Work Text:
Everything starts to go to shit when Morty turns sixteen.
He gains a little more height, just a couple of inches really, but with it comes a boatload of new confidence. Apparently it's enough to make his constant absenteeism and lack of interest at school seem 'outsider' and 'edgy' instead of just pathetic, and it even manages to score him a couple of dates with Jessica when she and Brad are on the outs in their constant on-again, off-again relationship.
All of that is fine, Rick can't begrudge him feeling like less of a fucking dweeb somewhere in his life, especially since things definitely aren't improving on the home front in that arena. Beth and Jerry are on their own downswing and seem determined to drag everybody around them down into the quagmire that is their marriage.
But then the little fucker up and vanishes on him.
Not entirely. It’s not even noticeable enough that Rick can call him out for it. Every time Rick barges through his bedroom door at two in the morning for an adventure, or portals to his school for an extra pair of arms on a crucial ingredient run, Morty's still there, token protests fainter than ever, and willing enough to drop what he's doing and come along.
But it's all the other times. When Morty ducks out from a Ball Fondlers marathon for the third time in a week, or is mysteriously absent from the garage for days at a time, or when Rick turns a corner where he can swear he heard him talking with someone else in the family a moment before, and the teen mysteriously isn't there.
He recognizes pretty quickly that it's calculated, and more efficient than Rick honestly would have expected. A couple of times he thinks Morty's using the techniques Rick taught him for hiding from the fuzz against him, the little traitor.
So after a month of this whack-a-mole vanishing game, Rick finds himself nosing around the detritus of Morty's room. The desk is mysteriously clear of both abandoned school books and Victoria's Secret catalogs, and it only takes a minute for Rick to find the notebook buried under a pile of clutter in the bottom drawer.
It's a list, marking out expenses.
Dinner - $200, Limo Rental - $125 per hour, Corsage - $40, Tux Rental - $119, Hotel - $250
Below it is a chart, including calculations for hours worked, and progress. It's more math than he's ever seen Morty do, honestly. Most of it is even right.
He casually brings it up with Summer, and gets enough info to find out Jessica and Brad are currently 'off-again', and that the Senior Prom is next week, easily putting two and two together.
It's both insulting and hilariously clichéd that Morty's avoiding him for a chance at some teenage tail.
But he's bored enough to be mildly curious as to what the kid is doing to earn that kind of cash within a month, and so one afternoon when Morty is conspicuously absent again, he activates the nanobot tracking chip he'd installed in the kid years ago, planning to go check it out.
He's idly hoping it's something kind of embarrassing, or at least to spook the kid a little when Rick finally calls him out on his game. Maybe snap a couple pictures of Morty being dragged dramatically through a park by a pack of dogs on leashes, or sweating over a deep fryer in a paper hat.
What he finds instead is fucking priceless.
Security at the H.H. High Senior Prom is seriously shit. Rick doesn't even have to sneak in the back, doctor up any kind of pass, or lie his way into convincing people he's a chaperone. He just strolls through the front door wearing a tuxedo and looking bored.
It's not even an act. This year the school has decided to pass on the usual ballrooms and museums all over town for a more out-of-the way, annoying locale. It's a fucking country club, the same one Jerry's been trying to get into for years. The manicured lawns and general air of pretentiousness make his skin crawl.
He spends most of his time hanging out on the patio, away from the dance floor. Cheap paper lanterns are strung everywhere, casting soft light over tables covered with garish plastic centerpieces. The DJ isn't horrible at least, and the sound of music floating through the French doors does cover up most of the inane chatter and visceral scent of hormones hanging in the air.
Watching the line of limos and borrowed cars pull up the club's driveway to the front door one by one, Rick groans and checks his watch. He'd considered spiking the punch for a laugh, but at this pace he's going to need every drop he brought with him. Morty hasn't even arrived yet.
Eventually he does, climbing out of the back of a limo with the grace of a baby giraffe, and offering a hand to Jessica as she follows. Rick keeps to the corners after that, doing his best to avoid being seen, though it seems like it's an unnecessary precaution. Morty only has eyes for the low-cut neckline of Jessica's sea-foam green dress.
An hour later, he’s bored again, running low on booze, and sick of waiting to see if Morty's going to bother making a move. It's a slower dance now, but he's still maintaining a good amount of distance, and smiling stupidly at her, even when she's sending every silent signal with her body language that he can move in a bit closer.
Jesus, it's honestly painful.
