Morty's finger hovers over the button, uncertainty staying his hand.

"Only press in case of real emergency," reads the label. "Meaning ACTUAL FUCKING RISK OF DEATH, MORTY!!! Get your grubby little mitts off of it if no one's bleeding out."

Rick's spidery writing gets smaller towards the end of the paper. The three lines under his name make Morty smile, small and sentimental.

He thinks of Rick, passed out on the couch with his bottle of Jameson, of the warm weight of him as they sat together.

He pushes down.

A low buzz fills the air, audible only because the garage is dead silent. The air thickens in front of Morty, bits of light flickering, coalescing into a familiar form.

"Hi, I'm a crisis detection and correction hologr-- oh, Morty, hey. You press this by mistake or something?"

"No," says Morty. Holo-Rick crosses his arms, nonplussed.

"O-kay," he says, "kinda odd, 'cause you don't look like you're in, y'know, like you're facing dire straits here."

"I-I have a question... but, it might be kind of, um," Morty struggles to recall the term. "Holophobic?"

"Oh. Thanks, Morty, warning me about your impending microaggression really softens the blow."

"H-how... how much of Rick's, like, memories and thoughts and stuff do you share?"

Holo-Rick stares flatly down at him. "Morty, what's this about?"

Morty wrings his hands together.

"Trust me, you don't want me to start guessing. I've got predictive algorithms for this, and my success rate is near-perfect. I'm giving you a chance to 'fess up, so out with it."

His tone is different from his Rick's, his speech smoother. It unnerves Morty, and he wavers.

"I - I, I've been having these dreams..."

"I'm not the one to ask about dreams, Morty. I don't sleep, I just wait to be summoned. Like a genie in a lamp type of thing, you dig?"

"I mean, about me and Rick. Doing, you know..."

"Sex dreams," Holo-Rick says plainly.

Morty flushes red, but nods.

"Wow, first try. Not that you weren't totally obvious from the jump."

Holo-Rick folds his arms, and Morty rolls his eyes. Rick Sanchez would be the type of man to make his virtual self capable of looking smug.

"Look, Morty, the short answer is, I don't know. But if you're not willing to find out yet, or 'Real Rick' is indisposed, I can help you."

"You can?"

"Of course I can! I can do anything, Morty. And besides that, I was literally created to problem-solve. Get in the ship."

Morty obeys, opening the driver's side door. He wonders where they'll go. The Citadel? Rick would probably hate that. Maybe there's a planet with some herb that'll stop him from having this dumbass crush on his grandpa.

Holo-Rick sighs loudly, an unnecessary, theatrical exhale.

"In the back, Morty. Lie down."

Oh, shit. Morty climbs between the seats, attempting to recline comfortably on the cushions. The scent of stale beer wafts sourly up to him from the bottles on the floor. It's not sexy in the slightest.

So why is he hard already?

"I'm not gonna hold your hand for this, Morty," Holo-Rick warns him as he materializes in the driver's seat. "I'm not physically capable of doing so. You get out of this what you put into it."

Morty nods, toying with his shirt hem.

"Would you, though, if you could? Touch me?"

"... I'd consider it," Holo-Rick says. "If you behaved yourself."

"Please," begs Morty, unable to resist anymore. He unzips, palming at the front of his boxers. "Please--"

"Say it." Morty doesn't have to ask what he means.

"Please, Rick, I wanna be good for you," he says.

Rick goes a bit fuzzy around the edges, light bleeding outside its allotted boundaries at the sound of Morty's plea.

He's quick to correct it, lines snapping cleanly back into place as he says, "Then why the fuck are you touching yourself without permission, Morty?"

Morty freezes, stuttering out an apology that Rick doesn't acknowledge.

"Rick, I need it - I need you so bad," he says. Rick lets out a ragged breath that doesn't seem entirely voluntary. Morty wonders how that works, but is distracted when he notices Rick's arm moving subtly.

"Bet you thought about this all damn day, didn't you? Needy little fucker," says Rick.

Morty moans in agreement, skimming his hand over his belly, muscles contracting under his fingertips.

"You can start, now, nice and slow, Morty."

It's all Morty can do to work his pants the rest of the way down without upsetting his balance on the tiny backseat. He wraps a fist around his cock and thrusts into it, languid, riding the border between luxury and torture.

He realizes Rick has asked him another question.

"The dreams, Morty, how long have you had them?"

"Months," Morty says, digging his nails into his thigh the way he wishes Rick could. "F-feels like, feels like forever."

Rick grunts, tilts his head back. Some of his spiky hair pokes, momentarily, through the headrest.

"Goddamn, baby, and it took you this long to crack? I - the solid Rick - we underestimate you sometimes," Rick says, and Morty could swear that his speech is becoming a bit staticky.

