Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12418668.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Morty_Smith
  Character:
      Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty), Morty_Smith, Miami_Rick_(Pocket_Mortys),
      Rick_B-338, Jerry_Smith, Beth_Smith_(Rick_and_Morty)
  Additional Tags:
      Role_Reversal, Alternate_Universe_-_Role_Reversal, Role_Swap, Citadel_of
      Ricks, Anonymous_Ricks, dubcon, sort_of???, Rick!Morty, Morty!Rick, i
      guess, Gunplay, Degradation, Praise, Gun_Blowjob, tbh, Anal_Sex, bad
      shit, Gross, Masturbation, One-Sided_Attraction
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-20 Words: 3693
****** unwanted, unwanted, heat ******
by galaxyskeleton
Summary
     Morty really hates the Citadel
     He's fun to break
Notes
     hi sorry i like the roleswap au with rick and morty and i had no clue
     what to do with summer so that's why she's not here
     basically just tired porn
     morty's gross
     im sorry for this lolol
Morty was always an especially angry kid.
It was maximized when he was drunk, needlessly snapping at Rick and calling him
out for his slowness until he made his grandfather cry, and even then he would
just huff and roll his eyes, because  fuck  Rick was so sensitive that it
burdened him.
Morty hated the Citadel. He didn’t take action against it, almost smug when he
heard some Rick completely wrecked the place, but he only hated it for one
reason.
And that was the Mortys.
There was Rick, after Rick, after Rick, all the smart, nihilistic half of the
pair and it made Morty’s blood boil to see their versions of him, dumb and slow
and stammering with anxiety and he wanted to smash their dumb faces in. He
usually kept his composure, but sometimes, a Morty will try to chat with him
and he would look at the boy with an angry scowl, and  maybe  every now and
then he would send the Morty back to his Rick tears in his eyes, or blood im
his mouth.
Today, he was especially high-strung. He was  called  to the Citadel, not for
the first time, by the council of Ricks, and he dragged along a grumpy and
tired Rick to the meeting, only for them to tell the guards to guide Rick from
the room so they could talk with Morty in private.
And oh, how his stomach twisted when he saw Rick’s confused eyes on him as he
was lead away, and  damn  that man who wore his heart on his sleeve.
The Ricks loved to tease him for being ‘trapped in the body of a Morty’,
questioned his intelligence and jokingly told him to triple check his
inventions before using them.
By the time he was out of that damned room, the Ricks waved him off when he
asked about his own grandfather, and he steamed, snapping at them before he was
crunching numbers on a device, tracking Rick in just a second and gaping.
His Rick was on the other side of the Citadel.  What the  fuck  was he doing?
Morty let out an angry grunt and stumbled with his portal gun as he walked
through a crowd of clones, but just as he finished typing out his coordinants
(he  refused  to fight through this crowd), a thin hand grabbed the front of
his gun and snatched it out of his hand, the same time another Rick tugged
Morty’s arms away from himself by the elbows, and he yelped.
“Fuck—!” He started, cheeks burning as the Ricks laughed, throwing back an
elbow and just missing the Rick’s face as the first dangled the portal gun in
front of him.
“Assholes! Get the fuck off me!”
From what he could see, the first Rick looked relatively plain— his hair was
shaved at the sides, and it made him look a bit younger, less like a
grandfather and more like a young father. He had on a labcoat, and under that a
brown shirt and black pants, and Morty cursed himself.  This  guy. He didn’t
know what to call this rick— from Earth  B-338 , he didn’t really have a title.
He heard the other Rick call him ‘R’ a few times.
The other Rick he couldn’t see, but he  could  see the pink sleeve of his
labcoat and blue of his undershirt, and he swore under his breath.  Miami . He
did  not  want to deal with Miami. No. R  and  Miami was a terrible pair, and
he silently attempted to calm himself down.
Get a hold of yourself, you fucking idiot.
“Let go of me,” He muttered, “I gotta find my Rick.”
