Fandom: Rick and Morty
Characters: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Word Count: 620 (fuck)
Warnings: incest, severe age/power discrepancy, bad smut, consensual dubiousness. generally unhealthy for everyone involved. hmm.
Summary: rick's too selfish and needy and awful to even consider it, he knows that with more certainty than anything else.
Notes: hmm. as usual i had an idea, it went away somewhere, then it came back, and here we are. uhhh. you already knew i was garbage, this just reaffirms it, i guess.
His face–
His face is so fucking red, so fucking red Rick can feel it from where he is between Morty's trembling thighs, and all screwed up like he's in pain, like this is fucking agonizing for the kid, except between gulps of air dragged by prettily bruised lips, Morty is whimpering Rick's name and litany of pretty pleases tangled in wordless begging, and when he scrapes his teeth over the smooth skin stretched over thin hips, tongue following the red lines left behind, Morty chokes on a sob all wrecked and desperate, fingers twisting hard in his sweaty curls like he'll break apart into so many pieces if he doesn't hold himself tightly together.
A part of Rick wants to laugh because he's a mean old asshole, a part of him wants to take apart Morty with words just as harshly as he's doing right now with teeth and tongue and fingers, make him blanch and blink back tears from misty eyes and watch that pathetic little tribble Morty's lower lip gets when Rick says something particularly nasty. His hands clench around the soft meaty flesh where thigh meets ass to derail the urge, thinks about the bruise it'll bloom into by tomorrow, ugly and dark and possessive. Something low in the pit of his stomach does an interesting flip but his chest feels hollow and caved in, and he breathes raggedly against a closed throat, fingers digging in tighter until Morty makes a pained little noise, legs tucking up around Rick's head like he can't decide whether to pull away or get closer.
Rick thinks:
That's pretty evocative of their whole– relationship sounds too watered down, almost innocuous for the something between them, the word too faceted but not deep enough, not fucked enough to encompass their everything– whatever the fuck you want to call it. Morty teetering the knife's edge of Rick's approval, caught between wanting more and breaking himself to get it and skittering away like away nervously when it's almost too much. (except rick will never let him get too far, never let him find his balance, never let him reclaim the boundaries he's shattered. rick's too selfish and needy and awful to even consider it, he knows that with more certainty than anything else.)
Rick loosens his grip, and Morty lets out a pleased sigh, shyly bucking his hips, a minute little twitch, his smooth fingers drifting down to card through Rick's hair, and if Rick looks up now he'll see that pathetic kicked puppy look. Furrowed brow, dewy eyes, mouth downturned and lower lip jutting around where it's snagged by Morty's left canine, all confused and apologetic, like he doesn't know what he did but he's sorry.
you're such a fucking bastard, Rick thinks, and soothes his thumbs over trembling skin, pulling away to press a kiss against the back of Morty's knee, but keeps his eyes low, trained on the red marks littering his grandson's skin, sees the impression of his teeth embedded in the tableau of hips and thighs, thinks about how much deeper it goes than flesh and bones and blood, and tries not to dwell on how this is routine now as he licks a wet stripe connecting the most prominent of bites, the ones that stand out red and angry and accusatory. Words like sickness and abnormal and we're both fucking FUCKED brush the black part of his brain he usually keeps muted with flask and the odd line of kallax.
He licks his lips, mouth feeling dry and tasting bitter, and he smiles crooked and brittle when he leans up to bite at Morty's pouting lip. "Sorry, baby," he says. "sorry, sorry. Let your old grandpa take care of you."