The rest of the school seems to have no similar compunctions, and Goldenfold and Principal Vagina don't seem to be concerned at all as chaperones about the amount of dry humping taking place on the dance floor. In fact, it looks like they're both preparing to step out the emergency exit for a smoke. Well, no time like the present.
Tapping a couple of buttons on his watch, Rick takes control of the A/V setup, flickering the lights a couple times before dimming them and cutting the music entirely.
There's a large projector screen set up behind the stage, flashing pictures of the senior class at various stupid events and occasional 'In Memoriam' photos of those who had died under mysterious circumstances before they could make it.
The projector flickers, flooding the room with white light before steadying into video footage. It's not the best quality, about average for a cell phone, and it's shot across the street from behind a bus stop, but the central figure is clearly in focus and identifiable.
Morty's standing on the sidewalk corner, handing out pamphlets with a nervous but cheerful smile.
"F-free Chlamydia and Gonorrhea testing! Don't forget to get your annual b-breast exam!”
The entire thing might be excusable, were it not for the full body condom costume, complete with reservoir tip hat. The sandwich board over the whole ensemble boldly questions,
ARE YOU THE 'I' IN STI?
Small bursts of shocked laughter and snickering have started to creep around the room, but it remains mostly contained. It doesn't erupt until the Morty on the screen tries to hand a woman a flier, only to be cursed out and spat on as he thanks her weakly.
“Hey Smith,” someone shouts over the growing roar of laughter. “How can you already have the clap when you're so obviously still a virgin?”
Jessica holds out longer than the rest of them, but eventually even she gives into to the group hysteria, guffaws of laughter bursting out from behind her hand.
That'll teach the little shit.
Rick turns his attention to Morty, only to see his eyes aren't staring, horrified, at the screen, or his shoes, or even his laughing date. They're pointed straight at Rick across the room, and boring into him with a mixture of emotions he can't pick out from this distance.
Smirking, Rick pantomimes a shrug, throwing his hands out in an exaggerated 'Who, Me?' gesture, even as his shoulders are shaking with laughter.
Without a word to Jessica, Morty spins on his heel and heads for the nearest exit, his back ramrod straight and fists clenched.
From the corner of his eye Rick can see Brad already making a bee-line across the room towards Jessica, abandoning the poor girl he'd arrived with. What a class act. He's done the girl a favor in the long run.
Still chuckling, Rick cuts the lights and sound again before restoring control to the DJ, slipping out the side door after Morty in the confusion.
It only takes Rick a couple of minutes to catch up to Morty, walking at a decent pace. The kid may have grown a lot, but he's still got a few inches on him. He doesn't react when Rick comes up behind him, just keeps staring straight ahead, his hands shoved in the pockets of his rented tux.
Draining the last of his flask, Rick eyes him cautiously. Morty doesn't look like he's going to take a swing at him, or like he's going to start crying, thank god, but he doesn't seem anywhere close to normal.
Shit, Rick might have miscalculated here.
“Hey, Morty. Tha-that'll teach you to blow me off.”
Morty doesn't respond, and Rick rolls his eyes and elbows him in the ribs a little, opening his mouth to speak again when he's cut off.
“I'm not mad, Rick. You're just being who you are: a fucking asshole.”
Stopping on a dime, the teen turns and stares at his grandfather, pulling a tight smile. “What do you need, huh? What do you want from me?”
Rick defensively reaches for his flask again before remembering it's empty, muttering under his breath that Morty didn't have to be such a little bitch about a joke.
“I'm not stupid you know,” Morty says, starting to walk again, and Rick bites down the reflexive retort. “There's a reason they were willing to offer a high school student $18 bucks an hour. But I guess that's what I get.”
A hint of bitterness joins the smile across his face. “Just like when I tried to join the soccer team. Or the school play. Or even just a fucking online roleplaying guild.”
“Yeah, you know I was doing you a favor on that last one, Morty,” Rick scoffs, ignoring the quiet voice gurgling up from the pit of his stomach that said that the kid was onto something regarding his... pattern of behavior. It's just the booze. Booze always sounds like that.
“You wanna go back there and play Carrie at the Prom? I can make that happen.”
Morty sighs and shakes his head defeatedly.
“I don't want to ruin everybody else's Prom Night just because you're a dick, Rick. And if I did have telekinesis I'd probably just use it on you.”
“Don't knock it, I've done that. Great weekend.”
They finally arrive at the end of the driveway to the club, and look out over the empty street. They're miles from home, and Rick knows enough from his snooping that Morty hadn't been able to afford a limo rental for more than a couple of hours, probably just enough for dinner and drop-off.