“Aw,” said B-338, “you need yer grandpa, huh? Can’t get around without him?”
He heard Miami chuckle, and he growled.
“No, fuck off. The idiot j-just fuckin’— he just wandered off on his own and I
gotta find him so I can leave this, ugh, this absolute nightmare of a city.”
He felt Miami shift his hold, and he cursed himself as his arms were drug
behind his back and forced up in an uncomfortable position. “Ughnn— shithead,
that hurts.”
“Yeah?” Miami’s voice shot a shudder down his spine because he  swore  he
recognized that tone. “I want it to hurt, baby.”
B-338 rolled his eyes.
“Ugh— c’mon, Miami.” He slid the gun into his pocket, then stepped next to the
Rick holding him and took Morty’s spare arm, so that they both held one and had
a good grip. He tried to throw his elbow back, but unfortunately, his body was
still a weak one and he bit back a cry as the arm was yanked up higher.
“Fucker.”
He was taken into the alley nearby them, and he drug his feet the whole way,
fighting and jerking before they turned a corner and Miami grabbed him and
slammed him into the wall.
“R, keep his portal gun. Gimme mine.” With a flick of Rick’s wrist, Morty’s
wrists were bound above his head, and only one of his hands had to hold the
electrical chain so the other could—
Could press straight into his groin .
Morty yelped and then growled, kicking out. “Fuck, fuck you, fuck you, fucking
let me  go  I’m gonna kill you two!”
Ignored, Miami was handed a sleek handgun with pink accents on the handle, and
he could catch the outline of a palm tree engraved into the black-pink metal.
The head of the gun was shoved into his mouth roughly and Miami smirked as
Morty finally went silent and limp, tears brimming in his eyes at the taste of
gunpowder, glaring sharply at the Rick. B-338’s pants looked tight all of a
sudden.
Morty barely struggled when his belt was unbuckled, and less so as they were
shoved down with his boxers as the gun was shoved further into his mouth,
gagging on it. It was nearly in his throat.
Miami let go of Morty’s hands for a moment, and he considered shoving him off
and finding a way to break the electrically-charged blue chain, but he knew
that if he was a second too late Miami would blow his brains out. Or B-338
would. They didn’t seem like they really wanted to kill him, but they would if
he got away and hurt them.
They’d probably threaten him with hurt pride and a dead Rick if he told the
council. Like he would go to those guys for anything. Like they would care if
he told them a pair of Ricks raped him.
It’s fine , he convinced himself.  You’ve fucked Ricks before. You’ve fucked
Mortys before. What’s the difference?
He didn’t let himself answer the question.
Miami got off his pants, and he slowly withdrew the gun, soaked in Morty’s
saliva, until just the very tip of it was past his lips. Miami fiddled with
something, and then the other Rick helped him fasten something to his shoulder
before another arm extended out with a metal palm and jagged digits. It took
the gun from Miami’s hand, and Morty was lifted up. Miami thrust his hips
forward, his hard dick sliding against Morty’s ass as he was pinned up against
the cold cement. His eyes went wide, pupils blown out and he breathed out a
little groan. Miami grinned, holding his hip with one hand, and with the other,
he guided his dick back against Morty’s, cupped them together, and started to
stroke hard.
Morty’s hips jerked and he ground his teeth against the gun, hiding any noise.
Little tingles of pleasure burst up his crotch and faded up his chest, and it
soon became too intense, the friction too much, Miami’s member rutting up
against a sensitive vein, and he refused to close his eyes even as a whimper
escaped his pursed lips.
Miami had an instant look of gratification. The gun was mechanically retracted
from his mouth and he panted, lips swollen, saliva stringing from the mouth of
the gun to his own tongue. Miami brought that hand up, grunting and shifting
the boy as he brought it to Morty’s mouth.
He huffed as the fingers smeared over the slick on his lips, then pumped over
the gun, and then hung in front of his face. “Spit.”
He didn’t for a moment, anger welling up in his gut. Then the gun nudged
against his temple. “ Spit .”
