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Two weeks after their encounter at Shoney's, Rick got a message. He didn’t have a choice but to respond. Em made sure of it.
One month and three inconvenient adventures later— they’ve really gotten into the groove of things, haven’t they? Perfect synergy. No dropped balls, awkward silences, or missed punchlines. If Rick tees it up, Evil Morty knocks it out of the park, and vice versa. Rick has even dropped the sullen blackmail victim act. Most of the time, anyway. It’s pretty hard to woe is me when you’re speeding away from a badass space-explosion with the priceless spawn of a sentient ship in the cargo bay.
They’re still buzzing with adrenaline even long after Morty has safely portaled his new project to safety. This is usually the part where Rick would slink back home like a dog with his tail between his legs. Instead, they kept driving. Talking. That shot was pretty fucking badass. You really saved my ass! Did you see how that guy exploded?
Somehow, they got on the topic of uptightness.
Rick doesn’t think Evil Morty knows how to unwind and have a good time. That he doesn’t know how to party. Ha. First Mistake.
The next three hours are a blur of shots, drugs, gambling, and gore. It started in a shady gutterspace dive bar- how did they end up in a Respawnio’s? Usually, something that’s the interstellar hotel-resort equivalent of a Chuck-E-Cheese outfitted with an immortality field would be beneath Morty. But he has to hand it to the old guy- he knows a thing or two about fun.
Of course it only took 1 shitty pizza and a few contentious rounds of air hockey for things to turn violent. That was the point. Before long, they’d abandoned the games entirely in favor of hunting each other down amongst the arcade cabinets. Shooting. Hitting. Choking. Breaking.
Murder attempt #30 ends with Morty catching Rick in a proper tackle, overcoming his own meager size by weaponizing the momentum gained from inertia alone to knock Rick flat on his ass. His gun skitters across the floor. Morty slams his skull into the tacky neon carpet until his brains spill into the fibers— and they’re both laughing as the immortality field does its job, reassembling and reviving Rick for the upteenth time that night. It's the most fun Rick has had in fucking ages. For a few hours, he forgets there's a doting grandson at home waiting for him. That he'll probably have to come up with bullshit excuses for his absence because he's been gone longer than he meant. None of it matters. The world has narrowed down to Em and him and the rush of his heartbeat as it's beat out of him.
It’s only when the laughter dies that they both seem to notice the compromising position they’re in. Face-to-face, almost nose-to-nose. Breathing hard. Em’s slight knees on either side of Rick’s ribs, straddling him while his hands still cup either side of Rick’s head. Em’s eye flickers down to look at Rick’s panting mouth. Twice.
The laughter turns stale like guilt. His gut flips like a fucking schoolboy. He's close enough to kiss, and fuck he wants to so bad it's unfair. It's so fucking unfair! He’s better than this sort of bullshit about 90% of the time, but that other 10%? That other 10% he’s exactly as bad as the creepy Ricks that kept those scummy bars and strip clubs in the citadel in business. He keeps his hands to himself with his own Morty, why the fuck is it so hard with this one? Alcohol? Narcissism?
Impulse aside, he's not a creepy Rick, so Rick laughs and throws his weight. Em is underneath him and Rick is grinning again. The moment passes but won't be forgotten by any means.
He's not like those other Ricks, he swears to himself. He's never been like any of them. It was just a moment of post-death weakness. He's spent his lifetime killing those bastards for a reason- and it wasn't all just in pursuit of Prime. Those guys fucking suck.
"Fuck, I'm way too drunk." He sways and collapses beside Evil Morty, his heart racing against the inside of his ribs. (Not like them.) "I should get home, been gone too long anyway.” The excuse is weak but necessary, his laughter tinged with nerves. If he blames it on the alcohol he doesn't have to accept responsibility for the thoughts curling in him like a sick smoke. He's not like them it's just been a while and he's easy and drunk. So what if he occasionally catches himself thinking shit like that about Morty? He's never done anything to him. (Not like them.)
A litany of excuses are paid behind his drunken tongue, none of them spoken out loud.
“Oh.”
Looking askance might save him from having to see the slivered look Evil, Evil Morty is giving him, but it doesn’t stop it from feeling like he’s being seen right through with a fucking X-ray. Which is to say; it feels like nothing- but the nerves are making the experience sort of anxious and giddy.
“Does that mean I win, then?” Em settles down into the same, cute little cross legged sit next to Rick that his Morty might do at home. He frowns. “Shame. I thought we had at least another year before your old age would start slowing you down. I was gonna get a room, order some room service, maybe break out the antigravity bong. Oh, well.” Morty shrugs. Fuck, he's so nonchallant! “If you yield, you yield. I really don’t mind claiming the title of superior partier. A king’s gotta lose his crown some day.”
Rick reacts so swiftly, you'd think he'd been physically burned. "Fuck no!"
Ugh, Hell. He rises to the bait too easily. If there’s one thing you can always count on, it’s that Rick’s ego won’t let someone else one up him. "You're on." He says. "Let's go rip some fuckin'- let's go then, just-just- get me off this floor." Rick struggles to stand up, wobbling on unsteady feet, pointedly does not look at him and rolls his eyes. "At least another year my ass, I've got at least another 100 before I need to worry about slowing down." Rick marches to the counter and puts down the cash for the room, fuming obviously enough to make the desk clerk startle. He ignores the uniformed dork in favor smoldering at the yellow-shirted shithead behind him. "You better have brought something worth smoking, kiddo, grandpas about to put you on your ass." Rick sneers.