“I don't want to go home like this,” Morty admits, sounding tired.
Rick doesn't blame him, he never wants to be back at the Smith house these days. Ever since Summer moved out and Morty started his vanishing act, it's been even more unbearable than usual.
He's about to reach for his portal gun and announce that they can go wherever they damn well please, maybe find somewhere to salvage the tacky wreckage of this evening, when he remembers he had to leave it behind to wear his own tux.
Sighing and considering their now drastically reduced options, Rick nods at the lone business hotel up the block.
“Well, there is one place we can go.”
The door to the junior suite Morty had reserved swings open underneath the key card, and Rick whistles, low and impressed.
Morty just mutters, “Fuck off, Rick,” under his breath as he walks in, already tugging off his tuxedo jacket.
It's a mediocre three-star hotel, and the thread count on the sheets is probably abysmal, but the lights are turned down low and what has to be at least a hundred small candles are casting flickering patterns of light and shadows all over the walls and cheap popcorn ceiling.
There's a bottle of generic pink champagne on ice, and, based on the somewhat sloppy consistency, what can only be homemade chocolate-covered strawberries on the table by the bed.
And the bed. Jesus, Morty had really gone overboard with the rose petals. The room was almost clouded with the scent of melted wax, sickly sweet flowers, and a hint of aftershave and deodorant from when the teen had set up and gotten dressed.
“I-I have to hand it to you kid. You don't shy away from the clichés. Reeaally went whole hog here.”
Morty doesn't dignify that with a response.
Flopping on the bed, Rick toes off his shoes and helps himself to a chocolate strawberry, looking around for the TV remote. Morty just stares at him for a moment, that tired, neutral expression back on his face, before huffing a laugh under his breath and surveying the room himself.
“You knew about this place. The prom was fucking over. One more night and I would have been right back where you wanted me. But no, that wasn't good enough, was it, Rick?”
The remote is on top of the TV cabinet itself, and Rick clearly doesn't feel like getting up to retrieve it. Morty considers just tossing it to him to shut him up for a while, but odds are it would probably just shatter against the headboard when he ducks it.
“Or you would have ended up like your parents. You know what happens to people whose best night of their life is Prom Night, Morty? They grow up to be Jerry.”
Morty doesn't answer the low blow, busy hunting down and snapping open a trash bag. Methodically he starts to pick up the candles one by one, blow them out, and tip them into the bag.
Rick finishes the strawberry and picks up another, rolling it between his fingers, watching the rather pathetic scene in front of him play out.
“Look, if it makes you feel better, maybe I don't feel great about being a cockblock.”
A short snort breaks free from Morty's nose, but he can't tell if it's supposed to be disbelief or amusement at the part of the evening Rick’s inevitably focused on.
“But,” Rick stresses, “It's not exactly the first time you would have gotten your dick wet, all right? Relax.”
The strawberry was flaking all over Rick's dress shirt. The chocolate hadn't tempered properly, even when he'd made three batches to practice.
Morty laughs hollowly and keeps chucking half-melted candles into the bag.
“You're right, Rick. As always. Because of you I lost my virginity to a mermaid that I'm still pretty sure was a hooker when I was 14.”
The hot wax from the candles has congealed at the bottom of the bag and begun to melt through the plastic. Morty sets the bag down but keeps his back to the bed. If Rick's going to tease him about being a pussy, he may as well not get confirmation that he's tearing up too.
“This was... this was going to be the first time I got a chance at sex with someone I actually cared about, so yeah... It... It kinda mattered to me.”
The teen pinches out the last of the candle wicks and waits for the inevitable response.
“Jesus, forgive me for showing you the best tail in the multiverse, literally. You don't have to keep being such a bitch about it.”
It's about what he'd expected, but it's said with less spite and sarcasm than he'd expected. It's casual, almost soft by Rick's standards, and Morty knows it's about as close to an apology as he can expect to get.
Which is part of why the next words out of Rick's mouth hurt as much as they do.
“If it'll make you feel better you can fuck me instead.”
Against his better judgment and every instinct he has, Morty finds himself spinning around to gape at his grandfather.
Rick's tone was casual, and he's currently rolling the bottle of domestic champagne in his hands and frowning disapprovingly at it, so there's no way he just said...
“Excuse me?”
“Or I can fuck you, you know I'm not picky.”
Rick seems to hear what he's said as soon as he says it, wincing fractionally.
