
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7444594.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Rick_and_Morty
  Relationship:
      Rick_Sanchez/Morty_Smith
  Character:
      Rick_Sanchez_(Rick_and_Morty), Morty_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      dubcon, Child_Abuse, Manipulation, Emotional_Manipulation, Frottage,
      Multiple_Orgasms, Forced_Orgasm, sort_of, rick_overwhelms_poor_morty,
      Praise_Kink, sex_on_a_washing_machine, Overstimulation, i_honestly_love
      myself_for_what_i_have_created_here
  Series:
      Part 2 of RickMorty_Trash_Pile
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-10 Words: 2025
****** No Escape ******
by trash_freak
Summary
     The day after the events of 'That's My Boy', Rick wants to talk to
     Morty. In the utility room.
     Look, we all know where this is going, okay. Embrace the sin.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Morty is in the utility room squinting at the box of washing powder, trying to
stealthily wash his sullied sheets, when Rick comes to find him. His
concentration is suddenly and devastatingly derailed by the quiet click of the
door closing behind him. The sound seems to echo that of the night before, the
latch sounding so much louder than it is in the tiny room. With a sense of
dread, Morty turns to face Rick; has to strain his neck a little to look up,
Rick’s stood so close. He clutches the box of washing powder close to his
chest, like a shield.
“Whu-what’s up, Rick?”
“I need to- need to talk to you, Morty. I-I-I need us to be- I need to know
we’re on the same page, Morty, about, about what happened.”
Oh, god, Morty thinks. Repeatedly. Oh god oh no oh god.
Some part of Morty – some apparently naïve part of him – thought maybe Rick
would pretend he didn’t remember. Some foolish, ridiculous part of him hoped
they’d never bring it up again, and they could go out on another trip together,
and Rick would endanger their lives, and Morty would bitch and moan, and then
they’d come home and watch TV and it’d be like it never happened. Rick steps
closer, and Morty’s throat is too dry to swallow nervously. He tries, but it
gets stuck halfway and he’s left stranded, struggling to keep back a gasp.
“Is- i-i-i-i-is that page that we should pretend it never happened?” Morty
manages to say, voice rough with nerves. He presses himself back against the
washing machine, but the room is so small and there’s no space between them at
all.
Rick puts his hand atop the washing machine at Morty’s back, looming above him
and reinforcing the fact that Morty is trapped. There’s no escape. Figuratively
and literally.
“Morty,” Rick murmurs, voice low, sounding like a threat to Morty in his tense,
anxious state. “Y-you trying to m-urgh-make out you didn’t enjoy it? Trying to
s- trying to say you weren’t fucking begging for it?”
Rick’s too close, taking up Morty’s air and making him pant. His voice is a
rumble in his chest, face predatory, and Morty’s whole body feels weak.
“Rick, I-I-I-I-I-“
“No,” Rick cuts in, sharp, scolding, and Morty’s mouth snaps shut. Rick’s
breathing heavy, eyes flickering all over Morty like he can’t decide where to
look, and he lets out a frustrated breath. Then, as Morty looks up wide-eyed
and uncertain, Rick softens, transforms, and he’s gentler when he says, “I’m
sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to scare you.” His fingers comb through Morty’s
messy curls, down to rub at Morty’s tightly-held shoulder, and Morty lets out a
slow breath of relief.
Rick’s careful when he pries the box from Morty’s tight grip, soothes Morty’s
hands with his own until he relents, and reaches past Morty to put the box of
powder safely out of the way. Morty doesn’t know what to do with his hands now,
and he feels awkward and warm and antsy. The steady rhythm of Rick’s fingers
squeezing and kneading his shoulder feels nice, and Morty feels like his body
is creaking when it slowly starts to relax.
“What- w-what d-did you mean then, Rick?” Morty asks – wants to demand but his
tone of voice doesn’t seem under his control.