Morty looks smug the entire way up to the hotel room- all 300 floors.
Rick crosses his arms as the door to their room swings shut behind them. "Alright, don't hold out, whatcha got?"
Can a hotel room simultaneously be nicer than expected and still incredibly sleazy? What'd they do, give them the honeymoon suite? There's even a fucking jacuzzi shaped like a heart.
“It’s a little blend of my own.” Morty produces a portal and leans in. Only his upper half, though. His legs are left firmly in the hotel room, one foot lifting for balance as he bends to root through the contents of his lab on the other side.
— Rick would be lying to himself if he pretended he wasn't looking. Not that there's really much to see on your standard Morty's— noodle legs and a flat, bony ass, but damn if that doesn't do it for him. He rations there's nothing wrong with looking. Same as looking at his own Morty. (Something he pretends he doesn't do. Only when he drinks. Which is fucking always. Whatever.)
Em resurfaces with a glass container of glittery, deep purple herb.
“I took a clipping of some nano hyperstrain buds from a cyberpunk universe and engineered it to my liking. The nanobots activate upon ignition, and deliver the compounds directly to your endocannabinoid system, so the high is practically instant. Shit’s so good can make a 15 minute nap feel like a full 8. I’ve never tested more than a few puffs, though.”
Color Rick impressed. His mood is instantly improved, he gives a delighted whoop at the notion of an instant high and a rarely-seen, highly-prized nod of approval. "Damn, gotta be my favorite thing you've invented yet, and I haven't even tried it. Bring that shit over heeeeere!" Rick flops over on the nearby bed and pats the comforter beside him. "Your drugs, first hits yours." He insists with a grin.
Em can barely contain a grin as he climbs onto the mattress next to Rick. It feels good to be praised for once. Especially from him.
Rick watches Morty's lips at the mouth of the bong. His innards twist. Unfair, unfair.
The touch of a red-hot fingertip is all Morty needs to ignite the herb packed in the bowl. He holds it there as he inhales, long, and deep. Until his lungs burn, and he’s forced to pull up for air. His eyes are already colored a neon fuschia as he exhales in one, easy breath. No coughing! The smoke is odd, though. It disappears too soon, odor and all, as if it were being blown away by heavy wind.
“Right. Did I mention it- uh-“ Evil Morty snickers as he stumbles over his words. He hands the bong over with clumsy hands. “I made it so- the bots. They, uh. The smell…fuck” He drags a hand over his face with another laugh, his smile so wide it’s almost uncanny to see it paired with the eyepatch. “I'm fucked.”
Rick laughs, and all the tension from the first floor is forgotten. Rick takes a dramatically long hit and exhales— his body relaxes visibly, as if all the stress him his core were eaten up by those nanobots, too. "ohhhhh my god I'm fucking HIGGGHH baby!" He whoops and cheers, passing the bong back to Em all the while. "Fuck y-you should see your eyes, ho-hol— holy shit dude. That's good shit!"
Rick loves drugs. God damn he loves drugs so fucking much— guilt can't find him when he's high, all the spoilsport bullshit that rattles around in his dome can't fucking bother him. He thinks Em's smile looks good. It looks sooo good on him.
Rick's already forgotten it's supposed to be a pissing match, appreciating the high grade good of an instant high.
“- pot, fucking blitzed kettle. Look at YOUR eyes, man!” Em is shaking with laughter as he points at Rick’s aggressively altered eyeballs, so intensely pink they could be glowing. It’s crazy to think that not too long ago, he was trying to kill this guy and framing him for serial murder. Now, they are in the Respawnio’s Loveshack suite, smoking Morty’s own invention. The world is good and hazy by the time they finish the bowl. Colors seem more vivid. His body has never felt more relaxed, nor more alive. Morty can’t really sit upright, so he’s taken to leaning against Rick’s side, his cheek on his shoulder as they both watch the pixels dance on the interdimensional TV through glazed eyes.
He smells good. Like aftershave, and…and something else so impossibly specific and natural to him that the only way one can describe it is just Rick. He smells SO Rick- but not in the way Morty might usually think of it. Not like vomit, portal fluid, and a little bit of piss, just…he wants to stuff his nose into it. Bury his face right there in Rick’s collar and breathe.
He won’t. But the smalls whiffs of it he can catch every few breaths are enough to make his stomach curl.
“Y—you know, Rick. I respect you.” Em starts- if only because the best way to keep his mind off of the overwhelming urge to lick a desperate line right off of Rick’s throat is to follow the less humiliating train of thought chugging through his brain.
“Honest-to-fucking-god, respect you. That ass…asshole guy. Prime? He said you two were the only two Ricks who created Portal tech, and it, like. Wow.” Morty uses both hands to make an explosion-like gesture. “Pssheww. Mind blown. I was like ‘there. That’s a Rick you actually have to give some credit to.’ I always knew you were different, but that just…”
The smartest man in the multi-verse is also, at times, the easiest to please. A good bit of sincere praise always goes straight to him— like alcohol. Rick’s ego is never above being stroked. Apparently while high, Em actually sounds a little more like a normal Morty. Like the weight of a thousand traumas isn't sitting heavy on his shoulders or suffocating his chest like a goddamn incubi. Relaxation is attractive on him. Maybe as attractive as cold calculation and crazed bloodlust. It's intoxicating— Rick is so lost thinking about it he nearly jumps when Morty suddenly bolts upright.
