deep end and, though the
payout was great, Morty knows he wouldn't be able to handle something of that
caliber again too soon. Especially not with the way he'd reacted after it was
over.
So he settles for a compromise.
"Can't we just start slower a-a-and work our way back up?" He askes shyly, not
meeting Rick's gaze. "I don't really want to learn this o-on my own, Rick... I
want you to teach me. Like you've taught me everything else."
Rick groans, more than a little sauced now and happy to have the help for this
conversation.
“Morty, I tried.What do you think that night was supposed to be, huh?” Staring,
Rick slowly makes his way over to the boy on the bed again. Morty can barely
hear him as he mutters under his breath.“You're just too fucking gorgeous when
you scream.”
Morty's eyes snap forward at his movement, still avoiding his face. Rick kneels
in front of the bed and reaches an unsteady hand out for the teen's knee.
“But if you're set on us doing this stupid thing, there's- there's one way that
it might work.”
Green eyes suddenly bore into the back of his hand, hope rising in the teen's
chest even as it mingles with trepidation.
Rick takes a deep breath, and makes his final offer.
“I can teach you how- and you can hurt me.”
That... is not what Morty was expecting.
Morty feels like he’s missing something, like there’s no possible way Rick can
be suggesting what he is, but it doesn't get much plainer than that. Part of
Morty wants to ask Rick how strong the shit in the bottle is and if he should
be expecting to end up disarming one of his grandfather's famous bender-based
neutrino bombs by the end of the night, but another part -- the bigger part -
- just wants to believe it.
"You... want to give me control?" Morty asks hesitantly, trying to make sense
of the situation.
Rick grins. “Anybody who wants to hit somebody but can't take a hit themselves
is a little bitch and doesn't deserve your time, Morty.”
He shrugs off his lab coat, tossing it on the bed and pulling his sweater up
over his head.
“That's lesson one, if you're counting.”
The wife-beater follows, until Rick is sitting back on his heels patiently,
looking up at Morty with undisguised lust in his eyes.
“Lesson two is to slap me in the face as hard as you can.”
Morty's heart pounds in his chest. The continuous slam makes his ribcage feel
small and vulnerable as he stares down at his grandpa, feeling like he'll break
apart any moment. He feels startled by this most recent development but Morty
isn't against it. To be honest, he’s more curious than anything. He hadn't
expected to like being hurt. The idea of it still doesn’t make the most sense
to him, but Morty liked it nonetheless. He can't explain it but the endurance
satisfied him and maybe this would be close to the same.
Finally abandoning his protective position, Morty kneels beside the edge of the
bed in an incredibly similar position to Rick and simply looks at him for a
second. He’s fascinated by Rick's body, as he always is -- all sharp lines and
clean angles, with a filigree of blood vessels standing out against pale skin
here and there. It feels strange to see Rick in such a submissive position, one
that he's taken up so many times in the older man's place, and Morty idly tries
to imagine what the other night might've felt like if he’d have been in Rick's
position.
Morty raises his hand, still hesitant.
He isn't sure he could hit Rick. He's thought about it. Hell, Morty can even
admit that he's fantasized about doing it more than a few times throughout
their relationship... But he's never actually entertained the idea of taking
that swing. The idea simply felt so monumentally stupid that he’d never tried
to risk it.
But now... Now Rick is telling him to.
No. Not telling him. Asking. Asking without actually asking. He was offering
him the choice if that's what he wanted and Morty did want.
Instead of jumping into it right away though, Morty chooses to take his own
path.
The teen ignores Rick's lesson and reaches out to touch his cheek. It’s too
soft, too intimate, and Morty knows it, but Rick is offering him control and
that's what he wants to do with it. He wants the knowledge that he can, that he
can touch Rick's face just to touch if he wants to, and Morty feels a jolt of
delight go through him when Rick doesn't jerk away from it.
And for that he is rewarded.
Thinking of earlier, Morty channels his own anger to suit his needs. He thinks
about Rick calling him a pet. He thinks about all the times Rick degraded or
belittled him, thinks about all the times he'd wanted to smack that stupid grin
off his face, and then he pulls his arm back and slaps Rick across the face
full force.
He can feel the resounding clap of skin-against-skin go all the way through his
palm and, when Rick's head snaps to the side, Morty feels an undeniable twinge
in his groin.
