Chapter Text
The club is packed, even for a typical Friday night. Everything is hot, loud, and collapsing inward. The tab you had popped was blurring your vision, the loud floor design dripping and overlapping itself like water. With each step you take, you leave ripples. The air hangs thick with smoke, and you slide through it all like a blade, sharp-angled and untouchable. Your short, spiky mullet is soaked with the light spray of bubbles cascading from a machine near the DJ, coating your already glittered skin, glowing in the UV light.
You’re already rolling, bloodstream cocktail-sweet, thick with galaxy bloom tabs and a slow-burn sativa drip you'd downed while getting ready. You didn’t come here to talk, to make friends, to find somebody to get in bed with. You came here to lift. Out of your body, off this plane, into the weightless buzz where feelings didn’t feel like anything, just bliss.
Of course, people tried to talk to you anyway. You couldn’t blame them. You knew how good you looked, and the way you ignored every word spoken to you added to the mystique. It wasn’t hard. Most people here were so fucked up that you were probably doing them a favor by not entertaining their antics, and you weren’t looking to get your ego stroked right now. Your goal was to get wasted.
Someone tries to touch your waist. You jerk away and step on their foot, not breaking your stride for even a moment. You were beautiful, yes. But more importantly, you were clearly somewhere else. And people could smell it. They could taste your value. They knew it was impossible to get it.
How pathetic.
You make it to the bar without remembering how. Maybe you had floated. Your joints hum like fresh circuitry, your pulse lagging behind your brain by half a second. The booming music syncs with your heartbeat as you find an available barstool and sit down, grabbing the nearest glass and downing it. You slam it back down on the counter with an air of relief, uncaring of the taste or whatever was inside it. You just need to feel something. You were waiting for the next shift, when your thoughts would melt, the room would stretch, and no one would be able to reach you anymore.
The drink almost stung, a taste of sickly sweet sugar mixed with what could only be described as the taste of liquid metal burning into your throat. What the hell was in this drink? And could you possibly get another?
That’s when he spoke.
“You know that wasn’t your drink, right?”
You glance to your right, eyes landing on an older man sitting next to you, one hand holding a flask, the other gesturing at the empty glass. His hair is messy, and his eyes are low, framing his unreadable, almost bored expression. He’s watching you intensely, not leering or begging for attention. Just… observing you. Observing the way your hands hold the shimmering glass of leftover mystery liquid, the lights bouncing off and reflect in the small drip left at the bottom, like a kaleidoscope. You blink a few times, trying to clear your vision. You flick your eyes back up at him, still staring at you. You tilt your head at him, like a curious animal. “So what?”
The man gestures lazily toward you. “You just s-eugh-swallowed 80% ethanol mixed with synthmelon and a parasite egg. I’m kind of the worst p-person here that you wanna swipe a drink from.”
Your eyebrows furrow at him. Your vision is blurring again, and the lights are now shimmering on the walls like a waterfall. The bottles of alcohol behind the bar gleam, painted all different colors of the rainbow by the lights. The bartender washes a glass, and you can almost hear the squeaking of his rag against the glass from here. It’s like your senses have suddenly been heightened. “Actually, it seems like you might be the best person,” you manage through the haze. “This shit is fucking amazing.”
He barks a short laugh. “You know, I was more surprised y-you could even handle that s-eurp-shit than I was mad you stole my drink.”
He pulls something from his coat pocket. A joint, long, thick, wrapped in something that shimmered faintly blue. He lights it with a small flame that jumps out from the tip of his finger and takes a drag.
Then, without ceremony, he offers it to you.
No line. No, “You’re hot.” No, “Let's smoke this and head back.” No attempt to butter you up, no cringe pickup line. Just the joint. How refreshing.
You take it and inhale. The hit tastes like cold stars. Sharp and electric. The smoke flies into your lungs and runs through your bloodstream at an unbelievable speed, finishing its race and settling in your brain, right behind your eyes, a sharp, lightheaded sensation. The music buzzes in your ears, your head swaying.