"Yeah," he replies, "y-yeah, sometimes."

"You ever finger yourself thinking about me, Morty?"

"Yes," says Morty, honestly. "All the time, Rick."

Rick's body flickers again, repositioning. He doesn't have to worry about comfort, so he's 'leaned' against the dash facing Morty, cock in hand, as suspected. Intangible, like the rest of him, but weighty looking all the same.

Morty wants to taste it, let photons rest impossibly on his tongue. Instead he runs a thumb over his slit and shivers, bracing his leg on the seat for better leverage.

Rick takes it in, gives him a long look, a thorough once-over.

"Go on, then," he says, "show me."

Morty scrunches his brow.
"Lube?"

"Gonna have to search for it, sweetie."

Morty hastily opens compartments until he finds a tiny, unmarked bottle that looks right, and feels right when he drizzles a bit over his fingers. Hopefully it doesn't hurt him somehow.

Morty begins to tease himself, rubbing smooth circles around his rim.

"Hey, look at me."

He lets his head fall to the side; they lock eyes, brown on glowing cyan. Morty burns like wax over an open flame, Rick's gaze melting him bit by bit.

"Don't come without asking first."

"Y-yes, Rick."

Morty shoves two fingers inside at once, biting his lip at the sudden stretch. It's almost too good with Rick watching him and the slick, filthy noises filling the ship's cab.

"Tell me what you think about," Rick demands, and Morty closes his eyes.

Fantasies run vivid and unbridled across his mind's eye.

"Everything," he says. "The time we got trapped in those Ir'thravi gangsters' hideout, a-and had to stay in their coat closet for hours, and every time someone reached in, you - god, Rick, you held me so close."

Rick groans lowly, so Morty keeps talking.

"Or when we watched the 24-hour Ball Fondlers marathon last week, and by the - at the end we were so sleep-deprived that everything was funny, and we were wrestling and, and you pinned me..."

"Or," says Morty, "when you told me to kiss you."

He ruts against the flat of his hand, smearing precome across his palm.

"L-Lips if I wanted, you said, but I panicked, messed it up, and ever since then, I've wondered what you would've done if I hadn't-- fuck, Rick, can I--"

Morty opens his eyes and nearly loses it right then. Rick looks disheveled in a way only he can, pixels jittering madly as he fucks his fist.

"Yeah-- yeah, baby, let's see you ruin that shirt for me," he says, voice strained.

So Morty does, slipping a third finger into his ass, finally finding the fullness he's been looking for this entire time. His other hand works his cock in frantic, desperate strokes, and he comes messily all over the jersey cotton of his t-shirt, mouth open in a silent cry.

The pleasure is so intense he can barely breathe, but he fights through the haze in his vision, because Rick is literally shaking apart in front of him, Morty's name distorted on his lips.

His form blinks once, twice, then lights up so brightly that it hurts Morty to watch.

Rick climaxes into his hand, fully-rendered come spilling over his wiry knuckles, dripping onto his belt. Morty's heart clenches. It's mesmerizing, and beautiful-- Rick is beautiful like this.

When the electric brilliance dims, he smiles tiredly at Morty.

"See," Rick says, "all you gotta do is tell him exactly that, and if he's got half a brain-- which I know he should, because I have more than half of his programmed into me-- I think it ought to work out for you."

"Th-thank you," Morty whispers, unsure how to feel.

He gathers up his pants, and Rick takes the hint, appearing outside the ship just as composed as when he got in. The concrete chills Morty's bare feet; he stands in front of Rick, shuffling awkwardly.

"I," he starts, "I wish you could--"

Rick stops him.

"Don't ruin it, Morty."

"Okay," Morty frowns. "I just--"

"It's fine," Rick says. "Thanks for indulging an old man's daydream, Morty. Go on, go get 'im, tiger. Here's where I'd give you a shove if it weren't for, y'know, my lack of a corporeal form."

Morty walks to the door, hesitates at the threshold.

"I - I'd touch you, too, Rick," he says, "if I could."

"Sure, Morty. If you happen to come across an actual life-or-death situation, you know where I'll be."

Rick is gone in a flash, leaving Morty alone to turn off the light.

He turns the doorknob and enters the house.

The flicker of the television draws Morty into the living room. His flesh-and-blood grandfather is still lying on the couch, snoring loud enough to make a buzz-saw jealous.

He creeps up the stairs, skipping the creaky fourth step.

The quiet of his room is soothing; Morty shrugs off his soiled shirt and slides into his bed, limbs heavy as sleep finds him in record time.

It shakes off the strange melancholy that's come over him, but even so, Morty dreams in effulgent, electric blue for the rest of the week.

aaaaaaaaaaaand that's a wrap folks :) i really enjoyed writing that one!! thank y'all for the support