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Chapter Text

Ricks are supposed to be mean to their Morties.

That's how it works. The Morty is timid and shy, and the Rick corrupts him with years of half-traumatic, half-exhilarating adventures. Sure, the other details are fuzzy, but that's how it works. Unicorn Chaser Morty should have known not to expect something different- but how could he? He was the sweetest Morty, so his Rick would naturally be the sweetest, right?

Ricks weren't supposed to hurt their Morties.

Small, fixable injuries were feasible. Broken bones, scratched legs, alien sicknesses. What with all the adventuring, it was inevitable. The Morty would get hurt. The Rick (because even though Ricks could be mean, mind you, they weren't monsters when they didn't need to be) would heal his Morty's wounds.

But hot, glowing metal against a Morty's skin? Tender wrists and necks and thighs and wherever else a Rick could reach marred by alien symbols and curses?

That was cruel. Even for a Rick, that was cruel.

And so, naturally, Unicorn Chaser Morty was ashamed. He closed himself off.

No more pretty skirts or weekend unicorn hunts. No more learning ballet routines online or trying to befriend citadel Morties or talking to his new assigned Rick.

He kept to himself- Stayed up in his room, far from his new Rick and far from anybody that could hurt him.

But even despite the isolation, he was still himself. Morty's bubbly personality was always nearly breaching the tough exterior he'd built up. And one night in particular, it managed to get through.

Morty found himself switching out his leather bracelets and chokers for brighter, softer ones. His old black boxers were replaced with his hot pink unicorn ones- and if a tutu or two slipped on in the process, maybe a tiara and a crop top, who could really blame him?

It'd been so long. So long, but not long enough to keep his fingers from automatically reaching for his ipod. Not long enough for the playlist he put on shuffle to reach a particularly good song. Not long enough for Unicorn Chaser Morty to remember each and every dance move.

He went through the routine, swaying and spinning and laughing- and forgetting. Everything faded into the background until it was just him. Cute little Morty, dancing to a cute little song. God, he missed this.

He didn't know how long he'd been there for when he noticed his newly assigned Rick leaning against the open doorframe. It could've been minutes, or maybe even seconds, but the moment they locked eyes must've lasted years.

Like a deer in headlights, Morty froze. The Queen song was still playing in the background. His scars were out in the open. He was way too vulnerable. But Rick was. . . Smiling? Not a sinister one, either. A genuine look of happiness and pride and something else.

"I like the- your moves, Morty. That's some real talent you've got there."

What was this Rick trying to pull? Morty's last Rick had never admired his dancing.

"G- gee, Rick, really? You... you really think so?"

The smile on Rick's face stayed, and it spread to Morty's face as he responded.

"Course, kid. We should-"

His gaze lingered downwards and Morty felt a lump in his throat start to form. Oh God. The scars. Rick was studying each and everyone, eyes dragging over the wide expanses of uncovered skin. He stepped closer.

"What happened?"

Morty stepped back.

"Oh, uh-I-uh these? Well, I- um- my-"

His answer fell flat. It was alright, it seemed. Rick wasn't expecting one. He was closer now, close enough to touch if he reached out.

"Can I..?"

The question was obvious, and even though the answer 'no' was screaming in Morty's mind, his mouth stayed closed when he nodded.

Cool, calloused hands brushed over the welts on Morty's stomach. Rick seemed so careful, so tender... and yet he brought back the worst memories. Tears threatened to spill out of the boy's eyes.

"God, Morty..."

The two words held so much sadness and understanding that Morty could do nothing but let himself go. The tears quickly raced down his cheeks and he collapsed, his small frame resting on Rick's much taller one.

A pair of grounding hands enveloped him, hushing Morty's sobs ever-so-slightly. He leaned into the touch.

"I- I- I'm sorry- R-rick, you just- just- you look just like h-"

Rick cuts him off.

"Hey. Listen to me, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you. I've got you. I'm not him. He's a bad man and he's gone for a long time."

There's a spark of hope in Morty's eyes for a second, right before he looks down at himself. The scarring is horrendous.

"B-but I'm- I'm so ugly!"

Rick's hands are on his shoulders all of a sudden, the face of a much softer Rick than his old one coming face to face with Morty as he kneels down, face stern yet forgiving. The eye contact they make halts Morty's tears, and he gasps at the scarring he sees around Rick's left eye, and the intensity he sees in his stare.

"You're beautiful, Morty."

They only break eye contact when Rick traces his thumb over the marks on Morty's, eyes following the trail it makes.

"I- I'm really not, Rick."

"You want me to prove it?"

It's a challenge. Morty knows he'll lose, but once again, he nods.

Rick kisses his scars. Each and everyone. Morty giggles at the first few, taken aback by the boldness of his new Rick. His scars feel almost better with every kiss. Lighter, maybe.

Rick moves down to his thighs, and the mood changes. It's still welcome, but there's newer feelings coming from the kisses now. Warmer, more heated feelings.

"Oh- oh geez..."

