"Freak!"
The can of soda found its target before Morty had even processed the insult, hitting Rick squarely in the back of the head. It made a muted thud, bungling with the thick buckles on the back of Rick's respirator mask before clattering to the ground and foaming brown liquid from its mouth to stain the pavement at their feet.
Morty quickly looked over at his charge, concern at the forefront of his mind. A break in the respirator would spell disaster, but thankfully the equipment was undamaged.
Rick only grunted in response and shifted in his shackles. To anyone else, Rick would have seemed unfazed by the attack; however, Morty couldn't miss the hint of subdued rejection in his movements, much like a dog that had been scolded without quite understanding why. He pulled halfheartedly at the thick cuffs that bound his wrists and the leash tethering him to Morty's grip, giving a low, warbled hum as though in apology.
But Morty had already turned his attention to the crowded Citadel plaza, scanning the assembly of Ricks and Mortys for the perpetrator.
"Who—who did that?!" he finally squeaked, internally wincing at the pathetic crack in his voice. It'd been meant to sound so much more intimidating, and yet the question fell flat, making him sound more like a scared child confronting the monsters in the closet.
Of course, he received no response. Only an audience of glares from the Citadel's Dome III populace greeted him instead. Ricks scowled at him from over their midday martinis, clearly displeased by the interruption, while others simply ignored him.
A table of Mortys outside a nearby Rickbucks cafe giggled obnoxiously, giving themselves away. He skirted his eyes over the group—Guard Mortys, as evidenced by their standard-issue uniforms—and already began to regret his decision to call out whoever had thrown the can.
Dirty looks and insults muttered under breath were par for the course whenever Morty ventured into the city center with Rick. He knew the risks of taking Rick out with him, even with his protective gear. It ensured that Rick didn't infect the general public with his condition but did little to stave off the harassment.
Dressed in a thickly padded jumpsuit, bulky gloves and cuffs, and respirator mask, Rick of A-416 looked like a crazed convict from out of a sci-fi horror film. Given his reputation as one of the Citadel's most notorious thieves, the rather extreme get-up may have seemed appropriate. But that wasn't the reason for the open hostility he and Morty received.
Neo Yartsu Gunbu. The exotic-sounding moniker failed to convey just how dangerous the fungal parasite really was. Its nickname did a much better job: zombie fungus.
Like its Earth-born predecessor, the fungus found on Trilia VI was of the cordyceps genus, closest in relation to the more commonly known Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. Instead of infecting insects, however, the alien cordyceps had evolved to target more complex organisms, infiltrating the body with its insidious spores to take over its host in increments. Symptoms included loss of physical autonomy, external growths of spore-laden cordyceps, and altered behavior when it inevitably reached the host's brain.
On earth, the entire process took only a week and culminated in the infected insect distancing itself from its colony in search of an ideal environment for its new master. It would lock its mandibles into an unwitting plant and remain there until it died—an act dubbed "the death grip" by entomologists—while the cordyceps unleashed a torrent of spores into the air to begin the process anew.
In this alien permutation, the eventual outcome was still undocumented, but Rick was well on his way to becoming the first case.
"Keep that monster away from us!" one of the Guard Mortys at the table yelled, pitching another half-finished drink in Morty and Rick's direction. Morty ducked automatically, even as the can fell pathetically short.
Another from their number stood to jeer loudly, "Yeah, weirdo! You should keep that thing locked up!"
Morty gripped Rick's leash tighter in his trembling fist and looked away. A cacophony of comebacks screamed in his head, but he didn't have the guts to give them voice. Confrontation was not Morty's forte, and he now wished he'd just ignored the bullies from the start. The ruckus was beginning to draw scrutiny from the surrounding Citadel patrons.
He flicked a glance up, accidentally locking eyes with the apparent ringleader of the group. The Morty leveled a death glare at him and smirked before running one finger across his own throat and pointing at Rick.
Morty felt heat rise in his cheeks, and he turned on his heel, intending to storm off. He only made it a few feet, however, before he snagged on the end of Rick's leash and fell unceremoniously on his butt in the puddle of soda.
The Mortys burst into raucous laughter.
"Serves you right, loser!" they crowed at him.
"Careful," warned one of the Mortys. "You don't wanna make him mad. He might infect youuuu." He wiggled his fingers and grabbed dramatically at his neighbor, who squealed in mock dismay.
Oblivious to Morty's humiliation, Rick loomed mutely overhead, sniffing curiously at him through his respirator.
This only made the rabble of bullies laugh harder.
Ears burning, Morty shoved Rick away with an irritated, "C'mon. Let's go." He'd just gotten to his feet, when a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.
"Causing trouble again—urp!—F-159?" the Guard said gruffly when Morty turned to look up at him.
"N-no, sir," Morty muttered, finding it much easier to let his eyes rest on the Guard's Citadel badge than look him in the face. In its gleaming, golden reflection, he saw his shoulders hunch even further with every jeer and taunt that was hurled at his back.
The Guard Rick shot a look at the gang of Mortys, who seemed to take a sudden interest in their lunches under his steely gaze, before shaking his head. The stiff line of his shoulders loosened a fraction, and when he spoke, his voice carried a note of begrudging sympathy. "You've already got three points on your record, F-159, for public disturbances. Another two, and I'll have to confiscate your pass."
It wasn't the first time Morty had been given the warning, but for some reason the Guard felt it necessary to reiterate. Most likely, it was because the Guard thought he was slow. True, Morty of Dimension F-159 was about as sharp as a marble, but he still didn't appreciate being chewed out on what was already turning into a shitty day. He shifted awkwardly in place, unable to answer.
