Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

"You're going to wake up and pretend."

And that silence, thick as molasses, held them in suspension his words still coiling in the air like smoke from a slow-burning fire. Beth's breath caught, not because she was startled, but because she was exposed. He'd spoken the thing she hadn't yet admitted to herself. She blinked once, but didn't move didn't pull away not even an inch. Her arms still wrapped around his chest, her leg draped loosely over his. Her face was so close to his, their noses nearly touched, warm breath brushing in tandem not frantic, not panicked just… present.

She didn't reply. What could she say? That he was wrong? That she hadn't crossed a line by locking the door? Slipping into her son's bed without a word? Wearing only her thin nightshirt and a heartbeat she couldn't slow down?

She didn't pull back because to pull back now… would be admission.

So she stayed.

Silent. Still. Trembling not in fear, but in realization.

Morty's hand slid slowly, so slowly, up her back no urgency, no hunger just heat and intent. His fingertips stopped between her shoulder blades, two fingers pressing gently like a priest delivering communion.

"You're going to pretend," he whispered again, almost kindly, brushing his forehead against hers, "but that won't make it untrue."

Beth's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her mind surgeon-sharp, logic-bound failed her. And for the first time in years, she didn't know who she was. Not mother. Not daughter. Not wife. Just Beth. And Beth… was trembling in the arms of a boy who no longer looked like her son.

Morty didn't reach for her lips not yet. That would be too easy. Too theatrical.

Instead, he whispered quieter now almost like a lullaby wrapped in razor wire:

"You came in here to forget yourself.

But I see you.

And I don't let go of what's mine."

His fingers curled lightly into her nightshirt. Not enough to tear. Just enough to remind her that fabric was all that separated them. His other hand remained still resting just above her hip, not claiming it, just… holding it like a truth.

Beth finally whispered, voice raw:

"This is wrong."

He nodded so softly it could've been mistaken for breath.

"It's always wrong when you want it too much."

That silenced her. And then, as if gravity had shifted, she tucked her face into the crook of his neck not hiding, just… folding into the warmth of surrender. Her lips didn't touch his skin, but they hovered. A ghost's kiss. A confession without words.

Morty's hand rose again, this time brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingertips trailed down her jaw, tilting it up ever so slightly.

"You're going to wake up," he whispered against her temple, "and wear your mask.

Mother. Wife. Daughter.

But tonight… you're just a woman.

And I see you.

All of you."

The dam didn't break not yet but the cracks were showing. Her breathing shallow, chest against his, thighs aligned like puzzle pieces that were never meant to fit but did.

He leaned in, until his lips hovered a whisper's distance from hers not touching. Just daring.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed, barely audible.

"Tell me it's too much."

But she didn't. She couldn't.

Because it was already too late.

Her face remained angled toward his, forehead still resting against his own, but her eyes were wide open now searching. Not for logic. Not for clarity.

For permission.

For forgiveness she hadn't earned. For a reason to blame him when this night became a ghost she couldn't exorcise.

Morty didn't move an inch.

His lips, still a breath away, curved not into a smirk, not into a smile but into something older, something ancient. Like he was hearing a familiar melody for the hundredth time. And Beth… was just learning the first note.

> "I'm not going to take," he said softly. "You're going to give."

It didn't come with pressure. No movement.

Just words, warm and measured, wrapped in velvet and vice.

Beth's fingers twitched on his chest. Not a flinch. A tremor. The kind that comes when a body betrays its better judgment. Her thumb brushed the edge of his collarbone skin on skin. Bare. Deliberate.

> "You don't talk like a boy," she whispered.

> "I'm not a boy," he answered simply. "You already know that."

She wanted to argue—God, she wanted to. But every word stayed caged in her throat because nothing he said was false, and her silence was starting to feel like consent.

He didn't lean in further. Instead, he closed his eyes. A patient kind of stillness. One that offered her time to flee, to fight, or to fall.

Beth's hand rose slowly. Hesitant. Hovering at his jawline. Not touching yet. Just considering. Her breath hitched when she realized he was letting her lead. Giving her full control of how far this would go and how fast.

And that, somehow, was the most dangerous thing of all.

She didn't kiss him.

Not yet.

She let her thumb trace the curve of his bottom lip. Barely. Gently.

Like testing the heat before the burn.

> "This isn't you," she whispered.

"This… this can't be you."

Morty opened his eyes. Dark. Focused. Calm.

> "Then stop it," he offered.

And for a flicker a split-second she almost did.

Almost.

But instead, her hand dropped to the hollow of his throat. She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Unbothered. Unhurried.

> "You're not afraid," she said.

> "You are," he answered.

He was right.

Because fear doesn't always look like flinching or fleeing.

Sometimes, fear looks like staying.

Sometimes, it's the hand that lingers.

The lip that parts.

The pause before surrender.

Beth leaned in not to kiss, not quite but to brush her lips against the corner of his mouth. A ghost of a kiss. A question. A warning.

It was barely there a promise she hadn't decided to keep.

But the fall had already begun.

And Morty didn't move to deepen it.

He let her hang there, trembling against the edge, his hand still resting lightly at her back.

> "See?" he murmured against her cheek.

"Even your sins want to be chosen."

That's when she pulled back but only an inch. Only to look him in the eyes. Not with horror. Not with regret.

But with realization.

Because the line she thought she was approaching?

It was already behind her.

She wasn't standing on the edge.

She was already falling.

and now she knew it.

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So no sex scene l found out someone who shouldn't be reading this are reading this so forgive me for getting your hopes up