“Shit,” you whisper. “What is this?”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “Something better than whatever you were using to try and forget your name with earlier, I can tell you that much.”
You laugh a little, the smoke loosening you up. “I’m Y/N. And I can tell you right now, I’ve got a lot more tolerance than you think. Don’t underestimate me.”
“Sure,” he says. “Just couldn’t help n-eugh-notice how much that one sip of my drink made you sway.”
You exhale through her nose, eyes narrowed slightly against the billowing smoke. You were still trying to figure this guy out. “Okay, you got me there. But you’re also staring at me like I’m a math problem. Guess we’re both incapable losers.”
The man sips from his flask. “Only looking at you like that because everyone else in here’s a coloring book.”
You pause for a moment, a little taken aback. Not because it was smooth. But something about this guy, who clearly had a lot more going on than any of these other losers in this club, made you feel a bit intimidated. Maybe it was his insane drink, his casual demeanor about everything, or his almost uninterested personality, but it spoke to you. You respected him, maybe even feared him. But a being of this level, recognizing you as above everyone else? Just like him?
Your ego purrs.
“Alright then,” you say, offering the joint back. “You’ve earned a few more minutes of my time. Use them well, uh…” You gesture to him.
“Rick,” he says, taking the joint back and maintaining eye contact as he takes a drag.
“Tell me something, Rick,” you say, leaning on your hand, twirling the straw in his empty glass. “You come to dumps like this for fun? Can’t imagine this is something you do often.”
Rick shakes his head. “Nah. I needed to find a distributor. But-eugh-but the guy OD’d in the bathroom. Fucking typical.”
You scoff. “They always die in bathrooms.”
“Or on top of someone else’s girlfriend,” Rick laughs coldly. “Real poetic stuff.” He sips his flask.
You stare at the bar, vision swimming as you watch the bartender swiftly concoct a drink. Your eyes are trained on his hands, expertly weaving through the forest of bottles.
“...so, what, you’re here to mourn?” you say, eyes glazed and unfocused in the direction of the bar.
“I’m here to get high. Same as you. Same as e-eurp-everyone.” He takes a drag of the joint, almost roach-sized now.
You scowl a little. “I’m not like these people.”
Rick’s eyes flick to you. “No, you’re worse. I-I know your type. You burn bright, move fast, kiss hard, then van-eurp-ish before anyone gets a second thought in. You can’t stay in one place for long, even if you want to.”
You arch a brow, your ego slightly bruised. “Well, aren't you analytical. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I say it like I’ve been kissed by a thousand other people who also thought they were unlovable.”
Your heart jumps a little, cheeks flushed slightly. Maybe it was from the drugs in your system, but his comment strikes a chord. Did he really think that’s what you thought? Is that actually what you thought?
Your head spins a little. You felt suddenly vulnerable. Getting high and taking drugs from random strangers was supposed to suppress these thoughts. You got high to feel like you were on top of the world, to be in another plane of existence, not feel your deepest insecurities. You shake your head a little, attempting to clear the fog and steel yourself.
“You always talk this much?” You say cooly. Your voice has an edge to it, a hint of anger now slicing through the muck of unease in your chest.
“Only when I’m interested.” Rick glances at you, meeting your eyes for a moment. You look away awkwardly, your heart pounding in your chest, and focus your attention on the joint.
You take one last inhale, letting the smoke sit in your lungs a second longer than necessary, then exhale it in his direction, meeting his eyes once again. It curls around his jaw, soft tendrils of pale blue wrapping his profile.
Rick doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just watches you through the haze, his expression unreadable, but almost entertained. His eyes aren’t hungry like the others in the room. They’re sharp, curious. Like he was still deciding whether you were worth taking apart or leaving untouched.
You lean in a little. Not a lot. Just enough that the scent of your perfume could overlap with his cologne.
“You’re staring,” you say softly, almost teasingly.
Rick doesn’t deny it. “I do that sometimes.”
“I don’t usually let people look at me this long,” you say, voice low, but with something underneath it. A small fracture. A pulse of sincerity.
He glances down at your lips, then back up to her eyes. His smirk had faded. His voice, when it came again, was almost quiet.