Rick is everywhere all of a sudden, taking the small moans from his adoptive grandson as something akin to encouragement. His hands travel Morty's skin, calloused and rough against the soft, pinkish complexion, his mouth leaving kisses and small kitten licks all the while. It's overwhelming; the sheer amount of appreciation in the air is almost too much to handle. Rick starts to whisper little words of praise- little compliments and quiet encouragements and it gets even more heated and Morty feels like he can't take it and he's trapped and he needs some space...

His brain kicks in, halting the overload. It tells him what he really wants.

More.

And he asks Rick for it. His Rick. One that will treat him nice.

"Touch me, Rick,"

"More, please, Rick"

"Yes, right there!"

They aren't as eloquent as they appear in his head, but he gets the point across rather smoothly. Rick's hands are under his boxers now. Smoothing, stroking, warming, scratching. Whatever it takes to get Morty all riled up. And damn, it's working.

Rick's experienced hands trace the veins of the boy's cock under his lacy boxers- using the precome and sweat to ease the way as he slips a finger into his Morty's tight little ass. (He makes a mental note to revisit it later)

It's mere minutes before Unicorn Chaser Morty is tipping over the edge, his hot release spilling over Rick's hand, hole clenching around scarred fingers, and his new Rick's name spilling from his lips.

It's intense, and it's almost too much again, but it feels... safe. Right.

And Morty thinks he knows what Ricks are supposed to do to their Morties.

Protect. Look out for. Maybe even love.

And well, he could get used to that.

Chapter Text

"H- how much did you say this bet was for, Rick?"

"Doesn't matter, Morty. It's all about- all about the- the principle of it all, Morty."

"Yeah, alright- o-okay, Rick."

Morty was starting to get tired.

It'd been hours of walking around this alien planet- boots squishing into the gummy earth with each step- and they still hadn't found whatever the hell Rick was looking for. As much as he tried not to complain, it was getting to be to much for him. Morty looked down at his sticky boots. God, they were ruined! Alright, he reasoned. It seems like a good enough time as any to give in. Morty looked down at his shoes, at the pink ground. At the weird plant behind him. Anywhere but Rick.

"Rick, can you- could you maybe portal me home?"

Silence.

"Rick, please? It's been so long already and I have school in the morning and-"

A grunt of frustration, then;

"Morty, you absolute- you dumb- you dumb fuck. Can't you just shut up for fi- for five minutes?"

Rick's voice was a little strained, but when Morty caught a glimpse of the older man he looked completely relaxed. Too relaxed. Leaning against some sort of-

"Rick! Holy shit! We- we gotta- kill that thing, Rick! There's- there's! There's a! On your legs!"

"Stop fucking hy- hyperventilating, kid. I might've left some important details out when I told you where we... where we were going."

"Important details? You shot a portal into my room and dragged me through it! And now you've got- you've got tentacle things up your legs! They're gonna eat you, Rick! You're gonna get eaten and mom's gonna cry and I'm gonna have to wear that itchy suit to the funeral and then I'm gonna- I'm gonna have to get myself out of here! Oh God, Rick, I'm gonna die here too! You're getting us killed right now, Rick! Killed d-dead! Poof! Rick and Morty! Just fuckin'- fucking gone, Rick! What the hell!"

Morty was hyperventilating for real now, lungs struggling to take in the alien air as he shouted at his grandfather. He was too distracted to notice the tentacles creeping up his legs.

"You done, Morty?"

"Y-yeah, Rick! I'm... I'm done, Rick!"

"Good. What I was abou-Urp- About to say was that- that the main inhabitants of this planet are tentaculoids, Morty. They feed on bod- bodily fluids, Morty-"

A tentacle wrapped around Morty's neck and, without thinking, he screamed.

"Rick! What the fuck? I don't want this thing- I don't want it sucking my blood, Rick! I'm too young to die, Rick, I've never even got to tell Jessica I-"

"Morty!"

Rick's voice broke through the screams. Everything went silent, save for Morty's labored breathing.

"Morty, it doesn't want your- your fucked up blood. It wants your jizz, dumbass."

The younger boy's brain short-circuited before falling flat. The silence was back, thicker now. Tenser. It took a while for him to get a grip on what was going on.

"My- my jizz?"

"Yeah, Morty. Your jizz. Semen. Cum. Baby gravy. Nut. Whatever- whatever you wanna call it, it is what it is."

"Why do they want my- why do they want it, Rick?"

"Beats me, Morty. It's what they eat. Maybe the nutrients in it or some shit."

Morty only half heard Rick's answer. He was too busy noticing.

The sweat on Rick's forehead, the way he relaxed into the touch instead of wriggling away, the practiced fashion in which the tentacles slid down his lean frame-

The telltale unzipping of a fly.

Morty squeaked, embarrassed beyond belief as a particularly thin tentacle crept into his grandfather's pants.

"Rick! You gotta- gotta stop that thing or something! It's gonna-"

"Jesus, Morty, would you just chill out for five minutes? It's not gonna hurt you. It's just- fuck- it's just easier to let it do its thing, Morty."