“Well, flexible. Whatever. Jesus Morty, this stuff is crap, you couldn't even spring for the twenty dollar bottle? Y-you know it doesn't actually help get a girl drunk if she can't stand to drink it.”
Morty sees the out he's being offered. He sees it, recognizes it’s meant as an opportunity to change the subject, to pretend those words had never made their way into this reality, and move on with their lives. He gratefully grabs for it, and somehow, some way, misses it completely.
Because instead of a snappy retort about the difficulties of acquiring fine liquor while not of legal purchasing age, what comes out is...
“Wh-why w-would you even s-say something like that, Rick?”
Shrugging, Rick sticks the offending bottle of wine back in the melting ice bucket, giving Morty a second to hyperventilate without eye contact.
“Well as far as I know I'm the only other crush you've had for more than a couple of months. If we go by quantity and quality of jerk-off sessions I'd say I've got Jessica tied up, if not beaten.”
Morty's eyes slip closed as he swallows reflexively, trying not to throw up out of sheer panic. It'd be impressive if he did; Rick worked that particular fear response out of his system years ago. It takes him a moment to realize Rick is still talking.
“I figured the extra cup size she put on last summer put her over the edge though, unless seventy-two is your cut-off age for fucking your own grandfather, but I gotta tell you, between the time dilation, dimension hopping, different bodies, and some other shit I have no idea how old I actually am.”
It's either nervous babbling or just more of Rick enjoying the sound of his own fucking voice. As if he hadn't said more than enough tonight already. Morty lets some of the earlier anger he'd squashed surface to replace the nauseating terror swimming through his veins.
“You knew. All this time? Why the fuck did you never say something?!”
When Morty's eyes open again, it's because he's unable to stand the silence. Rick is staring straight at him, with a serious expression that looks out of place on his face. It quickly shifts into another one Morty recognizes easily. The one that says he's disappointed but not surprised that Morty's being a fucking idiot, again.
“Morty, you were about as subtle as a Kantillerian mating dance. Y-you remember? Those cockroaches with the six heads that scream constantly when they wanna get laid? There's no way in hell I wasn't going to notice, I'm not blind . But I sure as shit wasn't going to make the first move, and you never got the balls to say anything about it.”
The weight of the evening's ups and downs suddenly hit Morty like a ton of bricks, and his legs nearly give out beneath him. Despite himself, he sinks onto the other side of the bed, absently watching wilted pink rose petals flutter to the ground as he does.
Exhausted, he buries his face in his hands, groaning.
“You know, Rick. I guess I should thank you, for officially making this the worst night of my life. It was kind of a close tie with the public humiliation, but this... this really puts it over the edge. Thanks for clearing that up.”
He hears Rick moving beside him, and before he fully realizes what's going on, his hands are being pulled gently from his face and soft, chapped lips are pressing against his.
It's over in a second, but it's going to take more than that for Morty to properly process the fact that Rick was just kissing him. With what appears to be no ulterior motive. No teasing. No blackmail. No requests for favors of dubious legality. Which makes this... what? Reparations? Overdue compensation? Rick's fucked up version of an apology?
“You wanna fuck someone you care about, Morty?” Rick asks quietly, and he's still inches from his face. Morty can smell the liquor on his breath, but it's faint. He'd always imagined Rick would be drunk as hell if this happened.
God help him, but Morty does. He always has. And this... this sappy, romantic clusterfuck sitting in ruins around him is probably one of the few pieces of idealism that Rick hasn't been able to stomp out in a three year campaign. It isn't much. It's practically held together with string and glue and romance novels he swiped from Summer's room when his internet connection went down.
But he does want it. Wants this, with someone he cares about. Who cares about him. And for some inexplicable, fucked up reason, the only candidate the universe has seen fit to provide him with and let him keep is Rick Fucking Sanchez.
The rational, sane part of his mind screams that this is a trap. That even if what Rick is offering is genuine, all it means is that he'll get his hands on yet another piece of Morty, when there's so little left to give. That Rick will take this pathetic, clichéd little fantasy, and leave filthy fingerprints all over it. That it will be tainted, just like every other rite of passage that he's had in the last few years.
His first time driving, leading directly to his first cold-blooded execution, his first drink puked all over the floor of the garage as Rick laughs, losing his actual virginity before he could barely peel his way out of his wetsuit, he couldn't even kiss her with the helmet on...
“I'll make it good for you,” Rick promises, and it's exactly the kind of crude cliché that sends Morty's heart plummeting into his stomach at the same time as his dick instantly jumps from conflicted half-chub to raging boner.