Rick moans a little, low and throaty. Blood rushes to his head, spreading heat
across the side of his face. His head is spinning a bit at the sudden jarring
motion, mixed with the liquor he'd chugged, but it wouldn't do to not give the
kid some encouragement.
Clearing his throat a little, he finds his voice. “Don't- don't lock your
elbow. It'll jar all the way up your arm. Keep it loose as you follow through.”
Morty is staring at him like he's never seen him before, seemingly mesmerized
by the red flush covering half his jaw.
“Try to avoid my cheekbones or my ears, unless you want me to go temporarily
deaf or hurt your hand.”
Rick runs a hand across his aching face, more than a little proud that the
sting is still lingering. Damn, Morty had really gone for it. That was
promising.
“And most people- most people you just want to slap them with your- with four
fingers, not your whole hand. I kinda like it though.”
Pulling his hand away from his bruising mouth, Rick straightens his back and
folds his arms behind him.
Looking up, he tongues lightly at his lips. Morty might split one yet. “Wanna
try it again?”
Rick's advice is echoing in Morty’s ears, offered so calm and collected even as
a flush of color rises to his face on one side. Watching the instantaneous
shift, watching Rick's cheeks become mismatched, knowing one of them is dusted
pink because Rick is intoxicated and the other is bright red because he'd
slapped him without repercussion while Rick just sat there and took it... It’s
the greatest power rush of all.
Confidence roars through Morty's veins, pounding in his ears like a bone-
breaking symphony that only he can hear.
The teen licks his lips and reaches out with a surprisingly steady hand to
capture Rick's chin with equally surprising gentleness. He could've been rough,
he could've wrenched Rick's head from side to side and Morty had a feeling that
Rick would've let him, but it feels so much better this way. He loves that it’s
his choice. Everything happening right now is his choice, and that knowledge
buzzes through his system like the most addicting high imaginable.
Since the start of his adventures with Rick a few years ago, he's held all
sorts of power in his hands. He's tasted the morally sweet candy of saving a
life and the rich, addicting darkness of taking one. He's led backward savages,
raised an alien child in a day, disarmed multiple neutrino bombs thus saving
the world from mass extinction many times over, but none of it compared to the
rush he’s feeling now.
Using his borderline tender hold on Rick's chin, he turns the older man's face
to the side and stares at the rising welt with hungry eyes. He can see the
angry little red lines of his own fingers against Rick's skin and, against all
odds, it makes Morty smile.
He struck Rick in the face. And not just any Rick. Rick C-137.The Rogue Rick.
The most infamous Rick in the spectrum... He just slapped the most powerful man
in the multiverse.
"I wonder what people would say if they could see you like this, Rick." He
murmurs, his tone low and, at its heart, intimate. "I wonder what other Ricks
would say if they could see you, th-the infamous C-137, sitting on your knees
and letting your Morty do this to you."
He feels pleased that he only stuttered a single time and that just makes
Morty's confidence rise up a notch higher. He tries not to get cocky though.
He’s still very much a novice and, even though he has control right now,he
knows Rick is still the master and that he won't hesitate to pick his
performance apart if Morty gives him reason to be especially nasty.
Morty releases Rick's chin for a brief moment to brush the backs of his fingers
over Rick's battered cheek, a shiver running down his spine at the heat he
finds there.
"Fuck." He whispers, the tail end of it partially choked.
Curious fingers capture Rick's face once more and he turns the older man's
undamaged cheek towards him just a fraction. Greedy eyes roam hungrily over the
blank canvas and Morty subconsciously licks his lips.
"Stay still for me..."
Exhaling slowly, Morty tries to calm his hammering pulse as he gears up for
another strike. He imagines anger, just like he did before, but suddenly that
doesn't feel right. Morty doesn't want to hit Rick because he’s angry. He’d
done that before because the idea of hitting someone without anger fueling it
felt unnatural, like his heart wouldn't be in it and he'd pull his punch if he
didn't have that underlying draw, but now Morty wants to hit Rick for an
entirely different set of reasons. He wants to hit him because Rick looks good
with a red face and a handprint on his cheek. He wants to do it for the rush of
power and the high of being in control and because finally, finally, he doesn't
feel like he’s stuck on the outside where Rick is concerned.