He did.
The hand went right to his ass and he choked on an unprepared gasp. Miami’s
fingers rolled over his entrance and he roughly pushed two digits in,
penetrating the thoroughly used puckered entrance.
“Mm!” He gasped, beginning to squirm for real. His head was quickly filled,
fuzzy jolts spreading out from his cock, which was fully hard now. His hips
twitched and rocked, ignoring the Ricks sneering at him and especially ignoring
when Miami’s dick replaced the hand and slid between his buttcheeks.
You  could not  ignore it when it slammed up inside him, and he bucked, only
remaining up because Miami used the other hand to fully grip his hips, and he
let out a high, shrill noise, tears finally dripping down his cheeks and eyes
half-closing.
“Mm!”
It  burned — He hadn’t been prepared enough, so the stretch was too much, but
it also made his body burn in a completely different way, legs jerking up and
gripping Miami’s hips tightly. He heard a groan pass the Rick’s lips, and then
he was thrusting.
They were sharp and quick, setting a brutal pace, and he didn’t doubt that with
how hard his ass was meeting Rick’s hips that it would be bruised along with
his hips. His head rolled back, gasping and squirming as his member throbbed
eagerly, soaking up the pleasure. Morty didn’t realize when he started
vocalizing his feelings, but it wasn’t long until the gun was shoved back into
his mouth and his lips twitched before tightening around it, making sharp
sucking motions, tongue running over the barrel.
“Goddamned slut,” He heard Miami say, right in his ear, and he came.
Morty usually lasted longer; he had built a tolerance for how long it took him.
But at that moment, his hips bucked and he choked on the gun as his release
covered his shirt, Miami sneering over the fact that Morty came to his voice,
hips pivoting upwards hard and fast.
“Gonna fill you up, you fuckin’ whore,” he panted, “Gonna make you  mine .”
Morty’s voice, though muffled, was loud against the gun, straining to cry out
as he was mercilessly stimulated, and his ass clenched tight and hard around
the cock as Miami buried into him and shot his load, white liquid filling the
hole.
Morty gasped for breath as the gun was withdrawn again, moaning out. Miami kept
brushing against his sweet spot— it felt tight and hot and his stomach hurt
with how good it felt, too much stimulation, too deep into him—
His legs were spread too far and pinned to the wall, and Miami pulled out,
watching with an eerily calm expression as his jizz dripped out of Morty’s
clenching entrance and he gasped dizzily.
“Fuck,” He groaned. “R. Come on.”
Morty had pretty much forgotten about the Rick.
B-338 stepped forward, and Morty felt suddenly helpless again, twists still
bound and legs spread far, face flushed with cum dripping down his shirt and
liquid trailing from the tip of his member— he was a  mess . He was a mess and
he hated it.
Rick B-338 was already half-undressed, his fully erect member standing tall
against the grey of his skin, pinkish at the head. He faintly thought how funny
it was again that Ricks and Mortys’ dicks looked different. Miami’s was more
curved and while it was the same length, B-338’s had more girth.
Why was he noticing these things?
The new Rick dropped the gun once taking it from the shoulder-arm, and he took
Miami’s place, making Morty feel even worse, his pride hurt as he was
manhandled and given to the new abuser. This time, B-338 leaned against the
wall himself, holding Morty against his chest so that the young scientist had
no choice but to wrap his tired arms around the Rick’s neck, and his lips slid
over Morty’s cheek.
“Mm,” he hummed. “What a good slut, huh, ‘Mi? Ain’t he cute?”
He felt  even more humiliated . He was going to fucking kill these two once he
had the chance.
He didn’t have much more time to think, as he was already sinking down on
Rick’s dick, turning his head away to hide the look on his face as he gasped,
young body still effortlessly sensitive even after being fucked dozens of times
before. He let out a weak moan as he was thrust into, hips seizing in shock. He
choked.