Apparently Rick notices the latter and takes it as a sign of encouragement, if not enthusiastic consent. He leans back down and Morty almost panics and headbutts him. He can't handle Rick kissing him again right now, not when he's cracked open and vulnerable like this, not before he knows what he wants...
But Rick bypasses his lips entirely to lean down by his ear, whispering in a low, conspiratorial voice.
“Y'know, Morty, I used to hear you jerking off to me, through your bedroom door at night. I already knew you had a little crush on me, but the first time I heard you come gasping my name, that was when I realized I wanted to know what you looked like when you came for me.”
Morty's breathing has gone shallow. His second worst fear has just been confirmed, that Rick knew everything, heard everything. Every sordid, stolen moment he'd writhed and gasped into his pillow.
He'd been so paranoid, so cautious, so jumpy the mornings after in the garage. And it hadn't even mattered. Rick had known all along.
Of course he had.
“It happened more than once. Never on purpose, but you were such a chronic little masturbator. Every third or fourth time I'd come up to drag you off for an adventure I'd have to stop at the door with my hand on the handle and listen to you pant my name while you... what? Fucked your fist? Rode your fingers? Imagined me sucking your brains out through your dick? I never knew.”
All of those things and more, honestly. Rick had been right, he'd been a go-to as often as Jessica, but all his fantasies of her had been fairly tame and straightforward, full of soft curves and gentle but enthusiastic sex. Thoughts of Rick, however, had spawned a hundred twisted fantasies, filling his head for the hour or two a day he allowed them out of the locked box in the back of his mind.
In the ship, in the garage, on the dining room table, on the couch, fast and rough and dirty, leaving him covered in bruises and bitemarks, and more shamefully, slow and tender and full of soft words of praise and affection. He wants it all. He just wants Rick to touch him. He doesn't care how.
Why isn't Rick touching him?
Frowning, Morty disengages from the memory of hundreds of shameful nights to find his eyes are closed again. He opens them and looks up to where he expects to find Rick, only to find him resting comfortably at shoulder level instead.
He's lying on his side next to Morty, propped up on his elbow with his hand casually holding up his head. With his bow tie undone and shoes gone, Rick should be the picture of ease. But the look in his eyes is deadly serious as it meets Morty's gaze and he keeps talking.
“I wanted to open the door and find out, every time. Took more willpower than I usually use in a year to just stand there and listen like a pervy priest taking a whore's confession with a hand down my pants. I finally had to soundproof your door while you were at school one day, otherwise I knew I'd get too drunk one night and do something I'd regret.”
And there it is. The scenario that had been Morty's worst fear and favorite fantasy for years. Rick bursting into his room in the middle of the night, with Rick's name on his lips and his hand around his dick. Caught with his hand in the metaphorical incestuous cookie jar.
But it had never happened.
It had never happened because Rick had stopped himself. Rick had needed to stop himself. Rick had wanted to... to...
“There,” Rick says, with an air of finality, just before Morty can come to terms with the earth-shaking revelation on his hands. “If you don't fuck me now, that's pretty much just leaving me holding the bag.”
Morty stares at him in shock as Rick sits up and reaches for another chocolate-covered strawberry, popping it in his mouth and frowning at some imperfection he found with the confection.
Over the years, Morty's seen Rick seduce dozens of people, or people-like aliens. This isn't how he goes about it. More than an attempt at seduction, that was... Rick attempting to level the playing field, such as it was.
Suddenly Rick's earlier words are echoing through his head.
I sure as shit wasn't going to make the first move...
But he had. He'd kissed Morty. He'd offered a hell of a lot more before he even did that.
Morty realizes he's never seen Rick in a tuxedo before, even at that disaster of a wedding. But he's wearing one now that makes him look unfairly attractive, even half-off, and indirectly, he's wearing it for Morty.
What's more, he's allowed to shamelessly ogle. If nothing else comes of tonight, Rick seems to have made it clear he doesn't exactly disapprove of Morty checking him out. Not that his ego needs the boost.
But now Rick Sanchez is sitting in a suburban hotel, on a crummy bedspread covered in crushed rose petals, frowning at one of Morty's subpar chocolate-covered strawberries.
It's worlds colliding.
It's rose petals and soft lights and someone who makes his stomach flip, making him comfortable and uncertain all at the same time.
It's the promise of downright nasty hotel sex with the person who's driven him mad with lust and a vicious smile for years, and who apparently is completely amenable to the idea of making any number of his unspoken filthy fantasies a reality in the very near future.
