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Summary
Morty trembles slightly, an anxious thrum coursing through his body as reality sets in like a slow bleed. He glances around the room: the orange hue of the alien’s internal organs strewn around like party streamers are almost completely muted by the deep blue of its’ blood, stained and pooled around them. He knows his legs and back are coated in it, a sick cold wetness that keeps reminding him of where/what/who he laid in, as he was getting reamed by his grandfather, a feral fucking in the remains of a poor creature who wronged him. It was sick, he felt so sick, but Morty was the one who invited it; Rick mutilating and pulling and clawing and digging in a frenzy of anger at the corpse he wasn’t done with, and Morty was the one who cooed to him sweetly to fuck him in it.