The tentacle was grabbing Rick's cock now. Morty could see it through his boxers, lewdly stroking his giant- wait. Morty did a double take, verifying that what he'd seen was real. Not only was Rick hard, but he was huge. So big that he strained against his pants, and Morty wanted nothing more than to just touch-

"Little perv," Rick mumbled, sighing and leaning back against the tentacles holding him still.

"What?? No, I- I didn't! I wasn't- Rick, I swear-"

The tentacles on Morty must've either sensed his arousal or gotten tired of waiting, because all of a sudden he was surrounded, a whimper slipping from his throat as the tentacles got to work on ripping off his clothes.

"Rick, we should- this would be a great time for you to say sike-!"

"Sorry, Morty. No joke-"

Morty was naked before Rick could finish his sentence, blushing from head to toe.

It was obvious he wasn't entirely opposed to this situation. Cock standing at attention and begging to be touched, Morty knew his complaints wouldn't ring true when Rick could see him like this- could see how much he needed this.

"Rick!"

"I'm not looking at you, Morty, don't get your- your panties in a twist," Rick responded, most definitely looking at his grandson's pale, unblemished body.

"Rick," Morty said again, more desperately this time. He locked eyes with the man in question, the meaning behind the name evident from the lust in the boy's eyes.

No fucking way. Morty wasn't complaining or calling him. He was fucking moaning his name. Jesus Christ. Rick knew then that this was the timeline God had abandoned.

"Rick it's- oh, oh geez! It's up my- my butt, Rick, Rick, Rick!"

And, true to his word; it was. There was a slicked up tentacle slowly pumping it's way into Morty's virgin asshole, stretching out the taut skin and pushing itself inside. Rick swallowed, cock twitching in the tentacle's hold.

"Jesus, Morty. Um- just relax. It won't hurt you if you just relax."

Morty yelped, body spasming in the tentacles' hold.

"It doesn't- it doesn't hurt, Rick- it- it- it feels so fucking good!"

The tentacles must've taken that as their cue to continue, because they spread Morty as wide as he could go- suspended in the air with only the purple tendrils for support. The one up his ass started fucking into him in earnest, pistoning in and out at an impressive pace.

Morty started to babble.

Rick always assumed he'd be a talker during sex. Maybe nonsense, maybe half-assed praise, but never something like this.

Morty- having his brains fucked out by some alien creature- was confessing. Every fantasy he'd had about Rick over the years spilled out of his mouth in a frantic flurry of words, jumbling together into one big string of half-nonsense.

When a particularly thick tentacle enveloped his whole erection in one swift movement Morty shut up for once. . . Well, for about thirty seconds, before he cried out his grandfather's name and came so hard it splattered on Rick's chest.

The older man followed soon after, come spilling out and into the pores of the hungry tentacles.

Coming down was a lot calmer. The tentacles cleaned them up, fixed up Rick's clothes (Morty's were beyond repair at this point,) and the two of them walked through the portal back to their garage without a word.

They ended up trying out every single one of Morty's twisted fantasies (and some of Rick's) over the next few weeks.

Maybe Rick's bet was worth losing.

Chapter Text

A threat of divorce meant a vacation in the Smith household.

Beth would scream about Jerry's unemployment, Jerry would go on and on about how Rick didn't belong in their garage, one of them (usually Beth) would bring up the concept of divorce, and Rick would send them away.

To where? Morty wasn't sure, but he'd found a pamphlet in some alien language in the garage- maybe advertising some sort of intergalactic marriage counseling?

Whatever it was, it was routine, and it was comforting to know that Rick, as much as he hated Jerry, would be there for his daughter when she got too annoying to handle.

A threat of divorce meant the house was empty, save for Rick and Morty and occasionally Summer when she wasn't busy with that month's new boy. But when Summer wasn't there? A threat of divorce meant betting.

On anything, really. Horse races, dying relatives, relationships, sports games. Anything that could spark enough interest in one of them to wager something risky. Their bets were the cause of Rick's enormous net worth in alien regions where he'd sold his nudes, and Morty's tremendous amount of extra-terrestrial mob bosses that wanted him dead for (quite literally) pissing on their poker game, along with countless other scandals and successes. The higher the stakes, the more fun Rick and Morty had.

The betting of this particular night had only just begun when Rick decided to go all in. Maybe it was the alcohol in him. Maybe the unstoppable urge for something exciting to happen. Whatever it was, Morty was sure glad it hit him when it did.

"I bet you you couldn't punch another Morty in the face."

"Rick, that's so lame. Of course I could!"

"No way, dawg. You'd break down or some shit."

"Not true!"

"You gonna prove me wrong or not?"

"What're the stakes?"

The stakes. Oh, the stakes. The most bittersweet part of this little game. If you won you could gain so much, but if you lost . . ? Rick had taught Morty how to bet long before that night, and he knew that whatever he was offering had to be up to par. This bet was easy, though. Morry knew he'd be sure to win.