Morty pulls his arm back once more. He takes special care to leave his elbow
loose and unlocked just like Rick said and, when he swings, he tries to take
aim for the fleshy spot on Rick's face between his cheekbone and his jaw. Upon
making contact, Morty can immediately feel the difference and he groans as he
watches Rick's head snap to the side.
Heat coils up tight in Morty's belly. Before Rick can even think about
recovering, the teen reaches out to wrap a demanding hand around the nape of
his neck. He reels Rick in for a kiss like it’s his God-given right to do so,
and, when their mouths meet and he tastes just the faintest hint of blood,
Morty moans in devastating approval.
Rick tenses up under the onslaught of teeth and tongue that slam into him,
fighting his instincts to meet the kiss with equal ferocity. If he’s going to
give this to Morty, he going to try not to half-ass it in any way he can.
Instead, he forces his muscles to go slack. He lets his aching jaw fall loose,
and allowing Morty to explore his mouth in a way he hadn't since the first time
the teen had worked up the courage to kiss him.
What a world of difference a few months made. Timid, sloppy licks against his
lips were replaced by a demanding slide of tongue against the roof of his
mouth, even as it feels like Morty is going to eat his fucking tongue straight
out of his mouth.
In his enthusiasm, Rick slams his hands up on the boy's thighs, whining when
Morty immediately pulls away from the kiss, hissing with displeasure. Fuck,
right, hands behind his back- wait, no. That isn't it. Recognizing the texture
beneath his fingers, Rick realizes he'd brought his right hand down hard
directly on the bandage covering the cut on Morty's thigh.
“S-sorry, Morty,” Rick mutters, slurring the unfamiliar word over his swollen
lip. “I didn't mean- I'm sorry.”
Moving his hand slowly away, trying not to jostle the wound any more than he
already has, he settles it over the hand Morty still has squeezing around the
nape of his neck. Morty's face seems fucking weird, and Rick doesn't want to
lose the progress they suddenly seemed to be making here.
Leaning forward, he presses his face against the teen's thigh, nosing gently at
the boxer cuffs above the bandages, while wrapping his fingers gently around
Morty's wrist and guiding it to a new hold in his hair, high on his scalp.
Taking a risk, he laps at the blood dried in thin rivulets down towards Morty's
knee. It tastes sweeter this time, without the tang of adrenaline and salt of
sweat it had last time.
“Tell me- Morty. Tell me-”
Tell me I'm a worthless piece of shit again.
Tell me to choke on your cock until you forgive me.
Tell me what to do to fix this.
Nimble fingers tangle themselves up in Rick's hair and, taking full advantage
of the opportunity presented to him, Morty grips the blue strands near the
roots and tugs Rick's head back. The angle is too far for casual eye contact
but Morty knows Rick is still able to see him and, as a positively luscious
bonus, it puts the long, pale column of Rick's throat on perfect display.
But Rick's open-ended sentence leaves Morty at a loss. What does Rick want him
to say? What has he said once already that Rick wants him to expand on or
repeat? He insulted Rick, sure... But that was when he was angry. Morty can’t
deny that he is still upset about what happened but he isn't angry.
He doesn't want to insult Rick now.
Despite speaking down to Rick before he struck him the second time, Morty has
no desire to degrade of humiliate his partner in any real way, not more than
calling Rick a slut or really showing off just how filthy his mouth could get.
But that isn't the same, not to Morty, and if he is supposed to be learning his
way then Morty already knows, right from the start, that he doesn't want to
craft it out of extreme verbal degradation. Not just because he isn't feeling
it now but because he doesn't like the idea of being expected to do it in the
future either. He doesn't want Rick to expect that sort of treatment from him,
and, unless the older man comes to him and specifically asks to be treated in
such a way - which Morty is forced to admit that he probably would do if Rick
actually asked for it up front - then he chooses to abstain.
Or maybe that isn’t what his grandpa is asking for at all. Maybe he wants the
teen to tell him more about what he'd wanted from the other night. Maybe Rick
wants him to paint a striking and overly vivid picture in splashes of crimson
as he weaves some raunchy, half-exaggerated tale about how he'd basically
wanted Rick to flay him alive with nothing more than a pocket knife and his own
crumbling will to try not to wiggle or move.
Morty doesn't know.