"If you don't want that to happen, kid," the Guard continued, "you're gonna have to learn to keep that thing under control. He's supposed to be your problem, so don't make him mine." He gestured with his chin at Rick who was milling idly by Morty's side.
Over the course of a single year, Rick of A-416—master of cons and heists—had been whittled down to this insipid, mindless thing. He'd picked up the deadly strain of cordyceps after a slip-up while looting Trilia VI's only mining colony, never suspecting that a negligent tear in his hazmat suit would doom him to an early retirement.
Since then, the cordyceps had gradually claimed their victim, first stealing Rick's sight as they bore holes in the soft tissue of his sclera, then paralyzing his vocal cords, and finally replacing his genius with an animal-like simplicity. A slave to the cordyceps, Rick was now deemed a threat to Rick society and handled like a rabid dog—with Morty appointed as his caretaker.
The Council mandated that all Citadel Mortys be assigned to a job based on their individual abilities. Most Mortys took up employment in the space station's many commercial establishments: They served as busboys, bartenders, or retail clerks. Some lacking smarts but possessing the looks to make up for it resided in the red-light districts. Others still, with that desirable blend of loyalty and competence, donned Guard uniforms.
Then there was Morty of F-159. He was about as average as a Morty could get, not especially talented, smart, or even cute. He'd scored low on every placement exam and had whiled away his time in the Morty Day Care, useless to anyone and utterly alone.
Until the fateful day Rick of A-416 chose him.
It hadn't been quite the heartwarming union that Morty had always pictured for himself, but he had been grateful for being plucked out of his miserable life to finally be a part of someone else's. And at least Rick's orders were clear: You're gonna help me find a cure for this fucking fungus! And you'd better stay alive until we do!
Morty's role as assistant ran the gamut of menial tasks: mixing chemicals, cleaning lab equipment, running control tests, and, naturally, being Rick's gofer. True to his word, Rick kept up his end of the bargain by supplying Morty with a regimen of antifungal medications in order to stave off infection.
Once the cordyceps had taken Rick's ability to think rationally, Morty became a glorified petsitter, tasked with merely keeping Rick in check and himself fungus free. Excursions to the city center were now limited to restocking his medications.
"Didn't realize it was shopping day already," the Guard smirked. "C'mon, F-159. You know the drill. Show me the meds."
Routine searches were another precaution taken up by the Dome III Guards, and Morty shrugged off his backpack obediently. While he rummaged through it, Rick was busy turning his head about like an anxious watchdog. He was anything but, however, as the cordyceps had left only porous orbs that now turned blindly in their sockets.
Even Morty had to admit it was creepy.
"I've got them right here," he said, holding open the mouth of the backpack to show the Guard the array of drugs. A fraction of his attention was occupied with how uncharacteristically agitated Rick was acting, and Morty looped the leash tighter around his hand.
The Guard poked around the bag's contents with the end of his sterilized baton. "Mold-B-Gone?" he asked, raising a brow as he spied the small, flat jar.
"J-just trying something new," Morty stammered, zipping the backpack shut again. A blush of embarrassment and something more tinged his ears, but thankfully the Guard was too busy spritzing his baton with antiseptic to notice.
"Mo—mo—" Rick mumbled through his respirator, nudging incessantly at Morty. Every bump of his masked face against his side nearly had Morty toppling over.
"Why's he doing that?" Apprehension laced the Guard's words, like he were expecting some sinister answer. He subtly placed a hand over his nose and mouth as he half-turned away, eyeing Rick warily.
"H-he's just—he's just hungry," Morty said, trying to shove Rick off of him. "I think h-he's asking for m-more food."
Seeming to have lost interest in the two, the Guard sniffed, "All right. You're free to go."
"Th-thank you, uh, Officer." It was getting harder for Morty to give the Guard his full attention with Rick mumbling incoherently and pressing the full length of his body against him. When he felt Rick's erection nudge against his backside, he stiffened, an arrow of arousal shooting straight to his groin.
He swallowed back the moan that threatened to loose itself from his throat, instead giving a vague platitude to the Guard who was already walking away.
"Just keep him out of trouble," the Guard said over his shoulder.
Morty flashed his most simpering smile at the Guard's back, only easing into his familiar frown once he and Rick were alone again. He allowed his shoulders to sag, and a relieved sigh slipped past his lips. The Guard Mortys from the coffee shop had also apparently moved on, and Morty took his time to look Rick over.
Rick's breath was coming heavy through his respirator, and he kept fidgeting restlessly, alternating between yanking at his leash and butting his head against Morty. His hands, still bound and clumsy in their gloves, grabbed at Morty wherever they could reach. The behavior broadcasted "horny," and it took Morty a moment to realize what had sparked the change so suddenly.
"The soda. Of course," Morty groaned, putting a hand to his forehead. No doubt the sweet drink had piqued the cordyceps' appetite for simple sugars, as evidenced by Rick's not-so-subtle pawing at Morty's soaked bottom.
"Mo—mo—"
Rather than being put off, Morty grinned. And here he thought the day was going to be a wash. The run-in with the bullies had soured Morty's mood, but he realized with a glint of delight that it'd given him just what he needed to turn this day around. His slouched posture suddenly straightened, and he gripped Rick's leash with renewed pride.
The simple accessory reminded him keenly of their unique arrangement.
What had begun as an employer/employee relationship had since evolved—or, perhaps, devolved into something Morty wouldn't dare reveal to anyone but cherished all the same. It was his little secret, what made staying cooped up in quarantine for so long bearable. Because, although the cordyceps had stolen his Rick from him, in exchange, they'd given him something even better.
Morty now had complete control over the one man he desired.
"C'mon, Rick." Morty punctuated his command with a stiff jerk of the leash. "L-let's get that dealt with," he purred, dragging his eyes over Rick's hard-on where it strained against his jumpsuit. His crisp tone and the sharp gait of his step carried them out of the plaza and toward home, Rick mumbling "mo, mo" to himself all the way there.