B-338 wasn’t patient. He began his own thrusts, each slow and hard and deep,
punctuated by his breathing. It felt too good, and too loving at the same time,
and Morty wanted to scream at him, wanted to tell him he was gonna snap Rick’s
throat, but he couldn’t, not with how his voice would come out as a trembling,
crackling whimper. Rick began kissing him; starting with his neck, he kissed
down to his collar, sucking softly and leaving soft hickeys where he wanted to
linger long enough— just behind Morty’s ear, under the curve of his jaw,
directly upon his adam’s apple, nibbling on his earlobe and smoothing his lips
over Morty’s jawline.
Meanwhile, he was fucking Morty  perfectly , sliding against his prostate hard
so that every one of the boy’s breaths was a hitched gasp, so that he had to
blink pleasured tears out of his eyes, and his cock twitched helplessly. When
Rick sped up, he kissed Morty.
They kissed, and Morty felt overwhelmed. The deep thrusts were coming faster,
and harder, and he was starting to moan, and Rick was just  swallowing up his
noises  with his sweet kisses, eating up every moan and gasp and— and Morty
hated himself when  sobs  breached his lips.
Everything felt too good. He was so, so hard, so much so that when B-338
gripped his cock and stroked it quickly with the time of his thrusts, Morty
moaned and curled his toes into another orgasm that rocked him, thighs
trembling and spreading, and he was just, just on the edge when Rick whispered
I love you  against his lips and he  came so hard .
He came not because of B-338, but because that was the exact tone Rick
sometimes used when he said it, his Rick, his dumb, overemotional Rick, and
Morty came so hard, slammed down around the rapist that he came too, came while
drawing his hips back and sighed out into Morty’s mouth.
And instantly, Morty felt disgusted, but he didn’t get to feel like that for
long. He was roughly dropped to the ground, and B-338 dropped the portal gun a
few feet from him, then kicked him with a smirk. Morty was greeted with the
sight of Miami stuffing his cock back into his pants, and he got the impression
that the guy had been jerking off to his friend fucking Morty. He shook.
“I’m gonna kill you,” he croaked, not very impressive at all. Tears were wet on
his cheeks, and he couldn’t even sit up.
“Have fun,” B-338 said, and they walked off together, looking effortlessly
composed.
 
It only took Morty about half an hour to get himself free. Half of it was spent
catching up with himself; the kick that Rick B-338 had landed on his thigh hurt
more than he thought it should have, and he had trouble not just passing out
like he did after a normal night of rough sex. He had to struggle to stay awake
and get enough energy to get going, but after that, getting the chains broke
was a piece of cake.
He pushed himself up with his bound hands using the wall and grabbed his portal
gun, fingers meticulous as they opened a compartment in the bottom and
retrieved a small robotic device. He activated it and it sprung to life, the
pea-sized bot roaming over the cuffs, finding the activation plate and figuring
out how to turn them off in just a couple minutes, so that he just had to deal
with getting the orbs of metal off his wrists later. After that, it was a
matter of cleaning himself up. He put his shirt on backwards and fixed his lab
coat, dusted off his boxers and pants and redressed. In a matter of minutes he
looked mostly ready.
Mostly.
His eyes were red from crying and his lips were slightly swollen from the gun,
and when he spoke, his voice was rough from overuse, as well as the metal that
had bit into it he was gagging over earlier. He doubted his grandpa would look
at his lips long enough to notice their appearance, the swelling of his eyes
would go down no problem, but he would have to deal with his voice.
He was emotionally shot, but he always was, so that was fine, too.
After another five minutes, he deemed himself ready to find Rick. He pulled his
tracker back out, ready to find the son of a bitch and give him an earful.


“Rick!” Morty says, in a misdirected rage as he spots who’s no doubt his
grandfather, dumbly speaking with another Rick who’s smirking, eyes filled with
amusement. “Rick, you— y-y-you idiot, come here!”