"Another Rick and Morty adventure. You'll be Rick, I'll be Morty. T-total control over the- the situation, Morty. A shit ton of it. Going wherever you want."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Morty was not prepared to match that. How the fuck could he? The last time they did that turned out to be a complete and utter disaster- but wasn't this still a way to prove that he was a better Rick than Rick? Oh, that was a mistake on Sanchez's part. Morty matched the winnings, desperate to think of anything. It wasn't like he'd have to do it anyway. . . Right?

"The- the opposite of yours, Rick. A Rick and Morty adventure, but I won't complain or- or interject or anything."

"Lame, Smith. Real lame. Raise the stakes, Morty!"

"I'm not done! I'll- I'll be like your... your slave for a day! J-just minus the whipping and all that."

To Morty's shock, Rick considered it. Not only did he consider it- he seemed on board with it. As if he knew he'd get it now. Shit.

"Deal," Rick offered, extending a calloused hand. Morty accepted hesitantly, but shook it a little more firmly when he realised how easy this was. Yeah. He was gonna do this.

It's barely twenty minutes later when Morty realises he fucked up.

Rabbit Morty is so cute, and his little nose is twitching in fear and every time Morty tries to make him seem like more of a threat he whimpers a little and cowers away. He can hear Storage Rick talking with his Rick behind him, and he already know's he's lost.

"If your kid actually punches my best Morty I'm gonna be pissed, C-137."

"Don't even trip, dawg. He's got some- some sort of a conscience. That's rare for a Smith. Must've gotten it from his idiot dad."

"Damn Jerrys."

"Amen."

Rabbit Morty looks up at Storage Rick, smiling hopefully.

"I'm your fav- your best Morty?"

"Don't let it get to your head, kid," says Rabbit Morty's Rick, but he's smiling nonetheless.

Morty ruins the moment by whining, as always.

"Fucking fine, Rick! I can't punch this Morty! He's- he's too damn cute! You happy?"

Rick smirks, arms folding over his chest. Smug bastard.

"Y- yeah, Morty. I'm pretty damn happy. Now- now let's get out of here."

-------‐----------------------

They're back in the living room, and Rick looks unsatisfied with his winnings so far. Morty knows something more is coming. Of course something more is coming. He's Rick Sanchez, for fuck's sake. Full of surprises.

"Take off your shirt."

Morty chokes. Yeah. Full of surprises.

"W-why, Rick?"

"Because you said- uuRp- slave, Morty, and slaves don't- slaves don't wear shirts, Morty. Duh."

"That doesn't seem- doesn't seem very legitimate, Rick."

"Since when do you care what's legitimate, Morty?"

"Since- since you started telling me to take off my clothes, Rick!"

"A bet's a bet."

Morty sighs, face beet read. Is Rick really gonna make him walk around like some slave? He already knows the answer. Yes, yes he is.

"Put this on,"

Morty fumbles with the leather straps, drops them on the garage floor, and looks up at his grandfather after figuring out what it is, embarrassed beyond belief. No way.

"This is a leather harness! Wi- with- with a leash, Rick!"

"And?"

It was so so tempting to go against Rick- to complain or throw a fit or deny ever agreeing to this- but some twisted part of Morty knew that being dragged around on a leash by his grandfather would be a memory to help him out later. A highly-revisited corner in the boy's imaginary spank bank. He put on the harness without another word.

"Damn, kid," Rick drawled, whistling. "Not half bad."

He picked up the leash and gave an experimental tug, sending Morty stumbling forwards

"Atta boy. Now let's go to the citadel, I have some shit to do."

The 'shit' that Rick mentions just so happens to be three hours worth of action-packed adventure. With Morty sulking- or crawling, on numerous occasions- behind him obediently, of course.

The bet had said no complaining, and so not a word of complaint spills from Morty's mouth. Although, contrary to Rick's smug belief, it isn't the stakes that keep Morty silent. No, it's the overwhelming fantasy that his grandfather will not hesitate to tighten the leash and tug him harder (and the boner that comes with it) that shuts him up. If Rick notices his slave's little problem, he doesn't mention it. Not until they get back home, at least.

Feet kicked up on his desk, head thrown back against the headrest of his chair; Rick sighs. The exhaustion sets deep into his bones, but not before the adrenaline coursing through his veins extinguishes it. No time to be tired. He turns his attention to Morty, who's sitting uncharacteristically quietly beside him, watching.

"Okay, kid. Hate to- hate to say it but your- your silence is getting fuckin' boring, Morty."

It all happens too fast for Morty's clouded brain to recognize. Rick's chair comes spinning around, his foot planting between Morty's legs for extra support as he works on undoing the front of the harness and- and Morty's body reacts too quickly- crotch coming far too close to the alien-blood-stained shoe, crossing a million lines and boundaries as a lewdly desperate whine is pulled from his mouth.

Rick freezes. The straps go loose in his lean fingers, and Morty forgets to breathe. The air is thick and hot. Morty wonders when it got so hot in here. Like swimming in a pool of microwaved fleeb juice. He also wonders what the fuck he just did and how much shit he's gonna be in in a second.