...
By the time they reached their cramped apartment on the periphery of Dome III's industrial complex, Rick was draping himself over Morty and panting openly. Morty giggled when the streams of filtered air through the mask brushed his neck.
"E-easy, Rick. Gimme a second here," he said through his grin, quickly looping the end of the leash around an exposed metal pipe on one wall before Rick had the chance to rip free of his grasp. Rick rarely disobeyed Morty while in public, but some part of his mind must've still remained intact, because he seemed to associate "home" with a veritable excuse to act up.
Even now, he tugged stubbornly against the leash, focused entirely on Morty who was offloading his fresh stash of supplies on the cluttered work table with barely a backward glance. The jar of Mold-B-Gone, he tossed carelessly onto the bed where it clunked against two other emptied containers.
Ever since Morty came under Rick's patronage, they'd shared this one-room unit, which now resembled more of a lab than an actual home, albeit one that had fallen into disrepair. Dirty plates were piled high in the sink, broken rubbers littered the floor, and a fine layer of dust covered nearly every surface, save for the sagging bed in the corner. Its sheets were disheveled, a pillow spilling onto the floor. It was clear it hadn't been made in weeks—perhaps months.
Morty couldn't be bothered to keep track of silly tasks like housekeeping.
The work table, which had once been the pride of the room and Rick's favorite spot, was cluttered with half-empty medicine bottles, torn foil packets, and vials stained with the remnants of brilliantly colored concoctions. Metal shears sat next to a shallow tin of shriveled up cordyceps heads.
In his frantic attempts to tear free of the pipe, Rick bumped carelessly against the table, jostling its neglected contents without regard. One of the vials fell from the rack to roll across the table's surface and shatter to the floor.
Morty looked over his shoulder at the mess, only mildly annoyed, as he stripped off the armored jumpsuit that clung to him like a second skin. He let it bunch at his thighs, enjoying the cool air on his exposed privates and watching Rick with intrigue. Rick was tugging urgently at his binds now, a strained whine rumbling from deep inside his throat, but Morty knew it was the cordyceps in Rick's brain, not his youthful skin, that had him so excited.
But fuck it. Morty liked to imagine.
He preferred to think that Rick was hot for him, that he could barely contain himself around him. He longed to feel desired and wanted in a way that he'd never experienced in his life. Just the thought of a nobody like him, a Morty with nothing to offer, bringing Rick to his knees made his cock throb.
"Like something you see?" he teased, wiggling his bottom as he stepped out of his heavy boots. "D-don't worry. You'll get some of this soon. Just be patient." Buck naked, he walked over to the work table, keeping out of Rick's reach, and plucked a sheathed syringe from his supplies. He uncapped it, slipped it into an autoinjector, and, taking a deep breath, jammed it into his thigh. The familiar chill of the antifungal medication spreading beneath his skin made him sigh.
It was a shaky rendition of Rick's original formula that Morty struggled to gather the ingredients for and struggled even harder to prepare correctly. He'd tried his best to follow Rick's directions—the ones marked by caustic insults and test tubes hurled at the wall in frustration—but despite his most sincere efforts, he'd failed time and time again.
Those first few weeks together were the hardest, with Rick cursing Morty for his ineptitude and Morty only giving him more reason to as he continued to stumble where Rick strode and fall where Rick flew.
His sleep was spoiled by nightmares of Rick returning him to the Day Care, and Morty would have been convinced that Rick blamed him for his losing battle against the cordyceps, if not for the glimpse of vulnerability he'd caught that one night.
He'd placed a blanket over Rick's shoulders as he'd dozed at the work table, a feeble attempt to make up for all his shortcomings. The pair of stormy, blue eyes, softened by fatigue, watched him from beneath drooping eyelids, and instead of lashing out, Rick had simply huffed a "thank you" before sleep overtook him.
The innocent exchange would serve as the kindling for Morty's burgeoning infatuation.
Safeguard in place, Morty turned to pick up the soiled jumpsuit and pressed it firmly against Rick's respirator, letting him breathe in the traces of the soda's hypnotizing aroma. Particles of saccharide traveled through the one-way filter, inciting Rick's hunger, a hunger that Morty knew only he could satisfy. Rick pulled hard against the leash, making the pipe he was tethered to groan in protest.
Desire pooled in Morty's groin to see Rick in such a tizzy over him, and he tossed the jumpsuit aside to run a languid hand over his own erection, tugging lightly at the foreskin.
"Eager to get started, huh, Rick?" Morty cupped Rick's cheek, the intimate gesture interrupted by the cumbersome respirator. He allowed Rick to sniff at his palm in search of the sweet smell, before taking it away and abruptly backhanding him across the face. He enjoyed Rick's annoyed grunt too much to mind the sting across his knuckles. "Sit," he snapped.
The command worked its magic, and Rick immediately crouched to his knees on the concrete floor, his arousal impossible to hide between his spread thighs.
"Good boy." Now within easy reach, Morty began the delicate process of unzipping and peeling off Rick's jumpsuit. It caught on the uneven growths along Rick's skin, and Morty tsked at a new cluster of cordyceps that was growing from his right shoulder, making a mental note to clip them later. The small fungal stalks wriggled at Morty's touch, reaching for him when he brushed them.
Next, he removed the gloves. They fell to the floor with a wet slap, viscous liquid escaping from their opening. This was a relatively recent addition to the ever-changing landscape that was Rick's body, and Morty hadn't yet figured out a way to deal with the new and, frankly, messy development.