“Rick! Jacuzzi! "
"Oh hell yeah! Fuck yeah!! L-let's go, let's just— get—" Rick laughs at himself as has to lean on a nearby wall when he moves from the bed too quickly and nearly topples. He strips off his shirt and coat on the way. The sound of laughter follows him from the bed to the bath. Em is quick to follow, laughing and stumbling all the way. It’s rare these days. To let go. To be out of control. He expected it to be terrifying on some level. Instead, he just feels…happy? Happy-adjacent.
Halfway through peeling off his shirt, he is struck with a sudden realization: oh, shit. So THIS is why Ricks are always fucked up. How oddly validating. Look at him! He's just like grandpa!
The tub is already filling up when they finally fumble their way to the bathroom.
“Sweet. It’s one of those hotels that have responsive appliances! It heard me say ‘jacuzzi’.” Morty’s hands find his waistband to begin shimmying them off. “So, underwear on, or-?” He trails off as he turns his head to see Rick has already stripped everything off, boxers and all.
It's not weird. Rick is naked around his own grandson all the time, and he's never touched him. It's just how he is- a free spirit!
He's not like those Ricks.
Morty snorts with laughter and follows Rick's lead, treating grandpa to an eyeful of his bare ass as he strips down and sinks into the filling tub. Rick's eyes drift down Morty's bare back, and he thinks guiltily as his dick openly twitches that he shouldn't be looking.
(Not like them. Just human nature. He's crossfaded. A fucking Picasso could make his dick tweak right now.)
“Okay- I gotta know. Does every Rick augment their dick, or is that really natural?” Em always wondered as much but never really cared to ask until now.
Rick snorts a laugh, and looks down at himself. "o-oh, I mean— I'm pretty sure a lot of them augment their own. Th-this one is— it's art. It's art man watch—"
Morty turns his head to look. There's no visible sign of Rick doing anything to it, but one second it's a normal— if very big— cock and the next it's an alien thing with bumps and ridges, and a fat knot at the base. Pretty and blue in color. He gestures at the changed appendage and looks very pleased.
"See? Art. I can— it can be whatever I want it to be. Pretty fuckin' cool huh? You— I mean you could touch it, fuck it's been inside enough people, it's real as any Rick Dick but it's way better."
“Mmhm. That’s what I thought you’d say.” Morty puffs a smug breath through his nose. His theory about all Ricks having an artificial schlong grows more and more solid by the day. But just because the thing is a symbol of the Sanchez ego doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the craftsmanship. Morty inspects it with a low gaze as he leans back in the gargantuan tub, a little smirk on his face, arms splayed on the rim. Its almost cute when you realize he’s sitting in the tub cross-legged like the dorky little teen he’s supposed to be. Fully criss-cross applesauce- and it doesn’t leave much to the imagination, especially from the outside looking in.
“You always ask your Morty to touch your dick when you’re blitzed, Rick? Or am I just special?”
Rick's guts twist with discomfort as he realizes how that sounded.
"No— I mean, I meant because it's—" He is about to swear it's all in the name of science when he finally sees it. His brain almost short circuits— Evil Morty isn't packing the standard Morty equipment, either. His eyelids flash open in awe.
"Shit, were you— you a Morticia once?" Rick blurts uselessly. There is no way to ignore the very obvious elephant in the room now and the absolutely ravenous curiosity that fills him may as well be akin to arousal. What's the difference to a scientist anyway? "Holy shit." It doesn't sound judgmental, despite the absolutely tone-deaf way he brings it up. He can't help it. Gobsmacked. "Ffffuck.."
He wonders if Em removed his womb himself or if one of his Ricks helped.
There’s no avoiding the heat that rises in Morty’s cheeks. It never gets easier, no matter how many times it happens. It parts the high long enough for Em to consider fibbing like he sometimes does. No, I come from a dimension where everyone has cloacas.
But… he doesn’t feel like lying to Rick right now.
Weird.
“So what if I was?” A slightly indignant Morty waits for a reply, but Rick is too busy staring like the village idiot. Uncertain diffidence brews low in his gut, offset by a note of pleased heat. Chances are Rick is only staring because high and surprised don’t go well together- but what if that isn’t all?
Em waves him over. “Just come on and get in the water already, gramps.”
"That's— just makes you more of a Rick if you ask me." He shakes off the stupor with a shrug and finally steps forward and into the Jacuzzi. "Self made man and all that."
He's trying to be casual about it, but he can't help sneaking peeks. He's just curious! If he's starting to chub up a little so what.
"Damn, I shoulda– shoulda brought a beer over. Or ordered champagne, they've got great room service here." Rick sinks into the water lower with a sigh, spreading his legs wide and tipping his head back, arms spread out on the back of the tub. Comfy. Morty at home would have made a big deal out of having Grandpa’s dick in his face for those few seconds it takes Rick to step up and in. This Morty doesn’t. His eyes follow the prize all the way down into the water.
“—room service. Ooh, that sounds good.” Morty groans, melting into the water. “Maybe- maybe we chill in here, then order something. Yeah.”
He’s trying to think of something to order, he really is! But all thoughts of chicken tenders and nachos are swiftly overtaken by a gaze that floats back to the tech between Rick’s legs.