Rick spots him, then frowns, hunching his shoulders guiltily and his alter-ego
friend scoffs towards Morty as his Rick saunters over. “Listen, M-Morty—”
“Shut up,” he growled, “I don’t want your damn excuses.”
He happened to find Rick in a bar, the  Speak-Ricky , which was as dumb of a
name as Rick was, but whatever. His grandfather was, by the looks of it,
beginning to be coaxed into drinking and “let loose”, as his partner had said,
but Morty ripped him away. While it would be funny to see Rick loose the stick
in his ass, he didn’t want it to be because of another bastard in a bar. No,
fuck that.
When they got back to the garage, Morty laid the shit on him, cursing him out
and telling Rick how his absence got Morty into a fight with two idiot
colleagues (sparing the details concerning anything past grinding), telling him
that he should have just stayed put and not cross the entirety of the fucking
Citadel for Morty to chase him. He called Rick an idiot and braindead, and
angrily declared he should replace Rick with another that was actually capable
of a mental capacity larger than an ant’s, and something definitely hurt.
Rick didn’t even defend himself— he stopped trying after Morty cut him off for
the third time— and at the end of it he mumbled an apology and skittered off to
his bedroom, leaving Morty alone with pent-up frustration and the need for a
shower.
Once he decided he was just too filthy with foreign Ricks’ fluids and hands, he
showered and changed into a bright green  Ball Fondlers  tee-shirt and jeans,
decidedly done with thinking tonight. He’d have dinner for his dad’s sake and
then sneak off to a bar without an age limit and get smashed. And maybe fuck
someone, decidedly nobody human or having any resemblance to a Rick.
Only, when he arrived in the living room, where his family was, Beth cheerily
announced that they’d be going out for dinner, and Morty didn’t doubt for a
second that he would have to go. Of course, he didn’t have to, but when Jerry
gave him a smile and asked if he would come with, he melted with a little,
“okay, dad, sure,” followed by “what about Rick?”
Jerry frowned, glancing at Beth. Morty’s lips downturned, frustrated at the
prospect of receiving an answer from her. “Oh, um, dad? He went to his room
when he got home. He looked tired.” She shrugged. Jerry pursed his lips.
“What have you two been out doing?”
“Not a lot,” Morty waved off. “I f-fuckin’—” He cut himself off, catching
Jerry’s disappointed look, and sighed, “I just snapped at him, okay? H-he’s too
sensitive.”
“Hey,” Beth started, her voice rising, “don’t start—”
“I know!” Morty scoffed, “don’t, don’t drop the f-bomb, do-don’t insult your
weak-ass father, careful ‘cause he’s a  sensitive old man, ” his voice
heightened, mockingly feminine, “y-yeah, I know Beth. Whatever. I get it. I’ll
apologize or whatever.”
Jerry glanced at his shirt. “Can you change?”
Morty ran a tired hand over his face, “ugh— yeah, yeah, g-gimme a sec, let me—
let me say sorry to the ol’ guy.”
Morty begrudgingly apologized, but only for joking about replacing Rick, and
changed his shirt back to a plain yellow one and fidgeted with his labcoat in
private. He refused to admit that it was a comfort thing, because fuck that.He
threw it on.
Just cold,  he thought, flustered at his train of thought.
That night, instead of going out like he wanted, he felt too exhausted by his
family to go out and instead plopped down in bed and unhappily sipped on beer
he hid in his room, numb to it’s gross, warm temperature.
He turned over and let himself get lost in the memory of a version of his
grandfather staring down at him and whispering  I love you  into his ear and
when he started to touch himself, it was his own Rick, dull bluish-grey hair
more messy and tousled than usual, vibrant blue eyes staring at him with that
stupid loving look on his face, and Morty buried his face into his pillow to
muffle his groan when he came into his sheets, the Rick in his head in the
middle of his own orgasm, blissed out and making his grandson feel good.
It wasn’t his best decision, especially when he had to bury his tears in
alcohol, stomach twisting with the memory of what really happened, and he fell
asleep swallowing tears and Rick’s name back from his tongue.
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