Spongy extremities had replaced Rick's fingers and were almost claw-like in appearance, gleaming with a liquid sheen. Mucus oozed liberally from their tips, smelling pungently of damp soil. They flexed impatiently.
Tremors of excitement made Morty's own hands shake as he slowly undid the zipper down the front of Rick's jumpsuit, and his breath caught in his throat as he revealed Rick's erection.
The cordyceps had transformed Rick's cock into a work of art.
Blushed a ruddy red at its base, a blanket of small tendrils arched off the thick shaft like horns, fading to white at their tips. They wiggled like fingers in the air, finally freed from their captivity, and Morty couldn't help but run a hand lovingly along them. This drew a husky keen from Rick, and he rested his chin on Morty's shoulder as he was worked with sensual strokes, his hips giving those stuttered, little thrusts that made Morty's heart stumble.
"M-mo—mo—"
Morty shushed Rick's babbling by pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Stay, boy. Stay," he whispered in his ear, reaching up to undo the latches holding the respirator in place. Rick was practically vibrating with the desire to rut, precum—or was it more mucus? Morty couldn't tell—leaking from his pulsating cock.
Once free of the final restraint, Rick shook his head and yawned with a click of his stiff jaw. Spared the outbreak of cordyceps to his face, Rick still looked relatively human—if one chose to overlook the eyes. Even now, Morty admired the blade of his cheekbones and the rugged sturdiness of his jawline.
Rick's nostrils flared, taking in Morty's scent like a predator on the hunt. He looked mad with desire as he snarled, his brow cleaved in frustration, but he held his place.
After removing the mask and dumping it onto the floor along with the filter pack, Morty slowly edged backward until he'd reached the bed. He was already pushing Rick to his limits, and with him being borderline feral, he knew better than to take his eyes off him. Not until he'd gotten himself ready.
Morty reached awkwardly behind himself for a bottle of liquid glucose from the bedside table and slathered a palmful of the gelatinous syrup over his erection. It squelched obscenely as he gave himself a few firm strokes with the makeshift lubricant, the liquid dribbling between his fingers and down to coat his balls.
Odorless to Morty's own nose, the glucose made Rick stiffen, the sharp line of his back jerking as the first wave drifted his way. No doubt, it was wreaking havoc on Rick's hypersensitive sense of smell.
One hand braced behind himself, Morty spread his thighs, intoxicated by the way Rick trembled where he was crouched. He then ran his tongue over the length of his sticky hand, rolling the bit of syrup around in his mouth. He couldn't understand the appeal of it himself, but it did wonders to keep Rick's attention where he wanted it.
"O-okay. You can come now."
The words had barely left his mouth before Rick was bounding across the room and bodily tackling Morty down onto the bed. He shoved his face against Morty's, immediately drawn by the hint of glucose that puffed out with every exhalation. Rick was relentless as he attacked Morty's lips, his thick tongue sliding in to lap impatiently at the inside of his cheeks and gums. Even after he'd licked Morty's mouth clean of the quick snack, he continued to explore every nook and cranny with his piercing tongue.
Morty panted around the assault, preferring to interpret the act as a kiss rather than the cordyceps simply trying to find a convenient venue through which to infect him.
The alien fungus was instinctively attracted to any orifice in its pursuit to spread and conquer, but this also made Rick's attention shift at a moment's notice, always on the hunt for the next opening to exploit. With the assistance of the liquid glucose, however, Rick could be persuaded to linger for longer.
Besides, Morty couldn't complain as Rick licked at him sloppily. The spore-laden spit smelled faintly of clove, Rick's former cigarette of choice, and Morty hummed as a salacious memory made his toes curl.
That night, Morty lay balled up in his cot, back bowed and taut, ears burning at the orchestra of sensual moans that sounded from Rick's bed. What he'd first suspected was simply a night terror that had Rick tossing and turning took on a lustier timbre, and before Morty knew it, he was creeping near, daring for a look—just one quick look.
He'd edged closer to Rick's bedside, any words of concern dying in his throat the moment he looked down at him. Flushed and sweat-sheened, Rick had tossed the sheets off him to expose his heaving chest and erection that fought against the confines of his briefs. Morty lost track of how long he stood there and stared, the pounding of his heart sure to wake Rick, as he ogled him shamelessly.
It was so loud, he'd barely heard Rick say his name, but then he was being yanked down, Rick's eyes seeing past him and those thin lips clamping over his.
The scent of clove had slipped into his mouth and flowed through his sinuses.
Back in the now, Morty enjoyed the "kiss" for another few minutes until he was light-headed from lack of air, before finally shoving Rick off his mouth and holding an arm stubbornly over his face.
"C'mon. G-get to it already," he breathed, knowing the vague command would mean little to Rick's addled brain. When words didn't work, Morty found that oftentimes physical prompting did the trick. Blocking access to his mouth deterred Rick from continuing his raid, and eventually he gave up, the more pungent fragrance of the sweetener luring him down lower to investigate the rest of Morty's bare body.
He sniffed at Morty's neck and chest, seeking out an opening and making Morty giggle when he dipped his tongue into his armpit. Wherever his tongue traveled, his mucus-slicked hands followed, and they left a trail of liquid along Morty's torso that he didn't find entirely unpleasant, even when it left his skin tingling.
"Just a little—further." The anticipation of release was making his body thrum, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he urged Rick lower. At last, Rick's chin brushed Morty's pubes, and Morty knew he'd reached his goal. The moment Rick found his glucose-coated cock, he was lapping eagerly at his sweet reward like a kid on a lollipop.