“So… what’s it made out of?” Water sloshes gently as Em scoots over for a closer look. “Clone flesh and shiftermesh? Nanotech?”
Rick can't help the smug, self-satisfied grin in response Evil Morty's inquiries— they're both creatures of curiosity. There was no way Morty could have ignored the need to know. Leave it to Em to put it together quick and efficient. His brilliant boy. So fuckin' clever.
"Right on the money, actually— all of the above. Cloned it out myself, programmed nanotech controls the shifting which is all done through conscious thought. Organic enough to respond to natural electrical impulses— ie, visual arousal— and smart enough that I can get hard with a thought. It's fuckin' great. I never lose a dick measuring contest either, Ha!"
“Smarrrt. I’d have done it the same way.” Em nods approvingly. So close, now, that their thighs bump each other if they aren’t careful.
Rick eyes him curiously. "You want one of your own?"
Evil Morty isn’t the most expressive Morty in the multiverse, but the expression he makes is practically comical. Curled lip, scrunched nose. His glare would be wounding if the high didn’t make his eyes such a silly color.
“Why? Bec- because all trans people should strive to conform to normative ideas of gender?” He might be struggling to get it out coherently, but fuck, if he isn’t strong in his convictions. Morty rolls his eyes. “Dunno if you noticed, but conformity isn’t really my thing Rick. If I- I’d have made one already if I wanted it.”
Rick throws his hands up in a show of non-aggression. "Whoaaaa, chill it with— with the moral conundrums bro, I was literally at stonewall. You don't have to have a dick to be a man, I was just curious if you'd thought about it." He shrugs, aiming for nonchalant when he adds offhandedly: "—Was damn near the first thing I did when I realized I had the tech to do it myself. Wasn't this advanced at first, at first I just wanted it to be, you know. Functional. Indistinguishable from the real thing. The cool shit came later."
Rick's head rolls like a heavy sack of sand and the smile is given with heavy lidded, fluorescent eyes. None of the experience or intimacy is dimmed by the high, no matter how ridiculous they look. Pressed skin to skin naked in a Jacuzzi doesn't really have a not intimate excuse.
"Self made man. Like I said."
Morty’s incensed expression falls in the matter of an instant. His jaw even slacks a little.
“Wait. You...?” Oh, fuck. Of course. He’d felt like C-137 was different from the others. That they were just a little more alike than every other Rick and Morty— could this be why?
“Just you? Or- or are all Rick’s secretly stealth? I feel like I’d have known already if that was the case-“ A pause as Morty’s intoxicated gears keep turning faster than his mouth can keep up with. He’d always assumed the augmentation was building off of an already pre-existing dick, not crafting one that wasn't there in the first place.
Suddenly, it seems a whole lot more impressive.
"I'm not the only one. But I haven't met that many. A rare breed among them, I guess. Not quite as rare as being one of the only two to create portal travel themselves but damn close. I actually know more Ricks transitioning the other way, which I always found odd." He can see the gears turning in his little partner's head before the words ever come out.
Morty looks down at it again, awestruck.
“…okay, now I kind of have to touch it.”
Rick's heart leaps into his throat.
"Ha!" Rick is still grinning ear to ear like it's some sort of joke, but his spread legs certainly aren't making any move to stop him. "What, you wanna touch grandpa's dick in the name of science? "
He doesn't mean for it to be an invitation- but Em doesn’t hesitate. His hand drifts over, enraptured as his fingertips graze over the surface of Rick’s not-quite-flaccid shaft. Rick's entire body jolts, heartbeat suddenly double-time as it roars in his ears. He doesn't have time to protest before Evil Morty interrupts him.
“What about your Morty? Is he trans?” What a time to bring it up. Whatever. Sue him. He’s curious.
"Huh? What, Morty? N-no, little pricks got a little prick." He puffs humored air as though that was especially clever, and Morty cannot resist a slow grin. It shouldn’t matter whether Morty Prime was born a boy or not, but the confirmation that he isn’t self made like the two of them eases something in Em that he didn’t realize was tight in the first place. Not quite satisfied with a light touch, Morty turns to a gentle grasp, squeezing to feel the internal structure. Rick inhales through his nose harshly, trying desperately to keep cool- reacting would only ruin the thin veil of scientific study they have going on that's keeping him from feeling like a total fucking pervert.
“The skin moves, too!” Evil Morty marvels with a gasp. Fuck, it's absolutely unfair how hot that is. The little hand wrapped around him is just part of it— the praise, the awe, the ravenous scientific hunger for more information is another.
The act of shared experience is one more.
"Course the skin moves," Rick continues. "I got Diane pregnant with this baby, the skin better fuckin' move."
The exploration pauses.
“You- you synthesized your own fertile sperm?” Morty gawks. He has to reel about that for a second. Sure- it’s nothing he would expect to be outside of Rick's capabilities, but it’s something else entirely to know he did it to shape himself into what he wanted to be.
“Shit, Rick. That’s- that’s some real Prometheus-stealing-fire shit.“ Em laughs, his grasp loosening around the older man’s length. Exploration over, then. Rick heaves a silent, relieved sigh- though, his cock still stands stiff without support, and it even bounces a little when Morty releases it.