He's been having that thought a lot lately, that he doesn't know, and Morty has
a feeling that isn't bound to change anytime soon. Especially if he continues
to remain around Rick. In this case though, with the memory of Rick licking up
his blood like he can't help himself burned into his brain and Rick's pleading
words bouncing around his skull like a permanently ricocheting bullet, Morty
tries to think about what his own needs would be if their positions were
reversed. Morty doesn't know if they felt things similarly, he doesn't know
what Rick needs, but he knows what he would've wanted. He knows what he
desires, what he fantasizes about. What would make him want, more than
anything, to serve and do anything and everything Rick wants in the pursuit for
more.
So that's where he starts and if Rick doesn't like it then Morty knows his
grandpa won't have a single issue with making that opinion known in a hurry.
Ignoring the persistent throb in his thigh, Morty reaches out and brushes his
thumb over Rick's bottom lip, instantly taking note of the fact that it’s
swollen.
The realization lights up the pleasure centers in his brain like a Christmas
tree.
"Open your mouth for me, Rick."
Rick doesn't even hesitate to do as he says and the buzz of power Morty is
currently experiencing gains a couple volts in intensity.
The teen slips two fingers past Rick's lips and groans as he pets the inside of
his partner's mouth with them. Rick's tongue is like wet silk, soft and slick,
and yet so incredibly wicked. Rick has taken him apart with it so many times...
Sexually, abusively, intellectually. And he's done the same to others, many
others, and Morty finds that surprisingly hot.
"I wonder how many people have - have fucked your mouth, Rick." Morty muses
aloud. "M-maybe I should be grossed out imagining just how slutty this hole
really is, imagining you gagging on c-cocks a-a-and tentacles and alien
appendages or having your face mashed into every sort of pussy imaginable. B-b-
but I'm not."
"I'll tell you a secret, Rick." Morty confides, pushing his fingers in deep and
grinning when the tips touch the smooth entrance of his throat. "It turns me
on, thinking about what a - what a talented whore you are."
The teen slides his legs out from under himself, leaving him perched on the
edge of Rick's cot with his feet on either side of the older man's knees.
And suddenly he pulls his fingers from Rick's mouth, the action startlingly
abrupt, and uses the hold he has on Rick's hair to pull his grandfather in and
mash his welted cheek against the obvious line of his erection through thin
cotton.
"It makes me want t-to use that perfect mouth too." Morty hisses, pushing his
hips up with a moan as he rubs his covered cock against Rick's face. "It makes
me want to be just - just another dick that you've sucked a-and gagged on. One
of fucking many, I'm sure."
Morty's words slide in one of Rick's ears and out the other, he's too busy
memorizing the soft pads and raised whorls dragging across his tongue in soft
strokes. Rick can't remember the last time he just let himself get used like
this and it feels so nice.
And it's practically for a good cause, if he doesn't breathe too heavily on the
house of cards this whole fucked up scenario is built on. The edges of his mind
start to go soft and foggy, fast enough to set off tiny warning bells in the
back of his head, beyond the reach of the whiskey and the white noise of Morty
hissing... something, down at him.
Shit, when was the last time he trusted someone that took a swing at him? Even
a little? Was it really making that much of a difference, or was Morty- was
this something else? It's too much, too fast, fuck he's losing control again,
and this is going to end up just as badly as the last time if not worse,
because this was supposed to be making it better, supposed to let him show the
kid enough ropes to find someone else-
He's yanked out of his spiral, literally, as Morty jams his head into his
thigh, the cheap fabric rubbing the abrasions on his face, and suddenly Rick
has enough to clarity of mind to understand what Morty's saying.
“C-Come on Rick, show me the galaxy's favorite attraction. Put that mouth to
work.”
Rick has a horrible, jolting sense of deja vu. His stomach lurches even as he
absently mouths at the outlined heat beneath him, his body operating on
autopilot while his brain is stuck on a timeline about three hours back.
Morty throws the door to his apartment open and practically drags him by his
coat to the bed, not even bothering to turn on the lights.
“If you're getting a freebie outta this, I'm getting to fuck the Rogue's mouth
before you take me apart.”
Stripping off his shirt and pants with professional ease, the Morty crawls over
him, slamming his palm into Rick's forehead before guiding him down.
“Come on, Rick. Put that mouth to work.”
His breathing is harder now, but it's easy to disguise it as lust, as he pulls
at Morty's boxers. He remembers why he's here. He remembers what this is. He
still has control of this little lesson, even if he's letting Morty see him
getting a taste of his own medicine.