That's more like it. Morty threw his head back against the musty pillow, moaning loudly. Fingers gripping the sheets on either side of him, he fucked up into Rick's mouth, not caring that he made Rick gag with a discourteous prod at the back of his throat. His pubescent body was still sensitive to any sexual stimulation, and even this sloppy excuse for a blowjob had sweat beading on his forehead, his cheeks flushed cherry red. He had never imagined that he'd find himself like this: starfished on a bed with Rick lapping at his balls like a parched man at a fountain.
It was times like this that he thanked the insidious little fungus for gifting him such an enthusiastic lover.
Enthusiastic, but nowhere near attentive. Morty tilted his hips this way and that, working to catch Rick's tongue right where he wanted it along his shaft. Bracing his legs atop Rick's shoulders, he struggled to direct him, digging his heels into Rick's neck when he wanted it deeper, pushing when he wanted less, like Rick were a joystick to his own perverted video game.
"Th-there's a good boy," Morty sighed, finally satisfied with the rhythm and letting his mind revisit fond memories.
Rick may have been callous and seething in those first volatile months, but all the time spent together had sanded down the sharp edges of his temper until both he and Morty had found a bearable middle ground, highlighted by moments of tenderness that Morty lived for.
By that time, Rick had all but given up on synthesizing a cure. He became apathetic, his insults and rants replaced by an impassive malaise that made Rick's movements slower, his tone gentler. The shift in their dynamic began so subtly, it would've been invisible to anyone else, but in Morty's eyes, it was blinding.
On the morning that the cordyceps had infested Rick's eyes, Rick allowed Morty to draw close to him for the first time. He'd just completed building his respirator, and when he asked Morty to put it on him, his voice barely a whisper as the cordyceps crowded his larynx, Morty knew it was for good. He remembered the way his hands had lingered around the back of Rick's head. It was the closest to an embrace they'd shared.
When Morty looked at Rick with bare-faced desire, Rick didn't protest, his eyes as silent as his voice.
Morty reached over his head for the new jar of Mold-B-Gone where it lay on its side amidst the dirty sheets. The product marketed itself as a super-strength antifungal cream, boasting a high concentration of clotrimazole targeting athlete's foot, but Morty found that it worked just as well for other areas too.
He twisted off the top and broke the seal, then lifted Rick's hand which had been resting idly on his stomach. Rick gave it without complaint, still busy enjoying the remains of the glucose syrup before ravaging Morty's glans. The mucocutaneous skin there, like his lips, was a magnet for the cordyceps, something Morty had learned quickly to satisfy his depraved urges.
Dunking Rick's fingers into the salve to coat them thoroughly, Morty then reached down and guided them between his ass cheeks. The salve didn't seem to bother Rick, and, in fact, he took a moment to inspect it briefly as Morty moved his fingers down past his cock.
"M-mo—mo—"
"Th-that's right, Rick. Mold-B-Gone. Just do it—ngh!—like y-y-you always do."
It was just a few days ago that he'd last fooled around with Rick, but Rick's memory was as spotty as Swiss cheese. More often than not, he was a blank slate during every encounter, acting without any memory of their previous times together. Sometimes this was to Morty's liking. After all, he could then play out his fantasies over and over again, running through the same scenario until he'd perfected the script. Other times, it was downright tedious.
Luckily for Morty, Rick caught on quickly tonight.
Morty only needed to brush the sensitive finger-cordyceps against his puckered hole before they took the initiative, probing the unprotected skin of his anus. First spasming closed in protest to the cool touch of the salve, Morty's body heat warmed the cream to a lotion-like emulsion. He willed himself to relax, letting the long, fat fingers slide in with little resistance. The combination of mucous secretions and antifungal medication made for smooth penetration, and before long, Rick was diving his fingers in to the knuckle to coat Morty's insides while Morty writhed and panted beneath him.
"Hoooh, Rick!" he whined, his dick taut as a bowstring. Between Rick's hot mouth and the sensations in his ass, he could have cum that very second, but he held out, knowing that there was more pleasure in store.
Rick curled his fingers, scraping against Morty's inner walls and seeking a means to transmit his deadly spores into this fresh, unclaimed organism. Every stroke landed just off-target from his prostate, and Morty gave a frustrated hum as he gyrated his hips in search of the contact he craved.
He hugged the pillow to his chest, burying his face in the coarse fibers, and moaned shamelessly. Not for the first time, he wished that it were Rick he was holding in his arms instead.
With the loss of Rick's intellect under the cordyceps' spell also came the loss of his capacity to bond. In most situations, Morty likened Rick to a pet dog—loyal, eager to follow, and in need of disciplining—but even a pet dog was considerate enough of its master to endure the occasional embrace. Rick, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to any platonic gesture, easily slipping out of Morty's attempts at a hug like water through his fingers.
The painful reminder made Morty's heart clench harder than his asshole.
When Rick's fingers finally slid over his prostate, he gave a shuddering moan.
"Y-yeah. J-just like—more of that. C'monnn," Morty gritted out between clenched teeth. He screwed his eyes shut, fucking himself on Rick's fingers as he desperately sought out that spark of magic again.
Just then, Rick dove his tongue a little too roughly into Morty's slit, and Morty kicked him upside the head with an annoyed yelp. The temporary interruption only served to extricate Rick from between his thighs, leaving Morty's hard-on dripping with saliva as Rick sought out his next target. It wasn't so much a matter of Rick growing bored with foreplay, however. His eagerness was driven by some alien imperative that masqueraded under the guise of sexual desire.
He roughly yanked his fingers out of Morty's ass, drawing a flustered squawk from him in the process, before crawling on all fours onto the bed. His cordyceps-riddled cock bobbed like a mutated puppet between his thighs, thick and wriggling with life, and he was snorting like a beast as he attempted to mount Morty.
"Whoa!" Morty yelped, quickly locking his legs shut and hugging the pillow closer to his chest. "Uh-uh!" He hooked his ankles together, twisting to the side to block Rick from getting any further.