“Is it produced- like- like natural semen?" Evil Morty continues. "Are your balls actually functional?” Then, Morty’s hand moves lower, cupping Rick’s scrotum in his hand for further investigation. Gentle pressure, squeezing, feeling. and Morty is satisfied to know it certainly feels like a pair of real deal testes. Rick hisses through his teeth, cock jumping as he's unceremoniously fondled.
"Fuck! Yeah it's— they're the real deal. The nanos run a synthetic replication program at the same consistent rate any other man generates semen." He can't help it, his hips twitch a bit. He fights to keep still under the exploration of dutiful fingers. "Get ... get blue balls if I don't finish, etc. Fully functioning babyyy." He grins. Moral panic aside, Rick can't help but be proud to show off a little.
"Hot." Morty breathes.
Wait, what?
Rick double takes, but Morty is too busy to notice- so enraptured as he watches Rick's dick react just like any natural phallus would. Seamless. Perfect. It even bounces when Rick tenses up, perfectly woven into his anatomy as it should be. He can't resist giving Rick's sack another gentle squeeze, just to watch dick twitch and Rick squirm.
"So, does it get hard only in response to physical stimuli, or...?" Em's glance returns to Rick, brow raised, damning. Like he already knows the answer. It's one thing if you get hard when your not-grandson is poking at your junk just because your cyber-dick is a hunk of dumb nerves that's designed to get hard at anything, but mental arousal is a different story entirely.
Fuck fuck fuck—
They both know damn well it's not just stimuli. His cock is good and hard now, and if he breathes any harder he'll be panting. The weed and the alcohol aren't doing his physical arousal any favors— but he can't blame it on that alone. He isn't a predator. He isn't a one of those pieces of shit who sees grandson as synonymous with Lolita, but everything about Morty always appeals to him. Attempting to ignore it has been like fighting gravity.
He could keep up the fight, but it does ultimately seem pretty pointless, doesn't it? He's hard. Em's hands are all over him. And it's not as if Evil Morty is his Morty...
"It's as close to the real deal as you can get without being born with it." Rick admits with a slow, hard swallow. "That includes getting hard watching porn, and in some instances, while staring at your not-grandsons fuckin' pussy on the other side of a hot tub. What can I say." He shrugs, tries to play that off cool too but it's not as easy when his dick is literally in Morty's hands.
There it is. Morty is the cat who got the cream, all cocky and proud. His grin betrays just how delighted Mr. I-Hate-Ricks is to hear a Rick say that.
"Come on, Grandpa Rick. We're- we're both men of science. Just because others might not understand what's going on here doesn't mean you need to be, like, ashamed of your curiosity around me." Fuck. Being high hasn't dulled him down into a regular Morty at all, it's honed his conniving into a goddamn knife beneath all the disarming giggles and smiles. As Morty speaks, his hand travels, departing again just to return- this time, closing his petite little hand around the end of Rick's cock to begin a casual pace, stroking the first inches of his grandpa's cock languidly as they talk. As if it were as routine as taking someone's blood pressure.
"Am I the first Morty with a pussy you've seen?"
"Oh fuuu—" his hips jerk at the sudden change of contact and context. He realizes he's been outplayed. Maneuvered around like a chess board and fuck if it doesn't make his dick even harder to be outsmarted. Goddamn he loves when he's cocky.
Rick's eyes roll back, head dropping against the edge of the tub again with a groan.
"Seen, no. Never— ah— touched one. But you see them on the citadel; hard to avoid, actually." Speaking of the creepy bullshit he's seen Rick's do. The dissonance of remembering the things he'd seen is nearly enough to put a stop to this. Wait, wait, wait perched on the tip of his tongue. But Rick is high as a fucking kite and Morty is giving him a handjob. The consequences can be a problem for sober Rick.
Morty makes a non-committal noise, sounding almost...disappointed.
"Right. The clones. Cuntboys or whatever they called them." His hand never stops- but it doesn't speed up, either. His attention is even and consistent, varying only when his thumb wanders to play under the ridge of Rick's cockhead. He teases the frenulum and strokes the edges of his glans, applying just enough pressure to get a feel for the tissue there.
"Surprised you didn't assume that I was one of them." Em remarks, his voice lilting with praise. "I'd offer to let you touch, but- ha, natural Morty pussy is not exactly as interesting as Prometheus dick." Squeeze, squeeze. A little reward for being hot and intellectually stimulating.
Rick is almost offended on his behalf. It shows in the wrinkled furrow of his brow- but the notion of reciprocation is nearly enough to make him whine. He wants it badly enough to, to be certain. He's never wanted to touch anything so badly in his entire goddamn life, in fact. Rick has to fight to stay on topic. "Fuck, fuck— mistake you for one of those brain dead holes? Fuck no." He swallows thickly, hips jerking again. "Natural Morty Pussy seems pretty fucking extraordinary to me. Come on, l-let grandpa touch baby—" There’s very nearly a please tacked onto the end of that, desperate in a way that risks him coming off like an addict coming off the wagon. Come on, just one hit, I just need one.
Look at him, practically begging. Again, Morty throbs. His thighs squeeze a little tighter with want, and Morty has to pause to catch his breath again.
He nods, spreading his legs for easier access.
"You may touch." And it feels like a high honor. It feels like getting fucking knighted. "Take your time. I know I'm going to continue this little experiment until I get to see this thing cum." Morty punctuates his words by finding Rick's self-made scrotum again, fully groping what he knows to be producing the load he will soon witness. He's almost excited. "Fuck. You might be among the few Ricks around who's still fertile."