Morty’s sort of half expecting it when Rick’s hands slip down his chest to his
thin hips, but it still makes his stomach swoop and his heart hammer hard. He
isn’t expecting it at all when Rick’s grip gets tighter and so Morty flails a
little when Rick lifts him up, hands scrambling for Rick’s lab coat for fear of
falling, before Rick’s moving him to sit atop the washing machine. Morty’s legs
fall open without a thought and Rick’s amused, barely-audible whisper, “little
slut,” makes Morty hot with shame.
“Aw, geez, Rick, I-I-I’m really not sure about this,” Morty stutters, pushing
against Rick’s chest and trying to shuffle back.
Rick’s hands slip behind the bend of Morty’s knees and pull, Morty’s butt
sliding against the smooth, white surface to teeter right on the edge. When
Rick steps in, presses flush against Morty, they fit together perfectly, almost
face-to-face with Morty perched atop the machine the way he is. Rick leans in,
and Morty’s expecting his tongue pushing its way inside Morty’s mouth again,
and his brain scrambles about trying to decide if it’s excitement or fear he’s
feeling, but Rick doesn’t move to kiss him. He’s reaching back, busying himself
with something behind Morty, but Morty can’t turn to see with Rick crowded in
so close. Then there’s the click of a button, and the rush of water filling the
machine beneath Morty’s ass. He knows how loud the hum of the washer is, he
knows no one will hear whatever Rick is planning, and he’s filled with
anticipation and dismay. No one will come to help, Morty thinks in a panic, and
then, in a darker part of himself, no one will interrupt.
Rick kisses and licks and nips at Morty’s throat, and Morty lets him, puts up
no fight against Rick’s work-rough hands inching up under Morty’s shirt, and
when Rick digs his fingers just right into a place low on Morty’s back that
always aches from bad posture Morty whines.
“Shh, baby, quiet, we don’t want anyone hearing,” Rick mumbles against Morty’s
skin. “Keep quiet for me, just a couple minutes, ‘til the machine gets going.”
Morty’s nodding, gripping Rick’s coat to pull him closer, and Rick hums,
pleased. “That’s my boy.”
Something ugly and needy rears up inside of Morty at the praise, and he buries
his face into Rick’s shoulder to keep in the sound he wants to make. His legs
inch just a little wider, wanting Rick closer, closer, not close enough, and he
spares a second to think of how pathetically easy he is before thought becomes
impossible as Rick rolls his hips.
The friction is nowhere near enough to be more than a tease, and Morty can’t
believe how much he loves it. He’s breathing hard, filling his lungs up with
Rick’s musky, musty smell, and when Rick rolls up into Morty again he chances
letting a noise escape from his mouth into the safety of Rick’s shoulder. It
makes Rick gasp and pant into his ear, and Morty feels crazed, feels desperate.
He waits for Rick to ease his zipper open like he did last night, but Rick just
rolls his hips again, again, again, and the washing machine starts slowly
spinning, vibrating a little beneath his ass, and Morty’s pleading, “Please,
Rick, I need – I need,” but he can’t finish the sentence, the words stuck,
lodged at the back of his throat. He feels like gagging; his stomach is
turning, flipping like he’s falling, and his eyes are tearing up and oh, god,
he needs.
“What d-d-do you need, Morty, baby, tell me, say it, Morty, tell your Rick what
you need, Morty, I’ll look after you, say it, Morty, tell me.” Rick’s panting,
breathless, and Morty can only hear him over the washing machine because his
mouth is pressed so close to Morty’s ear.
“I need you to touch me,” Morty says in a rushed mumble against Rick’s dirty
lab coat, and Rick, that bastard, says, “I can’t hear you, Morty.”
Morty pulls his face back, riled and frowning, and says, irate, “Rick, w-w-w-
why, why are you such a- such a dick?”
Rick pushes his face close to Morty’s, noses touching, and the move is a threat
but his words are full of intense want, an almost-moan, “Y-you want me to put
my hands on you, Morty? Want me to jack you off better than you ever figured
out how to touch yourself, even with all that practise you get in?” He leans
back in close to Morty’s ear, licks along the shell of it, his breath sending a
full body shudder through Morty when he asks, “You wanna come, baby boy?”