Rick groped dejectedly at his clasped thighs before sitting back on his heels. "Mo—mo—" he grumbled, his breath still coming in haggard puffs.
"Y-you know the rules, Rick. No penetration," Morty pouted, already reaching for the liquid glucose again. "It's too risky."
Morty had considered letting Rick fuck him a few times before. If the feeling of Rick's fingers in his ass felt good, then, naturally, his cock—which was far larger—would be even better. At least, that was as far as his simple, 14-year-old brain could fathom. Though he would only allow it, he told himself, with enough safety precautions in place. He couldn't risk exposing his vulnerable rectum to Rick's ejaculate, which was likely teeming with infectious spores.
Two layers of condoms had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Morty's first several attempts had been a flop. The cordyceps on Rick's cock had grown too large and unwieldy, tearing through the thin rubbers with ease. It simply wasn't meant to be.
Now, whenever Rick got into one of his moods, Morty would placate him with a quick jerk-off. Rick's original pocket pussy, salvaged from under the bed, had initially done the trick, and when Rick had broken that, Morty had settled for using a garbage bag around his own hands instead. It made for quick clean-up and disposal.
The shoddy substitute seemed to satisfy Rick well enough, but Morty always felt dirty afterwards, like he were milking some farm animal instead of trying to give pleasure to his—Employer? Pet? Sex toy?
The cool of the glucose in his palm brought him back to the present. "Y-you'll get the bag, Rick," he muttered, "just as soon as y-y-you get me off." Before he could dollop it onto his cock, however, Rick suddenly grabbed him by the wrist with one slimy hand. "Hey! W-what are you doing?" A petulant pout underscored Morty's annoyance, and he tried twisting futilely out of Rick's grasp.
Rick may have been dumb as a boot, but he was still strong.
"Mo—mo—"
"Yeah, yeah," Morty huffed, rolling his eyes. He really wanted to get off, and Rick's senseless gibberish wasn't getting him anywhere. "I-I know already. The Mold-B—"
"Mo—Mmmorty."
Morty froze, his next words fizzling out on his tongue. He looked at Rick like he were a dog that had just talked—which, in a way, he was. It had been months since Rick had last said his name. The words came out rusty with disuse but held a promise of affection that had eluded Morty for so long.
From the pit of Morty's stomach, a jumble of emotions other than lust rose to color his cheeks and make his bottom lip quiver where it hung slack. Shock, hope, confusion, fear, guilt. What should have been a miracle only made Morty feel acutely ashamed, like he'd been caught playing with something that didn't belong to him.
He tore his eyes from Rick to look down at himself: his bare skin, sweaty and splotched red, erection standing lewdly between his quaking legs. Crusty, old cum stains and the remnants of other dubious liquids dotted the sheets, flaunting the depth of his perverted pastimes.
"R-Rick, I—" He stumbled as he began scooting back toward the headboard and raising his hand as though to fend off the impending barrage of accusations. Rick would call him disgusting, pathetic, a worthless piece of shit. But when Morty dared to look up again—
Rick was smiling, his face the epitome of peace. He'd slid his eyes closed, and like that, he looked like his old self again. That same smart-alecky grin, that delicate arch of his brow when he was fascinated by something. And for all intents and purposes, Morty had to assume that that "something" was himself.
"R-Rick?" he whispered.
"Morty," Rick said again, closing his hand over Morty's and guiding it down to envelop Morty's cock. Growling his name once more, he began jerking him off in slow, firm strokes.
Morty bucked up on automatic with a strangled shout. "Rick!" He'd gone numb at the suddenness of Rick's transformation, but the feeling of Rick pleasuring him, so gentle and considerate, shocked him back to himself. "Rick, you're—"
But then Rick was bending down to devour his lips, his tongue navigating his mouth so much more adeptly than even minutes earlier that Morty could hardly believe it was the same Rick. One hand still trapped beneath Rick's stroking grip, Morty grabbed onto Rick's arm with his other as he moaned into the kiss.
Drunk on the waves of pleasure that rolled out from his groin and needing to thrust up into that sweet contact, Morty untangled his legs to brace them shakily on either side of his lover.
Rick slipped an arm beneath Morty's thigh without skipping a beat, the bedsprings giving a whining creak beneath them. He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur "Morty" against his throbbing jugular.
"R-Rick." His lips, now kissed raw, bumbled around the word. The kiss had left him dizzy and inexplicably spent, even though a fire of desire roared inside him still. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched Rick take his hand and nuzzle his syrup-coated palm. It was nothing like the hunger-driven reaction from earlier; this time, it was rich with real affection.
"Morty." Rick turned his head to kiss the fleshy base of his thumb.
"Rick, you're back. I-it's really you—ah!" Morty winced as he felt Rick's cock nudge against his slick entrance, the outgrowth of cordyceps probing his hole like curious feelers.
A quiet warning echoed in his head—Don't let him—but the chant of his own name in Rick's silky, baritone voice swiftly snuffed it out. But Rick wants me. Me. And with that thought, any scrap of hesitation dissolved beneath the fog of desire that had settled over Morty's brain.
Dropping his head onto the pillow, he hooked one leg behind Rick's back—compliant, willing, and most of all, open.
Rick needed no further invitation. He shifted forward on his knees, hoisted Morty's legs up and out of the way, and, with a delicious roll of his hips, pushed his way inside.
Morty immediately tensed at the unpleasant burn where Rick's bulbous head breached him. He twisted the sheets in his fists, his chest hiccuping beneath the strain. The sheath of spongy stalks along Rick's shaft added to his already substantial girth, and Morty had to remind himself to breathe as he stretched him open inch by agonizing inch.