It seems like an eternity later when Rick finally speaks, his signature smirk ghosting over his lips.

"You little whore,"

It's just a whisper, could've been the wind.

It's just a whisper, Rick's tone is almost surprised.

It's just a whisper, and Morty could come a million times over from those three words, even if that's all he ever gets from Rick.

It isn't all he gets, of course. The words come again, flowing out of Rick's alcohol- soaked mouth with a practiced amount of ease.

"How long, Morty? Since- how many hours 've you been sporting a- a little hardon, Morty?"

The foot against Morty's cock moves, pressing harder against him. He forgets how to breathe.

"You get off on this, M- Morty? You sick little perv? Like it when- when somebody- someone ties you up like a good little bitch? When grandpa makes you his slave?"

Morty is half sure he's died, humping Rick's leg in earnest. A tug on his hair brings him back to this swirly reality.

"You'll answer me when I speak- when I'm speaking to you, slave."

"Oh, oh-oh geez, Rick- I- I-"

"Yes?"

"Yeah, Rick, I- I'm your dirty little slave, gr-grandpa Rick!"

Rick groans, cock twitching under his labcoat. He undoes his trousers with one hand, the other still gripping Morty's hair tight.

"That's a good boy. Grandpa's- grandpa's dirty little slut. All hot and bothered just for me. What a dirty little whore."

Morty's blushing all over, more embarrassed and humiliated than he's ever been but he wants- no, needs more.

"Please, grandpa Rick! T- I'm your- your dirty little slave, I need-"

"I know what you- what you need, kid. A fat cock shoved down that pretty little- little throat."

True to his word, Rick does just that, and Morty complies. He takes what he's fed eagerly, like a dog eating peanutbutter; lapping at whatever his tongue can reach as it goes farther and farther down his throat. He savors the taste, locks it away for further revisiting, and tries to focus on what his grandfather is saying.

It's too much. Rick's talking to him, spewing out the same beautiful nonsense, all insults and curses and grunts and groans, and his cock is starting to twitch violently in his pants and Morty can't take it anymore.

He moans high and long around his grandpa's cock, eyes rolling back and throat tightening as he violently comes in his pants.

The hand in his hair grounds him, gets tighter to warn him when he should get ready to swallow. Rick's whole length doesn't fit down his throat, and it takes a bit of gagging to get down the hot, salty jizz when it finally comes, but the feeling of Rick's release in his stomach is more than worth it.

"Jesus, Morty. . . "

He's pulled off of Rick, up and onto his lap, and rewarded with a sloppy kiss on the mouth. Rick chuckles at how exhausted his grandson looks, tugging on the leash to bring him closer.

Morty is completely and utterly sated in Rick's arms.

And maybe, just maybe, losing that bet wasn't so bad after all.

Chapter Text

It's always a breath of fresh air to wake up next to him.

Before, not so much. Rick would usually be up last, rolling out of bed and reaching for something to take away the reality of the situation- anything to numb the pain. Sure, it was cliché, but it got the job done. A hit of something alien here, a swig of something probably poisonous there, a shot of liquid fire right into his veins when nothing else would do it- whatever was closest and worst for him at the time. It wasn't Morty's fault, obviously, but the boy took to blaming it on himself. Fuck buddies had turned into a heated quickie and then a yelling match each and every time, good nights gone sour from the obligatory consumption of something harmful, as it was Rick's only means of feeling something other than shame.

Morty had come to him one night after work. It was a day he hadn't bothered to show up; to high or plastered or depressed to get up and shower. Morty had arrived in his uniform (most likely straight from duty,) tear-stained cheeks and blood-splattered boots galore. In a frenzy of limbs and words and tears he'd told him how D-821 had been killed on duty- how he'd had to watch a Morty lose his Rick all because some rebel Rick had needed a quick way out of the citadel and fired at whoever was in his way- how he couldn't feel sorry for the other Morty, just terrified that the same thing could happen to his Rick. He'd paused, laughed a little- a delirious sound, like just the thought was driving him crazy- told him how he'd realised that that could never happen to his Rick because if anything, his Rick would kill himself. Morty had taken out his gun, swung it around to get a point across. He'd promised that he would blow his brains out right there and then if the thought even crossed Rick's mind.

He'd dropped the gun again, tears dripping to the floor as he'd confessed how much he really loves him- how much he'd do for him.

Then he had left. Like he'd never been there. Rick's tiny apartment had never felt so empty.

Now, going on ten weeks clean, Rick's apartment has been adapted to fit two. His stutter has melted away as quickly as Morty's, and for once in his life he feels. . . good. He wakes up first most mornings nowadays. He tells Morty it's to make breakfast, but they both know that's not it.

It's the feeling of freedom he gets when he's next to the man that he loves every single day before work- the clarity that his mind is finally happy having- and the constant reminder that this is better than any high he could ever get. The feeling of opening his eyes and seeing Morty's drooling, sleeping face is all he needs.