It's Rick, in a tuxedo and a scowl, giving him shit for buying crappy pink champagne, only hours after humiliating him in front of his entire school because he was jealous, even as he polishes off the last of the strawberries and eyes the only bottle of liquor in the room with a significantly less judgmental stance.
It's his own personalized fairytale cliché, all wrapped up and delivered just in time for him to remember that outside of Disney, fairies are savage things that live by their own set of rules, that lie and cheat and manipulate, making crooked deals and dragging poor, unsuspecting humans into their world, never to return.
It's every fucked up and sappy fantasy he's ever had about his first time all jumbled into a big, confusing mess, and somehow, given the context of his entire life up to this point, Morty can't untangle them enough to imagine it happening any other way now.
“Rick.”
The older man looks up just in time for Morty to lean in and kiss him, letting himself appreciate the texture and nuance of reality he hadn't allowed himself the first time.
He doesn't stop either, barely breaking away to breathe before pressing his lips to Rick's again, opening his mouth ever so slightly and thanking whatever fucked up sense of justice there might be in the universe that a few weeks with Jessica has cured him of the most egregious of the sins of sloppy teenage makeouts.
Besides, he's not sure what he would say if he allowed himself to pull away long enough to form words again. Probably something stupid that would ruin the mood beyond repair that he can't take back. Something like 'Make love to me', or 'Fuck me so hard I forget every shitty thing you ever put me through'. But thankfully it doesn't seem to be necessary. Now that Morty's committed to getting with the program, Rick seems to be fully on board as well, slipping his tongue out to trace his lower lip and wrapping a hand around the teen's hip.
Time seems to stutter and skip a little after that, because the next thing Morty knows they're making out with all the gusto and finesse of a five car pile-up, rolling over each other in a frenzied attempt to slot thighs between legs and find ways to slip hands under the restrictions of dress shirts.
Rick kisses like he fights, and Morty isn't surprised at all. Fast and dirty and brutally efficient, moving on as soon as he's sure he's rendered whatever threat eliminated. Apparently tonight's threats are Morty's few remaining brain cells.
The few remaining rose petals scattered across the bedspread have been crushed beneath stray elbows and thrashing body weight, and the red smears across white shirts look like bloodstains.
Well, to any outside observer who hasn't seen what Rick really looks like covered in blood stains, at least.
When Rick suddenly disappears, Morty whines, only to recognize that he's vanished to tear at the laces of the teen's shoes, cursing furiously at the double knots Morty had foolishly tied, worried about tripping over a loose shoelace on the dance floor and embarrassing himself.
Morty puts his hands on Rick's shoulders to steady himself, trying to breathe through his nose and not think. The thin material of the tuxedo shirt almost throws him. He'd always imagined the stiff synthetic fibers of a lab coat, but with this he can feel Rick's body heat bleeding through the fabric. It's another stark reminder of the fact that this is actually happening, in the one way he'd never imagined it.
Shoes gone, Rick seems to be doing his best to relieve Morty of his tux as quickly as possible, as if it's personally offended him in some way. Watching the plastic buttons of his dress shirt scatter across the hotel room and thinking distantly of how many hours worth of work the deposit on that rental has cost him, Morty wonders if it's the cheap quality or the fact that he'd worn it for someone else.
Morty's pants are thrown against a chair across the room, and Rick triumphantly throws himself back over the boy, practically attacking Morty’s throat with lips and teeth, and dragging another desperate whine from his chest.
Rick's hands slide down his sides, one hand coming around to squeeze a handful of his ass through his boxers while the other ghosts across the front, teasing Morty's straining and already overstimulated erection.
“I'm all you need, Morty,” Rick nearly murmurs, nipping lightly at the pulse point beneath his jaw. “Just you and me. Rick and Morty for a hundred years.”
Well, that answers that question.
If he hadn't known exactly how far Rick would go to insure he was all Morty had it would almost be a romantic sentiment.
Maybe it still was anyway.
Who cares? It's not like he could do anything about it, even if he was inclined to at the moment.
Rick pulls back to meet Morty's eyes, and his pupils are blown with arousal the same way they do when he's on a narcotic high. Morty never imagined that either.
“Tell me what you want, Morty.”
Morty speaks without thinking.
“Everything.”
It's true, too. Now that he has Rick, he can't decide what he wants to do with him, or have done to him. He has years worth of fantasies to fall back on, but right now they all seem to fall woefully short, at odds with the setting and mass of tangled emotions in his chest.