"Fuck, goddamn, shit—" a slew of curses, these and worse, string out of Rick at Morty's touch. Rick can't get his hands on him fast enough— long, dextrous fingers slide between his thighs, overeager but not clumsy. Take your time, he says. Em has no idea how well Rick likes to take his time.
He feels the soft lips and the tip of Morty's little clit peeking out, gently slips his fingers in to give it an exploratory stroke of his own— two fingers braced in a v against it. Morty didn’t realize just how hard he is until Rick’s fingers find him. Just some gentle petting is enough to run his breath a little ragged. He can tell he's even a little slick to the touch by the way Rick’s fingertips slide against him. Rick reaches out with his other arm, snaking it around the boy's thin waist and drawing him closer. The intimacy of it gives Morty goosebumps.
"You wanna make Grandpa cum that badly? Wanna see the fruits of my labor?"
“Shit- yeah.” Em admits, nodding just a little more eagerly than he intended to. “God, giving yourself a huge cock would be pathetic if you were cis- but- but there’s something about a fat cock on a trans man that’s fucking intoxicating.” Just look at it. Morty can barely get his hand around it. He moves to the thickest point of Rick’s shaft just to see if his fingers so much as graze one another. Not quite.
Rick is looking up at him through heavy lids, seemingly spellbound. The tips of his fingers curl and dip into the warm, wet slick between his lips with each stroke. Not breaching, but enough to feel the pressure that he could. Finger pads against his hole, just barely.
"You should see the face on a Rick when he can't measure up." Rick giggles.
Morty shocks to life. The reaction to having his clit stroked certainly was good, but it’s nothing compared to the gaspful shivering caused by Rick’s fingertips petting his hole. A quick detour back to the crown of the boy’s cunt proves his theory right- yyyyup. Morty’s even harder now than before.
"Think you could take it at this size? Might be too big for you."
“Wh- is that a challenge?” Em scoffs. The audacity of this guy. But they both know he’s too intoxicated not to take the bait. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
For now, Morty focuses on the task at hand. Namely- getting his hands all over his grandpa’s cock and jerking him off less like a teenage boy and more like a whore. The lascivious slosh of the water as his hands works, massaging over leaky tip, and pumping the result along the shaft. The sound isn’t bathtime horseplay, it's more akin to the rhythm of springs groaning in an old mattress.
Somehow, Morty knows they’re both thinking about the same thing: Rick’s cock inside of him. With every pump, Morty wonders how that ridge would feel against his cunt, or if he’d be able to feel that vein. He wonders until his cunt aches, each tease against his hole enough to earn Rick a true and genuine Evil Morty moan, low and sweet.
We'll see.
Maybe it's a challenge. Maybe it's a Freudian slip he hadn't intended to ask at all. Can you call something a Freudian Slip if the desire isn't really subconscious? Or the thing said is not especially couched in subtext?
In the end, Rick supposes it's a promise and a challenge, two things he is learning they both thoroughly delight in. Em sets his hands proper work and Rick is helpless putty in them— his own fingers don't stop their exploration of his grandson-but-not-his-grandson's weeping cunt as he can feel the slick a little more with each brush of his fingers.
"Fuck, fuck fuck—" that's all the warning Em gets before Rick comes in his hands for the first time— and he wasn't lying. There's no difference Morty can make note of. The organ jumps and twitches in his hands, balls drawn and pulsing as he shoots his load across Morty's fist. Rick feels him clench as Morty watches the finale. Just like that, Rick's shiny, perfect 'not-a-creep' record is tainted with one big, white streak.
“Fuck,” Morty echoes. “It is art.” Once more, something completely mundane and expected of a natural-born man is turned mind-bogglingly hot when in the know. Rick did this. He wanted it, and so he made it so. Morty is certain he's never found any Rick so attractive before in his life.
And his pussy is on fire. He makes a mental note to try this again when they’re not in water- something, something. Testing all the variables. Sure. For now, he’s more concerned with teasing his thumb over an old man’s overstimulated glans as he pulls him in for a deep kiss. All of Rick's protests swiftly die against Morty's lips. Wow. Fuck— fuck!
The cock under his touch throbs uselessly, making a valiant attempt to stay hard, and Rick reciprocates enthusiastically. He pulls Morty even closer, the arm still around his waist used for leverage— and despite the slightly awkward angle, the fingers still playing on his cunt curl properly. Two fingers breach his wet hole, and curl toward the soft, spongy tissue of nerves inside.
The cry it elicits from the boy is muffled into the filth of their kiss. Tongues, and lips messily clashing as Morty whimpers and arches into the sensation. He isn't celibate by any means, but he forgot just how good it could be when he wasn't too busy thinking. It's almost like he's back in the days of innocent adoration, so hormonal and eager for attention from his Rick that anything, everything felt like heaven.
Without disrupting their kiss, Em shifts, throwing an arm around Rick's neck to anchor himself further. To keep himself close.
Rick wishes he could hear that sweet sound better; even muffled, its music to his ears. Closer together now, it's easier— Rick's fingers reach deeper, pumping in and out in slow rhythm.
"Fuck, baby—" Rick groans against his lips, "so fuckin' wet for me, holy shit— you— drug out your grandpa and then hop on his dick? Fuckin' dirty." Rick laughs a little, more amused and aroused than judgy or critical. He kisses him again, fingers working inside him.