God, the withdrawl has made him such a sap- but Morty wouldn't have it any other way.

It's about an hour after Rick's eyes open that Morty yawns and stretches his little body out across the bed, somehow managing to just avoid punching his lover in the face. Rick chuckles and wraps an arm around him, pulls him in so their foreheads are touching.

"M- morning," mumbles Morty, eyes still half-closed and clouded with sleep.

"Morning," he replies, then tilts his chin up in favour of kissing him on the nose.

"Somebody's in a good mood," It's a remark, not an accusation. A playful one, too.

"Am I not usually?"

"On Monday mornings? You're usually the biggest- the grumpiest Rick in the citadel."

"Morty, it's- it's Saturday, Morty."

"Oh- oh geez, you're right. Guess that explains it."

"It would, but that's not it."

"What is it then, Rick?"

"I don't know, just. . . Reminiscing."

Morty laughs at his wistful tone, rolling his eyes. He grabs Rick by the waistband of his pants and rolls them so Rick is on top of him. The older man plants his arms on either side of Morty's head.

"Never knew you'd be- you would be such a romantic, Rick."

"And I never knew you'd be so damn pretty in the mornings, but hey. Here we are."

"Oh shut up, you big goof."

"Make me."

Morty leans up to kiss him, giggling all the while. The kiss lasts about four point five seconds before they're both smiling too hard to concentrate, so they break apart again.

The expression on Rick's face is fond but sincere, and it takes a more serious tone as he speaks. Morty can't help but melt at the words.

"I love you, Morty."

"You better."

This time their kiss is longer- more heated. The mood in the room changes without much warning, but neither man wants to protest. Rick only pulls away to kiss him on the neck, making Morty's head fuzzier with each soft brush of his lips.

"Wait," Morty whines, palms coming up to press against his lover's chest.

"What's wrong, baby?"

"Could we maybe- um. . . Do you think we could- we could- uh. . . Try something- something new?"

The skin on Morty's face takes on a deep red hue, the sight at which Rick smiles and leans in to kiss him again. The younger man whines and covers Rick's face with his hands, not-so-silently begging him to just respond already so they can get back to it. Rick has never been one to say no to his Morty.

"Sure, M- morty. What do you- do you wanna try?"

Morty's voice is nearly too quiet to hear, but, given the close proximity, it isn't too difficult for Rick to make out the words.

"Could you- um. . . Maybe- could you maybe. . . Maybe call me a good boy while you fuck me on all fours?" It's evident that he's horny just thinking about it- that he's been this way since he woke up, most likely.

Rick's pretty sure he just got whiplash.

"Like- like a dog?"

"God, yes, Rick- please," it's less English and more whiney moan, but it's all it takes to get Rick all riled up. He's on Morty again within seconds, hands making their way under his shirt.

"Didn't know you were such a kinky little pup, Morty. Would've gotten you all dressed up like one if I did."

"Next time, Rick. I need you, Rick- pl- please."

It's obvious from Morty's level of desperation that he's been horny for a while now- probably woke up with morning wood, as always. Rick deems it a bad time for teasing, and gets straight to pulling off the younger man's shirt. It's a work day anyways. They should have much, much more time to explore this after hours.

"Are you already hard for me, pet? Gonna- gonna beg like a good boy without me even- even touching you?" Rick, contrary to his words, is running his hands up and down Morty's small frame- leaving little love bites and kisses across it as he goes.

Morty's response is just a groan, his hips bucking up to draw more attention to that area of his body.

"I know, I know. B- But Rick needs- needs some attention first, little boy."

Morty is used to this by now. Rick won't leave him for too long, but just long enough to get him hard and both of them hornier than before. Morty waits for him to get off of him before jumping up onto his knees and undoing Rick's fly. His hands are on Rick's skin the second he gets it open, groping and rubbing and pushing his boxers out of the way.

"Take it easy for me, boy."

Morty whines, looking up from between Rick's legs with a disappointed frown.

"Oh, calm down, drama queen," Rick mumbles, ruffling his Morty's hair. He reaches over to their nightstand, fumbling through one of the drawers.

"Rick, you don't- don't need lube for a bl-"

Rick interrupts him, coming back up with a small jar of peanutbutter in his hand. Why it was there in the first place? Morty doesn't want to find out.

"Just figured I'd give my pet a little- little incentive, yeah?"

Morty doesn't even know what to say. The concept of licking something off of any part of Rick is something he's always wanted to explore but never gotten the chance too- and peanutbutter off his cock? Like some sick freak would do to their dog? He could probably come from Rick's come down his throat and that thought alone.

"Woah, somebody likes that idea," muses Rick, rubbing the bulge in Morty's pants with his thumb, then retracting his hand to open the peanutbutter jar.

Morty can only watch as the man in front of him smears the thick peanutbutter over the head of his cock, lean fingers trailing downwards towards the base. He feels the need to announce how badly he needs it after what can't be more than a minute. His body feels like it's on fire, every nerve and brain cell focused on Rick's movements.