Before he knows what he's saying, he's talking again.
“Please. Make me forget. Please, Rick.”
It's vague, and somewhat alarming. Morty isn't quite sure what he means himself.
Forget what? Tonight? Jessica? The last three years?
Whatever he means, Rick seems to understand, pressing his lips together firmly and nodding slightly, a determined look on his face.
Morty's boxers are pulled down and off in one practiced move, but before he can even enjoy the relief as his aching dick is freed, strong hands are rolling him insistently onto his stomach. Rick plasters himself against his back, and Morty's brain short-circuits when he feels Rick's cloth-covered cock rubbing against his bare ass.
Jesus Christ, it feels even bigger than his daydreams. Or maybe it's just more solid, more actually-going-to-go-up-his-ass in the near fucking future holy shit.
Rick's arms wrap around Morty's shoulders, pinning his upper arms to his sides as Rick sinks his teeth into the junction of neck and shoulder. A choked out gasp breaks its way from Morty's throat as he ruts against the cheap polyester of the bedspread.
“Fuck, Daddy!”
Rick freezes for a second, teeth still locked around a mouthful of flesh. Morty isn't sure, but he has a sneaking suspicion he's trying not to laugh. Morty hadn't known that it was possible to smirk while biting someone.
Ah. Apparently Rick hadn't had his ear to the door for that particular set of fantasies.
Eventually Rick disengages from his prize and audibly restricts himself to chuckling a little.
“You kinky little fuck.”
It sounds like the fondest term of endearment Morty's heard from him in years.
Rick's arms disappear for a moment, and there's the sound of swishing fabric before warm hands are wrapping around Morty's wrists and gently tugging them forward.
Morty's bow tie had been a cheap, pre-tied clip on that came with his rental. He hadn't had anyone to help him practice, and less than stellar confidence in learning from YouTube tutorials. Rick's tie, on the other hand, was the real deal: polished black silk that looked just as good on as it had hanging undone around his neck.
Rick's hands are steady as he wraps the slick fabric between and around Morty's wrists, binding them together in front of him like he's praying, or begging for mercy.
His breathing has gone fast and shallow again, and Rick clearly has taken notice, because no sooner has he tightened the final knot, than he leans down and brushes his lips along the curve of Morty's ear, cooing softly.
“I'll be gentle, baby. I know it's your first time.”
Teeth graze over the shell of his ear, and Morty shivers, feeling a huff of warm air against his neck in response.
“Daddy's got you.”
Rick is an utter bastard. Morty can't really seem to care at the moment.
After a moment Rick pulls away, rifling through the drawer of the nightstand where Morty had chucked a handful of condoms that afternoon on top of the bible. With a sinking heart, Morty remembers that he hadn't brought lube. Not that he'd been expecting this, but it still feels like a stupid, cocky oversight on his part.
Warm hands work their way down his back to grab appreciative handfuls of his ass again, and Morty buries his face into the comforter, his cheeks burning. Rick would probably love to see that, but he doesn't feel like giving it to him at the moment.
That tiny moment of victorious dignity vanishes in a second at the first touch of Rick's tongue to his ass.
Morty gasps, a lightning bolt of shock and sheer pleasure arcing through his spine instantaneously.
“Fuck!”
That seems to be all the approval Rick needs because all of a sudden he's licking his way into Morty like a goddamn ice cream cone he's determined not to let melt.
It's all Morty can do to hang on for dear life, struck dumb as Rick's tongue flicks and corkscrews his way in and around his hole like he was born a fucking snake. He digs his elbows into the bedspread and shifts his hips back to meet Rick's lips and tongue, and accidentally finds fucking Nirvana as he grinds his cock against the bed at the same time Rick manages to dig his tongue in deeper and suck at his rim.
It turns out there's only so long you can keep your face mashed against a mattress before you have to come up to breathe, and all too soon Morty finds himself gasping into his arm, a stream of humiliating pleas falling from his lips.
“Fuck, Rick . Jesus fuck yes, Daddy more please... ”
Dimly he figures out that Rick must be planning to lick him wet and open enough to fuck him, but no matter how good he is at turning Morty's spine into jello with his mouth, there's no possible way...
And then Rick slides a finger in along with his tongue, and nope, it's not only possible, it's clearly the best goddamn idea Rick has ever had in his life, all other claims of genius aside.
He's not sure how long he stays like that, but it's long enough for Rick to work two more fingers in, and to turn his babbling into a constant, near wailing keen.