Rick cracks a grin as he tugs the kid's boxers down with his teeth until they
settle around around Morty's knees.
“If-if you want me to gag you're about thirty years too late, Morty.”
Running a teasing lick up the base of Morty's cock and swirling his tongue
lightly around the crown, he's relieved to see the teen choke a little at the
sight.
“Well, maybe thirty-five for you.”
This won't take long. Rick can keep it together, and they'll be better at the
end of it.
A smile breaks out across Morty's face at Rick's cheeky reply and it does
wonders to put him at ease about the situation.
In the teen’s not so humble opinion, Rick isn't meant to be docile and
accepting.
The power Morty feels with control in his hands is spectacular. Swirling
through his veins like wax in a lava lamp, the sensation has Morty riding the
waves of a unique and potentially addictive high, his mood rising exponentially
with every passing second. But that hint of sass, that reminder of who Rick is
and what he’s more used to, has Morty able to sink down into it fully and let
the calm guide him through.
His movements feel fluid, like confidence has always come naturally to him, and
Morty never wants the feeling to end.
Pearly teeth capture the swell of Morty’s bottom lip. Rick looks gorgeous from
where he is, teasing the head of his cock with fleeting kitten licks that were
nowhere near enough. It’s almost enough to stop his heart and, as Rick's tongue
brushes across the small slit at the tip, pulling a gasp from Morty's lips, he
can't stop himself from carding his fingers encouragingly through Rick's
tempting blue hair.
"Fu-u-ck." Morty groans, arching his hips up. "Take it."
Rick doesn't seem as into what they’re doing as he did before and, in the back
of his head, Morty worries. Maybe he didn’t say the right thing and Rick is
just following through, effectively getting him off as some sort of apology for
leaving. The thought bums him out but Rick isn't stopping. His grandpa takes
part of Morty's length past his lips with ease and, as he tries to choke back a
sound of unadulterated enjoyment, the teen reaches out and grabs hold of Rick's
shoulder for support.
But something isn't right.
Where he'd expected to find fresh, partially puckered scars or scabbed over
nail marks, he touches something tacky. Morty frowns and looks down at his
hand, finding his fingertips red with half-dried blood, and then directs his
gaze to the back of Rick's shoulder.
There are fresh nail marks there. Morty would be surprised if they're more than
a few hours old at most.
The thought of Rick being with somebody else makes Morty’s stomach twist with
discomfort. Part of it is due to the simple fact that he’s greedy and
possessive, unabashed in his self acknowledgment that he wants Rick all to
himself. That’s something Morty is used to ignoring though since he knows the
likelihood of Rick being exclusive with him is slim to none. Especially
sexually. But there’s another, bigger part that’s bothered by the idea that,
while he was freaking out at home, Rick was out getting his dick wet so he
didn't have to think about what happened.
It’s then that, under the pressure of uncertainty, mixed emotions, and hurt
that Rick would ditch him for sex while he was so confused and upset, Morty
started to go soft in Rick's mouth before losing his erection completely.
Humiliation crashes through Morty with all the subtlety of a bull in a china
shop.
It isn't the shame that flooded him when he had to ask Rick for a cockring or
the embarrassment that plagues him when his stamina fails and he comes too
quickly. This is a different kind of shame, the kind that makes him feel
startled by its intensity, and, when Rick pulls off of his pathetically soft
cock, Morty feels fear in his heart.
The teen looks down between his legs, anxious and panicked as he desperately
wills himself to get hard again, terrified about what Rick will say and the
various ways he'll tease him and hold it over his head. He's never lost an
erection before. Not with Rick and certainly never while Rick was sucking him
off. As a result, not only would Rick most likely make fun of him but they'd
probably never play this game again. He'd never get to feel the euphoria of
having Rick at his mercy again and the thought sends a pang of loss through him
almost immediately.
"I..."
Morty pulls his hand free of Rick's hair and holds both hands defensively near
his chest, looking down at them to avoid Rick's face while simultaneously
ignoring the literal blood on his hands.
"I didn't mean to... That wasn't supposed to happen a-a-and I -- I mean, I was
really into it and I'm not sure -- not sure why... I..."
Tongue-tied and at a loss, Morty gives up altogether and stops trying to
explain before simply saying, "I didn't mean to. I'm really sorry, Rick," very
quietly.