"Ple- please, Rick. No teasing. Need- need you, Rick."

Rick, cock half-hard and partially covered in peanutbutter, wipes his hands on a tissue from their nightstand and tosses it into the trash. Morty takes that as permission and wastes no time. He's on Rick's cock in seconds, lapping up the peanutbutter and moaning. Although the older man is taken aback by Morty's eagerness, the shock factor only lasts about three seconds before he's reacting- hands coming up to trace the outlines of Morty's scrawny figure, cock twitching in appreciation, mouth spewing praises for his good boy.

"Good boy, Morty. Lick- lick it all up for me."

And Morty's whining at his words, working his tongue across every vein and wrinkle- making sure to get each and every last bit of peanutbutter. When he does he feels a hand come up to his jaw and sees one wrapped around the base of Rick's- now fully hard- cock. He feeds it to him and Morty's eyes roll back, hole twitching in memory of the feeling of this same situation in a more. . . private area.

"Yeah, good boy, Morty. Just fuckin'. . . Fuckin' taking it."

Rick's moving Morty's head for him now- pushing his long erection all the way to the back of his throat before pulling it out again, repeating. It's blissful for the both of them, but it pales in comparison to the feeling of Rick's cock in Morty's ass, and so Rick pulls out of his lover's mouth for the last time this morning.

"Get those- those pants off. Like a good boy, Morty. Wanna see you."

He strokes his cock as Morty scrambles to do as he says, laughing a little as a small pair of blue pyjama pants are chucked across the room. He's about to pull Morty into their usual position when he feels a hand on his chest- a pair of eyes on his.

"On all fours, Rick? Please?"

"Fuck, Morty, yes."

They're quick to get into position. Morty's knees are uncomfortable already (It's obviously the Jerry in his blood) and the thought of getting rug burn on them from Rick's aggressive fucking is too arousing. He needs him. Now. Morty whines out Rick's name, thanking every god he can remember that he's still stretched out from last night.

Strong, cold hands come up to grab Morty's hips. One leaves to wrap around the base of Rick's cock. The other leaves too, checking Morty's hole to make sure it's fine to go in without any more prep.

Morty doesn't know when Rick picked up the lube, but it doesn't matter right now, because there's a slick cock pressing into his hole at a painstakingly slow pace. He grips the sheets tight.

"That's it, Morty. So good for me. Such a tight little-" Rick punctuates the next word by thrusting the rest of the way in, catching Morty off guard, "bitch for- for me, Morty."

The pain is sharp at first, but Rick pulls out a little and rocks back in again and they're creating a rythm soon enough. Morty doesn't mind the pain, but fuck does he ever love it when it feels good- and nowadays he can trust that Rick will always make him feel good.

"Yeah, Rick," Morty responds, uncaring of how long ago Rick spoke the words he's responding to. "I'm a- a little bitch, Rick! Your little bitch, Rick!"

There's a groan behind him and Morty hangs his head between his shoulders, letting Rick fuck him how he wants. It's quick and hard, but the grip on Morty's hips isn't very tight, and the dirty talk isn't all dirty. There's little 'i love you's behind his encouraging words, and Morty's so fucking glad he's not actually saying it, because he's pretty sure he'd cry right now if he did. It would be cute, but tear stains are hard to hide before work.

"Say it again, Morty. Say you're my good little bitch."

"I'm your good little- good little bitch, Rick!"

"Whose?" Rick asks, wrapping his left hand around Morty's dripping cock.

"Oh- aw geez, Rick! Yours, R- fuck, Rick! Only yours!"

Rick's breath hitches and he pounds into Morty's tight little ass a little harder, hand working expertly on his cock.

"Prove it, Morty. Come for me."

He does, body shaking and shivering, hand coming back to awkwardly tug at Rick's hair, head leaning up to kiss him. It's terribly intimate, and Rick pulls out and lets it take him over the edge. He makes a mess of Morty's oddly-contorted back, but it's totally worth it.

And later? Laying down together in bed, both half-naked and too tired to move? Rick is reminded that Morty Smith is the only drug he'll ever need.

Chapter Text

He sets her on fire.

Every touch, every whispered reassurance, every glance in her direction that looks far more protective than what's seen as him; it sets a spark inside her that's more than just pride. It keeps her on her toes, practically begging for more. Just a brush of their shoulders- a hand coming up to ruffle her hair, maybe- it lights up her veins like human glowsticks.

He keeps her surprised.

She loves the bad boys. Who doesn't, nowadays? That's what drew her to him. The smoking, the drinking, the ceaseless cussing- it was all very promising. Promising of what? A worthwhile lay and someone to tell her how bad she is- how sexy she looks in something tight and skimpy? God, yes. It's not what she needs (it never is,) but it's what she wants. It makes her happy for a while, then leaves her lonelier than before afterwards. It's a perfect arrangement. One that Rick Sanchez demolishes day after day after day.