Morty suddenly realizes that he's close, overwhelmed by the raw friction against his cock and the deep, sparking need pouring through his veins. He can feel the callouses on Rick's fingers from decades of tools and guitar strings and gun triggers, dragging across his insides, and it's too much. Just another thing he never considered before and he manages to make some kind of strangled, broken gasp, trying to warn Rick when suddenly everything stops.
Rick's fingers vanish, along with the hand splayed across his lower back, grounding him and pressing him into the safety of the bed.
For a heart-wrenching, soul-shattering second, Morty is almost certain this was Rick's plan all along. A cruel trick to top his one from earlier. To leave him shattered and desperate, naked and bound on a crappy motel bed on Prom night, begging for his grandpa to fuck him.
Then all of a sudden, the hands are back, rolling him over with a tenderness that almost hurts.
“Shhhh. Morty, it's okay. I wanna see your face when you come, remember?”
The teen just stares at him, even as Rick keeps his hands on Morty's leg for as long as he can before climbing off the bed and standing. Rick keeps his eyes on Morty too as he unbuttons his ruined shirt, giving the kid as much of a show as he can for his age, grateful the low lighting and three years of build-up work in his favor.
Morty doesn't seem to blink or breathe when Rick crawls back over him, immediately leaning down to kiss him deeply, taking his time as he reaches for the condom he'd tossed on the bed.
Rick finally pulls back, and he seems to be searching Morty's face for something. Not really caring what it is, Morty nods impatiently, wrapping his legs around Rick's waist clumsily.
When Rick finally pushes in, excruciatingly slowly, Morty breathes out hard, trying to find something to grab hold of with his hands tied in front of him.
Seeming to recognize his dilemma, Rick pauses to wrap a hand around one of Morty's wrists, guiding them above his head before slipping his own hand between the teen's bound ones to lace his fingers through one firmly.
Morty's almost pathetically grateful, gripping tightly enough with both hands that it has to be almost uncomfortable as Rick bottoms out and stops.
They don't move for what feels like an eternity, Rick studying Morty's face carefully, even as he breathes heavily himself.
Horrified, Morty realizes he's tearing up, that tangled mass of emotions in his chest seeming to throb in tandem with the ache in his ass.
Rick doesn't say a word, just uses a knuckle to gently wipe the unshed tears away with his other hand.
Eventually, Morty nods, and Rick starts to move.
They don't talk, and the room is filled with heavy breaths and quiet gasps. Rick fucks him slowly, with deep, even strokes that seem to break open new places in Morty's heart he hadn't even known he'd been keeping locked away.
He's vaguely aware that he's shaking, and far sooner than he'd like, Rick is wrapping a palm around his dick and squeezing his hand reassuringly.
“Come for me, Morty.”
Morty obeys without thinking, and the world suddenly fades away into a white haze and a faint whine in his ears. He's vaguely aware of Rick gasping and cursing as he's pulled over the edge behind him, and if he were more capable of complex thought he thinks he'd be sorry that he missed it.
Afterwards Morty finds himself staring at the crappy popcorn ceiling, trying to work out the wide, open feeling in his chest where that briar patch of emotions had resided so recently. He's vaguely aware of Rick tying off the condom and chucking it, running his hand through his hair to tame it again.
Rick looks down at him before turning to scrutinize the mess of the trashed hotel room. Another one of Morty's firsts.
Eventually he seems to get bored of Morty's pensive silence, and he elbows him in the ribs to gain his attention.
“How 'bout we pop that shitty champagne like I just popped your cherry, huh?”
Morty can't help it. He laughs.
Monday morning finds Morty stumbling down the hallways of the school, exhausted but grinning.
The whispering when people see him is to be expected, given how he left the social event of the season, but as he makes his way to his locker, the news of his appearance has clearly traveled faster than he has.
He looks like he hasn't slept in three days, which is a fairly accurate statement. The marks around his wrists are unmistakably rope burns, and his neck is a mottled purple mess on both sides. Red welts claw their way down from the edges of his sleeves in distinctly fingernail shaped patterns, and honestly? The worst of the damage is covered.
As he pulls out his untouched books, Morty even manages to smile and wave at Jessica down the hall. Brad's standing beside her, looking confused but smug as he wraps an arm around her waist. For her part she looks a little upset and more than a bit guilty, but she smiles back at him shyly.
Closing his locker, Morty adjusts the metal button pinned to the front of his t-shirt as he makes his way to class, seemingly unaware of the whispers behind his back.
GET TESTED