“Yes,” Morty gasps, pushing his hands inside Rick’s coat and up under Rick’s
shirt, wanting to feel the warmth of skin. The vibration of the washing machine
is getting more powerful, and Morty’s stomach muscles are tensing, and Morty’s
sweating an embarrassing amount, and he feels like he’s about to lose his
goddamn mind.
“Say it,” Rick demands, and Morty starts running his mouth immediately, “I-I-
I w-want it, I want tuh- to come, Rick, touch me, please, I can’t- I need-
please?”
Rick’s unbuttoning his trousers instantly, pulling his erection free, then
deftly undoing Morty’s jeans to pull him out too. This time when he rolls his
hips, the length of his cock brushes along Morty’s, catches against the head,
and Morty moans.
Rick’s hand clamps down over Morty’s mouth, and he’s whispering, frantic, “Not
too, uhhhh, not too loud, baby, we- w-we get caught, that’s it, Morty, end of
the line.” His wheezing breath speeds up a little, in time with his long
thrusts. “I’d have to leave, Morty, if anyone finds out, I’ll have to, don’t
want to, Morty, fu-uuck, don’t wanna leave you, baby, that’s why we gotta,
ohhhh yeah…” his voice trails off, losing his train of thought as Morty wraps
both hands tight around the two of them.
Morty can barely breathe, and his head is spinning, and he can feel his
heartbeat in his ears, and the washing machine is on spin now, vibrating hard
against his ass and balls. He jerks and shudders and comes apart, near-wailing
against Rick’s palm, and he doesn’t even care that he’s crying, or that he’s
kind of drooling a little, or that he’s got jizz on his chin from the force of
his orgasm. Rick’s fingers wrap around one of Morty’s now slack hands, and he
thrusts into it, fucking the ring their palms make. Rick stinks like old smoke
and stale booze and damp, and he’s drooling on Morty’s shoulder, and Morty
can’t care about any of it beyond the buzzing vibration prolonging the pulsing
in his dick to a near-painful degree, and the way Rick’s stomach muscles feel
beneath the limp palm Morty has pressed against Rick’s belly.
When Rick comes, his breath sounds shaky against Morty’s neck, and Morty’s dick
gives one last jolt at the sound before everything becomes too much and he’s
squirming, trying to get away from the relentless vibration of the washer. Rick
puts both hands to Morty’s hips, pushes him down against the machine and holds
him still, making Morty whine desperately and gasp out, “Please, Rick, it’s, i-
i-it’s, ahh, too much.”
“I need you to promise, Morty, promise me you’ll keep this secret, Morty,
promise me, and I’ll make you feel so good, baby, you’re so good baby boy
promise me no one’ll find out Morty.”
“I promise! I promise, Rick, oh, oh!” Morty’s dick jumps and spasms, his gut
twisting up hard, his heels coming up to pull Rick in. His toes curl with such
force they cramp up, his little fists creasing Rick’s coat and clinging as he’s
cast adrift, riding a wave of pleasure-pain. Little spurts of come struggle
from his spent dick and Rick picks him up again, holds him to his chest for a
few seconds before lowering them both to the floor as gentle as his old muscles
will allow.
“You’re a good boy, Morty,” Rick murmurs, petting Morty’s hair and kissing his
tear-stained cheeks. “So good for me, did so well, I’m proud of you, Morty,
baby, my baby boy, so proud of you.”
Rick sits back against the now still washing machine and pulls Morty to lean
against him, back to chest, Rick’s thighs cradling Morty’s hips, keeping him
upright, keeping him still.
There’s no escape, Morty thinks as he dozes off, wrung-out and exhausted. He
hurts, and it’s so good he can barely stand it. He feels dazed, on the brink of
tears or vomit. He feels secure in Rick's possessive hold.
“It’s you and me, Morty, Rick and Morty,” Rick is mumbling sleepily behind him.
“Forever.”
End Notes
     'That's My Boy' was going to be an on-its-own bag of trash, but, hey,
     I accidentally added to the pile.
     I'm not sorry.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