Hearing Rick call himself His Grandpa shouldn’t do it for him. Morty thought he was past that. He was supposed to have shed that part of himself like an old skin the moment he left the Central Finite Curve. And yet, now, the thought of being Grandpa's Boy is more electrifying than ever. Maybe it’s just the drunk, or the high- but his moans come a little sweeter, his body opening up for Rick just a little easier.
“You like it.” Em mutters, a knowing smile growing against grandpa’s lips- but any smugness is swiftly fucked out of him as Rick’s fingers make him jolt, buck, and moan. Morty melts into their kiss, feverishly claiming Rick’s mouth in encouragement.
Rick laughs again, and his fingers twist cruelly— "True. You think like a Rick, it's hot." He returns to the eager tangle of their mouths with abandon. Morty is all but in his lap now, it would be so easy to pull him in and bully his way inside. His cock's already starting to chub up again. Could pull him down and work him open. Rick wonders what sort of expression Morty might make. Mouth slack, eyes rolling. Stretched out on a cock too big for him.
Apparently he doesn't have the refractory period of a 'real' cock, so there's that at least.
Not that Morty weighs much to him to begin with, but weightless in the water it's easy for Rick to use the leverage of his bigger side to turn them around. Without ever removing his fingers, he braces Morty's back against the side of the tub and settles him down on the seat. Rick works him with an expert touch, fucking his fingers in and out of his cunt with a slow and deep precision.
“You cum for grandpa and then we’ll move to the bed and see if you can take it. Gonna— get you all laid out and fuck you proper.”
Rick feels Morty tighten around his fingers before he even finishes his sentence. The sensation of Morty’s insides fluttering and squeezing around his fingers at the mere mention of being fucked? Unbelievably hot.
“Fuck,” the boy groans, eyes nearly rolling. Just the promise of Rick’s cock has his nerves blazing with desire. Morty catches his wrist, then, not quite stopping his rhythm, but slowing it. “I- I don’t want to wait.” He insists, but his demanding tone is undermined by his panting lips, and dopey, high gaze.
Fuck if that request doesn’t go straight through Rick.
A soggy roll in the fresh sheets doesn’t exactly sound appealing even high as fuck though. He rises out of the tub first and retrieves the nearest towel to give himself a quick (barely passable) dry-off before turning to face Morty again and offering a hand to help him step over the edge of the tub. He offers the towel. It’s only a few seconds spared for the routine, but it’s enough space taken for Rick to have to argue with clarity. If he stops now, he still hasn’t violated a boundary he can’t take back, right? Where’s the line in the sand that he drew? Its arbitrary position is entirely negotiable with the rise of the tide, apparently.
All he’s done so far is put his hands in places. Let his grandson give him a handy. In the grand scheme of Rick’s crimes, is that even really that bad?
It’s pretty telling that despite the moral conundrum faced, his cock never flags. It’s not less hot and he couldn’t want it more but damn if he isn’t trying to ruin his own night. Then Morty steps across the tile toward him and gestures him forward again and the war is over. He’s conquered again, pulled into that inexorable gravity of that sweet face, and his deliberation is forgotten.
Those petite arms come up over his shoulders again, Morty having to stand high on his toes to reach without the benefit of their previous position, and kisses him. Rick groans against his lips, thoroughly abandoning any idea of stopping in favor of accepting the open mouth against his.
“C’mon, gramps, you’re thinking too hard.” Em laughs against Rick’s lips.
They’ve sobered up enough to make the trek back to the bed less perilous than the journey to the tub had been. Rick doesn’t sway and wobble into the wall. He watches Morty pull back the duvet and settle into the mountain of pillows with a lump in his throat. So fuckin’ pretty.
Did he say that out loud?
Even if he didn’t, the twitch of interest as his dick throbs at the sight of him amidst pillows and sheets, the slick shine on the inside of Morty’s thighs. Face and lips flushed. He looks like a work of art, which is incredibly cliche and Rick hates that he even thought it. That thought is followed immediately by the idea that he should have shoved his head between those thighs. The idea that he might not ever get to know what he tastes like might haunt him forever if he never does this again.
An inpatient Morty pats the sheets next to him like he might if he were inviting over a dog.
“Did you smoke too much? Or do you need to smoke more?” Em asks, looking somewhere between amused and concerned. Rick seems to come back to himself quickly then. That expression doesn’t soothe until Rick finally snaps out of it and crawls into bed with him. Their damp bodies cling where they touch. Morty smiles and wraps around him once more, eager as ever. This time, not only do arms coil around Rick like two vipers, but a leg hikes over Rick’s thigh, drawing their cores closer until his erection has no choice but to settle against the soft, warm surface of Evil Morty’s belly.
Rick stops wasting his time. It’s easy to maneuver from here, angle down a bit further and rut right against Morty’s plush pussy. He can feel the slick slide as his dick drags against him. Feel his tip catch on his entrance without breaching with an absolutely debauched sound. He does this for a while, dragging his cock intentionally over Morty’s swollen clit until they’re both panting. Until he’s officially trying Morty’s patience.
“Fuuuck you’re wet. Holy shit.”
“Because I want you to fuck me.” Em hisses, as if his hips haven't been rocking in time with the obscene strokes of Rick’s cock against his vulva.
Rick can’t resist a cocky smile. “Daaamn, baby wants it bad, huh?”
“Just do it.” Morty says. And who would he be to refuse?