Tucking the teen back in his boxers, Rick rubs at his welted jaw, trying not to
sigh audibly. “It's okay, it's- it's been a hell of a few days.”
On any other day his pride might be a little dinged, but this doesn't even rank
on his top ten list of ways this 'discussion' could have ended badly. Between
blood loss, stress, exhaustion, and the fact that Rick's still noticeably soft,
it's not exactly shocking that the kid is having some performance anxiety.
Still, Morty's blowing it out of proportion again, looking like he accidentally
killed the family dog.
Groaning, Rick pulls himself to his feet and flops down onto the bed beside
him, clasping a hand on Morty's shoulder as he goes.
“Jesus, Morty, lighten up. I-I-I'm sure I've pulled whiskey dick on you before,
even if I don't remember it. Hell, especially if I don't remember it.”
Morty doesn't say anything, still staring at his hands, but the unconscious way
he relaxes slightly into Rick's grip is promising.
Rick does sigh then, fishing beneath him for his abandoned sweater. “Look, can
we just skip this part? 'Cause I'm good with that.”
Nodding slightly, the teen stands quickly and starts to make a move towards the
door, when Rick reaches out to stop him.
“Come on, Morty. You yelled at me, I yelled at you, y-y-you even got to take a
swing at me a couple times. I promise I'll suck your brains out through your
dick later if you want, but right now I haven't actually slept in days and,
from the looks of you, I'm guessing you haven't either. Am I right?”
Morty nods, the dark circles under his eyes speaking volumes. The last of
Rick's adrenaline is fading, and in its place is just a void of exhaustion,
covered lightly with a warm blanket of booze.
He shoves his sweater into a ball and tosses it beside the battered pillow.
“Well then, I'm really fucking tired and I'd like to take a nap.”
Morty's wrist is too thin beneath his fingers, and he looks astonished as Rick
pulls him down onto the cot again, allowing himself to be manipulated into
being the little spoon between his grandfather and the wall. Rick flops his
head down hard against the pillow and groans at the low light.
“Morty, hit the lights, will you? My hangover's decide to show up early. Or a
couple days late, I'm not sure.”
The brunet sits up, pawing at the switch on the wall before tentatively lying
back down and burrowing into his makeshift pillow. When his voice comes again,
it's small but quiet.
“Rick? C-can we try- I'd like to- to try that again. With you.”
“Sure,” Rick stares at the ceiling as the boy curls into his side. “You might
not actually be too terrible at it, either. My jaw is still kind of aching from
that second swing.”
Morty beams at the praise and snuggles in just a little closer to Rick.
It feels risky, when he drapes an arm across Rick's stomach, and, after waiting
to see if the older man would object, Morty hitches one of his legs over Rick's
thigh and slides it between both of his grandpa's. The position feels too
close, like something lovers would do instead of something they'd do. Rick
isn't pushing him away though, and Morty is too needy to deny himself,  so he
tries not to worry and just enjoy himself while he can.
With his head on Rick's chest, curls nestled up under the older man's chin and
his ear pressed against bare skin, Morty can hear Rick's heartbeat. It’s
reassuring. The repetitive music of the scientist's cardiovascular system is
lulling Morty to sleep more surely than the water of the womb and he has no
desire to fight against it.
"I liked it. It was a different feeling than when you were in control but I
still liked it."
Rick doesn't respond. Morty didn't think he would anyway but, after a moment of
quiet, the teen says, "I'm glad you're home."
The statement feels like so much less than how he felt, especially since some
of his bigger worries had been Rick being dead, imprisoned, or long gone, but
Morty leaves it at that. Less is always more with Rick, especially where
sentiment and emotions are concerned.
Instead he just shows those feelings through his actions. He gives Rick's
middle a gentle squeeze and nuzzles his cheek against bare skin before falling
asleep, totally unaware that Rick was already way ahead of him.
Chapter End Notes
     Self-Harm Warning: In one scene Morty cuts himself with a razor
     blade. However this is not out of depression or self-loathing, but
     reflective of a pattern by a lot of teenagers who self-harm when they
     discover they have masochistic tendencies. It also serves as
     grounding technique in this chapter to help him contextualize and
     understand the events of the previous chapters.
     Thank you everybody for reading! Reviews and feedback as always are
     treasured.
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