#and the accidental thrall he's made out of Rick

[garmanarnarr]

Rickorty Week Day 4: Mythological Creatures

vampire morty | 2k words | Rated M for blood drinking and sexual content

@rickortyweek

Morty’s getting pretty good at asking for it. 

“H-hey, Rick?” 

Rick doesn’t look over from the TV, which is currently playing a rerun of a JoJo Siwa political documentary in a universe where she’s the president of the United States. It’s a miniseries, a retrospective, and they’ve been powering through episodes all night. Everyone went to bed long ago; Mom, Dad, and Summer had started to give Morty a wide berth after ten PM. But he doesn’t mind not sleeping, now, because Rick doesn’t sleep either. Only in fits and starts. Sometimes over his work bench, face mashed into mechanical junk, or passed out on the couch. He snores, but only when he’s really drunk– not that Morty’s watching. 

“Um,” Morty says, picking at a thread on the couch cushion. 

“What?” Rick sounds too distant to be annoyed, just flat and tired.

“M’ getting kinda, you know.” 

“What?”

“Hungry?” Morty’s voice cracks on the last part. 

Jojo screams something excitedly on the TV, pointing at a diplomat from another country and waving. Her facial rhinestones match her power suit. 

Rick’s still watching, glazed eyes flashing in the TV’s glow. “Her foreign policy sucked,” he mutters.

“I’m hungry, Rick.” 

“Want me to order some fucking sugar chicken, then?” Rick asks, finally swiveling to actually look at Morty. “Huh, Morty? Want some Panda Express?”

Morty’s throat feels so dry it crackles. He thinks of the pool of sunlight that’ll be creeping towards them through the glass patio doors when the sun rises in a few hours, ready to burn him. His vision blurs a little and he gives a painful swallow. 

“Y-y-you know what I mean, Rick,” he whispers. It isn’t fair that Rick always plays him like this when he’s fucked Morty up in the first place. Experiment gone sour, vampirism— Morty had to pick that term up– spreading too aggressively to be cut out, too deeply to pull the plug and hop to a clone. He rests his hand on the couch next to Rick’s leg. Not touching it, but just, you know, next to it. He can feel the heat of Rick’s body beside his own like he’s sitting near a radiator. Throbbing is such a weird word, but that’s the only way to describe it. Rick is throbbing with heat. Morty runs his tongue over the stubs of his teeth. 

“You know, my blood is probably some of the nastiest shit you could put inside you,” Rick’s saying. “Got yeeears of k-lax and alcohol abuse in here. And some other stuff. I think one of Unity’s non-humanoid bodies might have had–”  

“I don’t care. E-everything else tastes like ass and I don’t want to drink it.” Morty makes a face, saying that out loud, but it’s true. The bags of O-positive Rick had pulled out of his lab freezer after he’d just turned Morty had tasted like the equivalent of soggy pizza cardboard. Real pizza– all normal food– also tastes terrible. Animal blood has a funky, earthy smell and a worse flavor, when he’d tried it. And he isn’t about to make anyone else let him drink their blood.

Rick made his own bed. He can lie in it. 

Rick watches his face for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he sighs, and rolls up his sleeve. 

“Not on the couch, you little moron. Or, you wanna g-get b-blood everywhere?” 

“I won’t get it everywhere,” Morty whines. He did the first time, when they fed in the garage, but he’s neater about it, now. He’d been so new, then, and dying for it, ready to rip Rick’s veins right open, ready to swim inside him to make the pain of his thirst go away. Now, after two weeks of feedings, he doesn’t waste a drop. 

Rick tries to stand, but Morty catches his wrist. He’s taken aback at his own strength; that’s still a surprising perk. He keeps accidentally breaking doorknobs off of classrooms in school. Denting his locker door when he closes it with a slam so loud it echoes through the hallways. Shattering glasses. Jerking his own dick too hard and too fast by accident. 

Rick pauses, looking down at him. He seems like he’s weighing making his grandson let go with words or by force. But Morty doesn’t let go. He can feel the throbbing of Rick’s blood now, pulse pressed against the circle of his fingers. His stomach twists with a tortured sounding gurgle. 

“Please,” he says. 

“Alright. Jesus,” Rick says, sitting back down with a roll of his eyes, yanking his wrist out Morty’s grasp quickly enough to break his hold. “Just a second, A-A-Augustus Gloop.”

He reaches into the breast pocket of his lab coat and pulls out a little packet, which he rips open with his teeth. Morty’s chest thuds because it looked kind of like a condom. He probably shouldn’t have thought that. Rick unfolds the moist towelette inside and uses it to briskly swab the inner part of his forearm. The pale stretch of it gleams up under the light of the ad that’s playing on TV, riddled with blue and green veins, skin going translucent with age. Morty’s mouth waters. 

“You– you just carry a swab with you?” he asks, licking back drool. It’s a genuine question. Did Rick want to– was he just waiting around for Morty to—

“More for my benefit than yours. Human mouths are one of the diEUUGHrtiest parts of our bodies, Morty.” 

“That doesn’t seem true, but okay,” Morty says. 

“I’m not fucking with you. Humans are filthy.” 

Rick throws the used wipe over the back of the couch, then pats the space beside him, like they’re going to cozy up and watch more TV together, easy as anything. Morty crawls over.  