Thankfully, Rick's earlier attentions had loosened Morty up considerably, but no amount of lube could prepare him for the sensation of the cordyceps as they dragged against his insides. Better than any ribbed condom, they kneaded and massaged him in ways Morty didn't know were possible, and for a moment, he lamented the fact that he'd denied himself such a gift for so long.
After burying himself in to the hilt, Rick drew out again, then back inside, in a pattern that Morty lazily recognized as slow fucking. Whenever he'd witnessed Rick's frantic rutting into the garbage bag, it'd been fast and rough, as tasteless as an animal in heat. Morty never pictured him as a gentle lover. Each slow draw of Rick's hips raked the stalks of cordyceps against him in a peculiar blend of pleasure and pain that had his head spinning. He felt like his guts were being rearranged, making room to accommodate Rick's size as he invaded him with each thrust.
If Rick's cock was an instrument, then Rick was the maestro, orchestrating the symphony of Morty's desire.
Never could Morty have imagined, never would have even dreamed that he'd have Rick like this, making love to him. How far they'd come since those first experimental nights, Morty getting acquainted with his new plaything. Indulgent stripteases had slowly morphed into something more scandalous—graceless kisses and bold caresses—before finally reaching this crescendo.
Morty lifted himself off the bed, wrapping one hand around the back of Rick's neck as he looked down at where they were joined. "Fuck," he rasped, mesmerized by the in-and-out of Rick's cock. Like a bed of seaweed undulating in a riptide, the cordyceps flexed to and fro, clasping tight to Rick's cock on their way in before blossoming around Morty's hole on their way out. It was almost like they were waving to him.
When he reached down to touch them, they fluttered around his fingertips with their moist and slightly fuzzy peaks.
Distantly, distractedly, Morty thought of how the application of Mold-B-Gone wouldn't been enough. It hadn't reached far enough inside of him. But it was more of a lukewarm acknowledgement than an actual worry.
"Morty."
"Yes, Rick," he answered drowsily, circling his arms around Rick's neck and feeling the earth shift when Rick hoisted him onto his lap. Gravity nestled him down soundly onto Rick's cock, filling him so thoroughly, he was sure he'd never feel hunger again. This didn't keep Rick from feeding him his lips, though, which Morty greedily swallowed.
The tickle of Rick's large hands cupping his bottom made him giggle drunkenly into the kiss, until Rick began to move. Soon his giggles deteriorated into breathy gasps, and he clung to Rick as he was rhythmically lifted up and down his shaft.
Something about the change in position unleashed a brand-new flood of excitement through Morty. He buried his face in the shallow pool of Rick's collarbone where a group of young cordyceps stalks carded through his sweat-dampened hair and petted his cheeks. The feeling was oddly soothing, but not enough to take Morty's mind off of the sudden increase in Rick's pace. What had once offered him the promise of pleasure gradually grew uncomfortable, and soon sharp pains began lancing through Morty's tender bottom.
He arched his back, wanting to escape Rick's relentless pounding, but Rick's hands reflexively strengthened their grip on his hips, refusing to grant him any relief. "Rick!" Morty choked out. "I need you to—c-c-can't you slow down?"
A low grumble of his name was Rick's only reply. He nuzzled against his face, coaxing Morty to open his mouth with a tantalizing lick before diving in again. He sucked hard on Morty's tongue, eliciting a squeak from him as he bounced him in his lap. Morty whimpered around each mouthful of spit he swallowed, his attempts to free himself thwarted by Rick's hold on his tongue.
The cordyceps, Morty realized dimly, had begun to snag along his inner walls, Rick's pace too fast for them to keep up with. Splayed open like the barbs of a bur, they bit into his soft tissue, their once pleasant caress now a painful scrape.
Just when it reached the point that Morty couldn't bear it, however, Rick suddenly drew off the kiss with a shout. His arms tensed around him, and he curled forward, anchoring Morty down onto his cock, as he drove into him with short, staccato thrusts that jostled him in his lap.
"Rick, wait—!"
But Rick's cock was already swelling impossibly thick deep inside Morty's ass, and in the next instant, a flood of hot spunk washed his core. Rick clung to Morty, still as a statue, save for the measured pulsing of his cock that gushed wave after wave into him.
It made Morty's insides tingle strangely.
Rick's back heaved beneath Morty's hands, his breath enveloping him with its comforting clove scent. "Rick?" Morty ventured, his voice hoarse from moaning and heavy with lust. He pushed halfheartedly at Rick's shoulders, hoping to wriggle out of his smothering hold. A sliver of hope streaked through Morty's mind when Rick shifted, but when he finally did move, it was only to wrap his hand around Morty's cock again.
Morty's erection had flagged some in the interim, and he was about to insist Rick give it a rest, when Rick's mucus-slicked fingers began to pump him sumptuously. Morty lolled his head as he panted, the balance of pleasure and pain once again teetering back to the former. This time when Rick rolled his hips, there was only a dull sort of ache inside him, like the niggling of an itch that demanded it be scratched.
"Morty! Morty!" Rick huffed, as he jerked Morty off in a merciless pace that matched the pistoning of his hips.
Morty dug his fingers into Rick's shoulders, caterwauling his wants as Rick's rigid cock resumed its brutal rhythm. Another set of quick thrusts in, though, and Rick was already cumming for a second time. Again, the flood of warmth deep inside. Again, the peculiar tingle. Morty's stomach itched unbearably now, but instead of wanting Rick to stop, he was begging him for more.
"Rick! Rick, I-I'm gonna—!" Morty wailed to be heard over Rick's crooning mantra. The trickle of arousal in his core had spiraled into a tsunami that raced down his cock, and his balls drew tight against its base as the first wave of orgasm drowned Morty in a bliss that toed the line of delirium.