“I don’t usually look at someone this long. You’re quite a lot to take in.”
The moment thickens. The music swells, beats colliding with each other until it is just a blur of bass pounding in your ears, hammering deep into your skull. You’re unbelievably close to Rick now, knees touching, sharing a thin slice of breath between you two.
Rick leans closer. He moves like someone used to being in control, but not immune to temptation. And in this moment, you weren’t a curiosity. You were his challenge. A match to his flame. You can’t help but smirk a little, eyes half-lidded, pupils dilated from everything you’d both taken, and something more primal than chemicals.
His lips meet yours. Soft, warm, and tasting slightly of smoke and alcohol. His cologne fills your nose, the smell rushing to your head like you had just taken a whiff of poppers. You can’t help but squirm a little, heat growing in between your legs as his hand shifts to your leg, gently gripping your thigh. You press in just a little, parting your lips slightly to let him explore with his tongue. His kisses grow more aggressive, more driven, like there was genuine intention behind them. You can’t help but moan a little, hoping your obscene sounds were lost in the noise. You can’t let your guard down yet.
If Rick had heard it, he didn’t choose to react. He simply continues, moving from your lips to your neck, trailing his lips and tongue over your skin, tasting you. Like he was a hunter and you his prey, being tortured by his slow, teasing movements, not revealing when he was going to pounce and go in for the kill. Your breath grows shallow, his kisses sending tingles all up your neck and spine, hair raised from the pleasure. You were floating, and Rick was your lifeline. Your world is spinning, and you throw your head back as Rick works his way down your neck, eyes opening for but a moment to drink in the hypnotic glow of the lights. You couldn't feel anything. Just heat and weightlessness, and the tingle from his lips.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both quiet for a moment, before Rick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small device and places it on the table. You stare at Rick as he rolls another joint by simply clicking a button on the small contraption. The device whirrs and quickly wraps the flower in a paper, constructing a perfectly rolled joint ready to be smoked.
“Never learned how to roll?” You tease gently, testing the waters.
Rick snorts, unfazed, slicing through the tension like a hot knife. “Very funny. Would you rather I roll it like any other n-eugh-ormie here would, or do it in less than half the time the Rick way?”
You roll your eyes, concealing your smile. “Okay, okay. Just hand it over.”
Rick lights it with his finger again and takes a quick drag before passing it to you. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you, Rick,” you say, smoke billowing out from your hit. “You got great stuff. Do you just sell to anyone that's interested, or…”
“If you’re asking if I can be your drug dealer, the answer is yes,” he chuckles, taking a sip from his flask. “The only rule is, if you’re gonna do drugs that I give you, you can’t do them in a dump like this. My stuff is crazy good. Can’t let it go to waste.”
You pause and laugh a little. “How exactly are you going to enforce that policy? Spy on me every time I go to a party and make sure it’s up to Rick code?”
Rick rolls his eyes. “Because I’m gonna be there. You don’t get to pa-eugh-party with this stuff without me. I’d rather see you again in a place better than this dump, because the next time I see you, we’re going waa-eurp-aay harder than you’ve ever even dreamed of.”
Next time. That sounds nice. You’d love to see Rick again. “Alright, Rick. I guess that works out fine.”
Rick stands, closing his flask and tucking it in his pocket before tossing a few bills on the table. He turns to you.
“I’ll talk to you soon, Y/N. See you later.”
He leans in, tucking a piece of paper into your waistline.
“And you’d better call.”
And he was gone. His scent still envelops your nose, hugging you and causing your head to sway a bit. You’re still incredibly high. Rick made you feel so clear, even in this state of inebriation. You want to call him already, talk to him, listen to his voice for hours.
What was this sudden fixation? You never chase someone like this. Most people felt beneath you. Nobody was attractive enough, cool enough, or good enough. Was it because you thought Rick was too good for you? That you were afraid he would treat you the same way you treated everyone else here tonight?
“I need to stop going out alone,” you mumble to yourself. You needed your friends to keep you grounded. Otherwise, you’d spiral into disaster.