Rick offering his skinny-ass forearm to him like this in the middle of the house is insane. They usually feed in the garage, sitting clinically in separate foldable chairs, lights flipped on. It’s dark in the living room, and it should be hard to see—should leave Morty fumbling and awkward, unable to function—but it doesn’t. Morty’s different, now. Darkness is easy. This close, he can sense all the sweet spots where the most blood flows in Rick’s body and where to land the best bite; he would have liked it a lot better if Rick let him feed at his neck, or at the top of his thighs, or even near his armpits, he thinks, but he’ll take what Rick will give him. 

“Don’t– don’t rip my fuckin’ arm off here, Morty, I need it.” They’re so close together that Rick’s voice is quieter than normal. Maybe he’s a little scared. Morty likes that; the idea of being able to scare Rick, a bit, for once. 

“I won’t,” Morty says with a lisp. His pointy canine teeth are getting longer in his mouth and making it hard to talk. Carefully, he takes Rick’s offered arm into his hands. His left one, the one with less cybernetic shit in it, flesh and blood around a hollow titanium bone that sheathes a grappling device. He smells kind of bad but also kind of good, like he always does, like alcohol sweats and a familiar old man powderiness. Morty darts his tongue across his lower lip. Rick’s chest is rising and falling gently, calmly, as he waits for Morty to start. 

“M’ just– don’t mind me, Morty, just watching TV, here. Just gonna finish this show, or whatever.” 

Rick claims he’s a god-robot-monster all the time— won’t shut up about it. But it turns out he’s still human, Morty thinks, a little vindictively, as he bites down. At least, still human enough to feed him.  

As he adjusts his bite to get the blood flowing, pressing against the smooth, hairless slip of Rick’s forearm with his tongue, he wonders if this was why people like wine. He’d always hated it, and spat out the mouthful of Mom’s that he’d snuck when he was ten and she was on the phone, because it was nasty, but maybe there’s something more appealing to it than he thought. An age and bitterness, in a good way, the kind that gives it a lot of different and interesting flavors at once. That’s what Rick’s blood tastes like. It tastes really fucking good. 

The TV’s making more sounds, but Morty can’t hear them anymore. He’s way too busy gulping Rick’s blood. Distantly, as if it were happening to someone else, he realizes he’s getting hard. Vaguely, he tries to direct his thoughts towards Jessica, but it’s tricky, considering he’s touching Rick and smelling Rick and drinking from Rick’s body. That Rick’s delicious blood is filling his mouth and sliding down his throat with every swallow. 

The flow stutters, so he pressed up all along his grandpa’s side to get a better angle. For a second, his dick brushes against Rick’s leg, hot and obvious. He tenses. Rick doesn’t say anything, though, just keeps sitting there quietly, so he relaxes again. Whatever, if Rick doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, and everything feels good. This is so fucking good. It feels right. He keeps feeding, actively sucking, now, because the flow is starting to taper off, blood only coming in hot spurts when he coaxes it out. He rocks his hips, a little, getting some friction on his dick, because he’s  so warm and full, and that feels good, too—

“—orty. Morty, that’s enough. Stop.”

Morty doesn’t stop. He swirles his tongue needily around the bite marks, pleasure unfurling up from his stomach and over his whole body, from his scalp to the bottom of his feet. Feeding from his grandpa like this is euphoric. 

“M-Morty, stop.” 

A hand pushes him back, roughly. It could be anyone’s hand. Morty is longer tethered to earth, fully. Suddenly, Morty’s laying on the floor by the coffee table, panting, ass sore from falling on it. His chin’s covered in own spit. His cheeks are flushed. There’s a definite tent pitched in his jeans, and everything is cold with the lack of a body to be pressed up against. When he looks up, Rick seems pale, even by his own standards, and his hair’s wilder, too. He’s blinking kind of a lot, staring down at Morty with fury on his face despite his heavy eyelids. He looks like he’s having trouble staying awake. 

“You– you don’t know how lucky you are that my cybernetic enhancements will start injecting substitute into my bloodstream if I lose more than a quart of blood, Morty,” he says in a low, deadly voice. Morty hears the edge of a wheeze in it. “A quaAAAUGhrt. Do you know how much that is? You fucking, you fucking numbskull braindead idiot?”

“No?”

“That’s what I— that’s what I thought,” Rick says, getting unsteadily to his feet with the help of the couch arm. “I’ll be in the garage. Don’t follow me.” 

Morty watches as his grandpa woozily makes his way out of the living room. He’s actually a little worried Rick’s going to pass out, or crash into something, but he doesn’t. He’s gone. Morty rubs the back of his hand across his mouth, and when he looks at it in the TV’s half-light, it’s smeared dark with Rick’s blood.

“S-sorry,” he says, late. 

–

Morty climbs upstairs to his room even though it’s more like roleplaying someone that needs to sleep than an actual need. He lays down on top of his covers next to his closet that’s now full of hats and sunglasses and UV-protective long sleeve shirts, above a kitchen filled with food he can’t eat, and a hallway mirror he can no longer see his own reflection in. 

He lays there quietly and waits, full-stomached, giving Rick a little privacy. Some time to cool off. If Rick noticed Morty’s hardon, he didn’t comment on it. 

But Morty had seen where Rick’s blood went, while he was feeding. 

He could sense it, the thick coursing of it, even in the dark.