Rick leans back enough to get a good eyeful as he lines up. Their size difference isn’t inconsiderable, Morty’s little hole has some resistance as he pushes the tip in slowly. Until he can feel the head sink in and start to stretch him. Morty inhales a sharp breath, his matchstick arms tightening around Rick’s shoulders as the stretch turns his mind to mush. He squeezes his eyes closed with a grimace.
“Oh, shii–ttt- ah!” Finally, the thickest part of the head slips inside. Morty shivers in agonized delight, his cunt aching both from pain and pleasure. Intoxication has certainly taken the edge off of the worst of it. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, and yet, Em’s entire core flares with dizzying arousal the moment he looks down to see himself speared open. Rick’s cock is so thick that he can visibly see the way his cunt has to stretch to accommodate him.
“Holy shit, Rick. ”
He’s never going to be able to get the image of his cock stretching Morty obscenely out of his head. Rick is reduced to useless noises and repeated variations of oh fuck, baby, shit as he continues to sink in inch by slow inch. It doesn’t take long to feel himself bottom out against Morty’s cervix, and it’s definitely way too late for him to be wondering if he should be wearing a goddamn condom. Rick bows over him, pressing kisses along his throat as he rolls his hips in a slow circle, pulling out a few inches before bottoming out again. Em gasps.
And that’s it.
He’s gone.
There goes what little sense he had managed to cling to with white knuckles, driven out by Rick’s cock at his cervix, and his lips on his neck. It feels like the room is spinning around them. It feels like all too-many inches of Rick should be far too much, should hurt like hell– but the high has done them a service. Morty feels as gooey and pliant as he would if Rick had fingered three orgasms out of him already. Rick surges against his cervix and Em’s eyes only roll back into his skull, nails biting into the skin at his shoulders.
“Fuck!” Morty groans.
The world has narrowed down to this: Rick driving into his body, the lewd sounds of their indiscretion and the feeling of Morty shaking in his hands. Thighs trembling where they press against Rick’s sides, hips rolling and rocking into each of Rick’s thrusts as though desperate to somehow get him deeper. The sounds would make a sailor blush. The indecent slap of flesh on flesh and the melting of a variety of sinful sounds into themselves. Rick moaning into his open mouth, Morty whimpering, the hush and whisper of praise as Rick continues. So good baby, fuck, your cunts so fucking good. All spoken under his breath like a secret just for them.
Rick lifts Morty’s hips up and shifts back onto his heels to get a better angle, bowing his back in an arch and leaving his top half settled in the pillows still; in awe when he can see Em’s belly distend when he thrusts in.
“Fuuuuck.” Rick laughs, grabbing one of Em’s hands and guiding it against his belly when he thrusts again. The way the boy’s jaw drops open in shock is nearly comical, and so too is how a wide-open mouth turns an already loud moan into a shout.
“Oh, my g-aah!” The Morty’s fingers curl against his own belly as his simmering pleasure explodes into a violent boil. “You’re— fuck, fuck.” Pressing harder, flattening his little hand over his womb in his desperation to feel Rick from the outside. Suddenly, the boy’s hips just can’t stop twitching. His thighs tremble like they might just shake right off of his body, cunt pulsing like a machine built to milk Rick’s cock. “Grandpa Rick! I’m- fuck, fuck. Don’t stop.”
Grandpa Rick.
It rips through Rick like a bullet. Feels like a crucible of molten liquid has just been poured straight into his gut, sinking straight down through him. Rick’s thrusts grow erratic and desperate, body dropping over Em until they’re pressed together as close as Rick can get them. Rick’s hips snap against the backs of Em’s thighs, and the rough thrusts turn into shallow ruts. He grinds in deep and groans when he comes suddenly. Em can feel it, from the twitch of the cock inside of him to the hot flood against his cervix. Rick continues to rock his hips in slow, rhythmic rolls, riding out the wave of his orgasm. “Holy shit baby, perfect fuckin’ pussy. All for Grandpa, huh? That’s my boy.”
Em can only make a lewd, affirmative sound in reply. It’s only as Rick comes down that he realizes Evil Morty has been reduced to a collection of trembling parts, dizzy and distant with his own successful orgasm- and then some. His climax hit its peak somewhere just after Rick folded him, and every desperate rut after was just icing on the cake. Even keeping his eyes open is laborious, and if that shiny streak on his chin is drool, Em certainly doesn’t have the energy or the awareness to clean it.
“Guh… Grampa…” Morty mewls, slurred and soft. Barely alive. His sloppy cunt still throbs around each decelerating thrust. His eyelids flutter with the threat of much-needed unconsciousness as his heavy arms finally slip from Rick.
Rick is teetering over the edge of exhaustion himself, his knees aching now that he’s coming down from the high of it all— he chuckles to himself as he watches Morty turn into a heavy, useless weight. He’s pretty damn pleased with himself. Rick pulls out slowly, hissing at the oversensitive sensation of it and collapsing beside Morty. It’s like moving against a heavy tide of quicksand, trying to maneuver them into something comfortable before succumbing to sleep. He presses kisses to sweaty curls and pulls the covers up over them. He’s pretty confident that he’ll get an earful about the sticky mess between his thighs in the morning but that is not his problem right now. Rick curls around his not-grandson with a tenderness he would deny if ever confronted snuggles up under the covers.
Anything else is a problem for tomorrow Rick.