No sooner had the orgasm ebbed, when the undecipherable itch grew overwhelming. It gnawed at him like a hungry rat just behind his belly, and Morty writhed on Rick's pulsing cock, seeking some kind of relief. He wanted desperately for Rick to reach into him and scratch, to soothe the strange tickle that was driving him mad. Screaming incoherently, tears of frustration poured from his eyes. He scrabbled at Rick to draw him closer, his fingernails dragging red ribbons across his skin.
Rick, for his part, was far from finished. Mucus squelched around his cock where it drove in and out of Morty's battered hole. With another deep thrust, a torrent of ejaculate filled Morty's insides again, frothing out of his entrance and onto Rick's thighs in a mixture of mucus and blood.
"Morty," Rick rumbled, gripping Morty's hips and grinding him down until his rump brushed his pubes. When he tried to pull Morty up again, Morty howled at the sudden searing pain, as though he were being torn apart from the inside. The pain only subsided when Rick crammed another inch of himself into him, Morty's ass now cradled on his balls.
Somewhere in the corner of Morty's mind, the part not yet lost in the mire of carnal pleasure, he understood what was happening inside of him. It was the cordyceps. The stalks had flexed backward like the hooks of a devious fishing lure, their tips embedding themselves into Morty, effectively locking Rick to him.
Unable to dislodge himself, Rick wrapped his arms around Morty and laid them on their sides, a fine mist of red spores lifting from the sheets. Long limbs cocooned Morty like he were a precious egg as Rick continued pushing his hips against him, but it was more a token gesture than anything substantial; he could go no deeper.
Sealed together so completely, his cock gave another jerk, spewing more hot liquid inside Morty until every inch of his rectum was coated in Rick's spunk and mucus and spores.
For a while, only the sound of Rick's breath huffing over Morty's shoulder interrupted the quiet that had settled over them like a cold blanket. Morty's attempts to wriggle free were swiftly rebuffed by a warning growl from Rick who only clutched tighter. In another minute, Morty was too tired to care anyway.
He shivered despite the burn in his belly and nestled himself against Rick's chest for warmth, his hands splayed just above Rick's heart. The steady tempo of the organ beat to the tune of their idling afterglow, exhaustion seeping into Morty's limbs like black ink and filling his eyes with sand as he struggled to keep them open.
Sleep turning his mind to cotton, Morty looked up into Rick's face.
A serenity had settled over Rick's features, smoothing out the wrinkles and leaving his eyes half-lidded. The upturned corners of his lips were frozen in a gentle smile, and Morty watched impassively as a thin, red stalk sprouted from one of the caverns that dotted his eyeball. Its white tip stretched out to taste the air before shrinking back into the hole.
Morty craned his neck up to reach Rick's lips, his own eyes burning. But whether it was from tears or the cordyceps snaking their way through him on their journey to eat his eyes and infest his brain, he couldn't tell.
...
A strip of light pierced the darkness, playing spotlight to the ensemble of dust motes and spores that danced through the air. It skirted across the room like a lighthouse beam, resting on a pair of abandoned jumpsuits on the floor and a cluttered work table.
The light clicked off, and the door swung open with a wail of its rusted hinges. In stepped two identical figures in full-body hazmat suits.
"Would you looAUGHk at this place?" said the first, his voice coming out robotic through the Citadel-branded respirator mask.
"Yeah. The reports weren't kidding." The biohazard team leader stepped forward, a plume of fine particles lifting where his boot landed, and he reached up to grasp a metal pipe jutting from the wall that was coated in a thick layer of the stuff. When he took his hand away, the palm of his glove was stained red. "Definitely our fungus. Judging by the amount of spores, I'd say it's entered its third cycle."
"Shit, the stuff grows fast. Th-there any risk for an outbreak?" Even the mask couldn't hide the shadow of apprehension that followed his accomplice's words.
"Last known contamination was with that Guard from the city center. Said he'd made contact with Patient 0 a month back."
There was a low, impressed whistle from beneath the first's mask, and the thick rubber of his suit groaned as he swiveled in place. "All this in just a few weeks," he remarked. He scanned the room with his flashlight. "So where is our guy, anyway?"
The lead Rick was investigating a spread of syringes on the table. Holding one up to the light, he cursed silently at the dud medication half-dried up in the vials. "Probably not far, considering he had a new host nearby."
"You mean his Morty honestly stuck around? You'd think the kid would've gotten a clue and split."
"Infected tend to keep their host of choice close," he explained, sweeping the rest of the room with his flashlight. He stopped when it landed on the bed. Elbowing his partner in the back, he announced, "Heads up. I think we found our Rick and his Morty."
A blanket of pinkish-red fungus replaced the duvet, giving the appearance of blood-soaked moss over what had once been a worn mattress. Pointed, reaching stalks rose from the bed's surface like some alien forest across the uneven landscape. The slightest movement of air sent spores swirling off their lofty branches like a tropical mist.
The two Ricks stood speechless, taking in the stunning, macabre scene. "Jesus fucking Christ," they said in unison.
At first glance, the bed looked like it had been transformed into a terrarium gone awry. But as the light caught the column of a neck, the tell-tale curve of a hip, the bed's occupants gradually revealed themselves. Two mounds, one smaller than the other, lay entwined in the center of the bed. White-tipped spires covered their bodies which now served as the soil from which the cordyceps grew. They lay face to face, any distance between them closed by the living, wiggling masses that marked their grave, their limbs entangled in an embrace that endured into the afterlife.
Twin outlines of smiles bloomed eternally on their lips.
The accomplice Rick instinctively took a step back. "Th-the fuck happened to them?"
His leader gave a wry smile, instantly recognizing the signs.
"The death grip."