He's supposed to be bad. He is bad. A crazy old, high-functioning alcoholic with too many bounties on his head to count and an alien lover on every planet in each dimension? Of course he's bad. But when they're alone- when it's just him and her- he's completely different.

He keeps her surprised by being almost- almost soft. Loving. Protecting. He keeps her like his most prized possession, yet gives her space when he needs it. Where she expected hurt he helps her heal; where she wanted angry, bloody desperation he gives her fiery, inescapable passion; where she thought she needed hurt he gives her what she really needs. Comfort.

She comes to him one night- like she does all other nights, but changed. She's bruised and battered, with messy hair and heavy bags under her eyes- where her eyeliner drips, dark and watery from crying. She can see the anger in his eyes when he opens his door. It's piercing; almost scary. But it's gone too soon. When his eyes trail across the curves of her body and up to her eyes, Rick's anger melts away. It's replaced with sadness. Warmth. Comfort. A look she could (and will) certainly get lost in.

He takes her inside, tells her it's okay, goes to his lab to get something. Stay here, babe. She does. She doesn't listen to what he's mumbling as he checks her for deep injuries- doesn't flinch when he injects her with the same alien serum as he did last time. She trusts him one hundred and ten percent; even though he'd tell her how implausible that is in this universe if she told him.

He makes her feel safe.

Rick's arms snake around her, up and down her. It's comforting. Grounding. She doesn't know when the tears start to fall, but they soak his sweater, drip down her chin. He doesn't mock her. There's no shame in his face when he watches her. She knows by now that he wouldn't dare look at her like that- not for fear of being rude, but because he's incapable. He's more proud of her than ever. Proud that she got home, proud that she stayed so still for him while he cleaned her up, proud that she's letting it all out for him to see and make better.

I'm sorry, Rick. I tried to ignore him, you know I did- He cuts her off. He never wants to hear it. She knows the guy who picked a fight with her will be gone by morning; 'moved to Chicago' or 'on maternity leave' with his wife, which is partially why she feels so bad. Her pain melts away, however, as Rick silences her apology with a kiss.

She wants to pull away. She wants him to yell at her for letting this happen and pull her hair and pin her against the mattress and make her forget everything but his name. She desperately tells herself she does. But god, his fingers are detaching themselves from her waist and creeping up to the zipper on her tube top and the kisses are getting more heated and- and she'd forget to breathe if it weren't for him saying her name in that soft-but-gravelly voice, looking her over like she's the one thing he lives for.

She may know a shit ton about Rick Sanchez by now, but she can never figure out how he can be so good but so damn bad.

Her top falls off and it's too cold all of a sudden. She exhales as the freezing air hits her skin, gripping onto his sweater a little tighter. He pushes her away gently, keeps a warm hand on her chest and holds her skin with the other, kisses her tears away. She's caught off guard by the hand on her hip, but not for protesting it as it makes it way into her pants. Lace is pushed aside and rough, calloused fingers meet smooth skin. Rick's breath is a ghost against her lips, letting her breathe for the time being. He notices belatedly that she's no longer crying. His actions become a little more confident because of that and fuck- she notices.

"Rick, upstairs, please,"

"Portal gun's in- in the kitchen, baby. So unless you wanna-"

"Couch'll do."

"Atta girl."

She moans at the praise every time. It's a force of habit by now. She knows how much he cares for her- how proud of her he is- but hearing it out loud is a whole other level, no matter how many times it's been said before.

They stumble over to the couch in a tangle of limbs, waiting for her to pull off her pants before laying down together. Rick retreats a little in favour of placing himself between her spread legs.

Has the serum kicked in? Is the sight of Rick like that finally starting to drive her insane? She doesn't know, but she does know how much she needs him right now. Rick doesn't keep her waiting. He gets straight to mouthing at the fabric of her panties, dampening them even more.

She threads a hand through his hair, one through her own. He acknowledges the encouragement by pulling off her last article of clothing, making her shiver in the cold air. Rick really needs to turn down the air conditioning.

His tongue is hot and wet and she's the same, letting herself be as reactive as possible to every sensation he brings her. She knows he likes to feel her squirm.

Rick's tongue ventures further, plays her clit like that fucking portal gun of his; every movement practiced, refined, perfect. She whimpers his name as his fingers prod at her entrance, probing and pushing their way in little by little. He laps up her fluids hungrily, and if here mind weren't so foggy from the aftereffects of the serum and the extreme arousal she'd almost laugh at the dynamic here. She needs him- he knows she needs him, but he needs her so much more. One glance downwards proves that he's hard in his jeans, getting off just watching, touching, comforting. He fucking loves taking care of her, and thank god he does, because she couldn't have it any other way.

Rick's free hand comes up from on her thigh, sliding up her side. She takes it in hers. Neither of them are sure exactly how long it takes for her to finish, but neither of them really care. They stay on the couch all night, fingers intertwined, content.

She knows a lot about Rick Sanchez, but there's one important thing she knows for sure.

He's the best good bad boy she'll ever meet.