Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Boobworld had rebranded.
It wasn’t just a trashy sex park anymore. Now it was Boobworld 2.0™: "A Feminist Pleasure Planet for All Genders and Species (Now with Workshops!)"
Julie read the tagline off the brochure with a snort. “Oh good. They’ve discovered intersectionality. I’m sure the jelly-bikini arena is deeply empowering now.”
Rick didn’t look up from the flight console, just smirked. “Still has a five-star rating on the Intergalactic Hedonist Index, Morty—I mean, uh, Julie. Can’t argue with science, urp, baby.”
She tossed the pamphlet onto the dash. “You’ve been planning this detour since we left Glapthon-9, haven’t you?”
“Please. I’ve always got Boobworld plotted three jumps out. Tradition.”
Julie arched a brow. “Thought you hated crowds. And gimmicks. And—” she flicked the brochure “—body-positive pole combat for the soul?”
Rick gave her a slow, sideways look. “Yeah, but I like tits. And mood enhancers.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
Neither could she argue with the fact that she did put on the nice underwear this morning. Just in case.
The orbit entry was smooth. The atmosphere was not.
Boobworld 2.0 pulsed below them like a neon orgasm, blinking and purring and promising everything. The main dome had a new mural: a six-breasted alien draped in velvet robes, holding a scroll that read “Consent is Queen”. Fireworks shaped like pasties exploded over the horizon. A banner fluttered across the entry port: SELF-LOVE IS PLANETARY LOVE.
“Kill me,” Julie muttered, stepping off the ship.
“You say that now,” Rick said, tossing her a pair of holographic sunglasses. “Wait ‘til you see the Genderfluid Foam Pit.”

By hour two, they’d seen:
• a musical number titled The Vulva Monologues (and Tentacle Ballet)
• a gravity-defying lap dance in six dimensions
• a sexpositive-therapy-themed escape room where the doors only opened when both participants admitted a personal vulnerability
They’d rolled their eyes at everything. Scoffed. Took notes. Maintained an air of detached anthropological interest.
And still ended up holding hands through the simulated tantric maze, snickering like teenagers.
“This is so stupid,” Julie whispered, breath hitching as the next chamber sprayed them with rose-scented nanobots.
Rick grinned, his hair slicked back with something definitely not water. “Yup. Dumbest place in the galaxy.”
“Totally.”
Pause.
“…Wanna try the Aphrodisiac Taste-Test next?”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Rick picked up a spoonful of glitter-pink mousse labeled Raspberry Restraint™ and gave Julie a look. “Five bucks says this tastes like a glue martini, Julie. Glue and-urp- and disinfectant.”
Julie raised a brow, tipping back a neon shot of Liquid Consent. “You think that’s bad? I just drank something called Yes Daddy! and it came with a disclaimer.”
They moved from station to station, mouths tingling, stomachs turning, pretending not to notice how the tasting booths were shaped like open mouths and padded restraints. Somewhere, soft ambient moaning played from invisible speakers. A disembodied voice whispered affirmations about self-love and cosmic alignment.
Julie popped a cube of Clitoral Clarity™ into her mouth and chewed with exaggerated deadpan. “I feel seen.”
Rick leaned in, licking something off his thumb that shimmered like edible latex. “You know what this place reminds me of?”
“What?”
“If Burning Man, uh, fucked a wellness podcast and they had a baby in Vegas, Julie. Vegas, baby..”
Julie choked on laughter. “With a trust fund.”
“And zero shame.”
They walked past an open lounge labeled Pan-Orgy Garden (Respectful Voyeurs Welcome). Inside, writhing bodies shimmered under soft lights, genderless drones misting everyone with something labeled Empathy Enhancer. A huge mural overhead read: ALL DESIRE IS SACRED.
Julie’s eyes flicked to Rick’s.
He didn’t say anything.
She didn’t either.
They kept walking.
By hour three, their skepticism had eroded into something like guilty fascination.
Yes, the empowerment theme was pure marketing. Yes, every attraction ended at a “gift boutique.” Yes, the Pleasure Consent Counselors wore hot pants and suspiciously similar fake smiles.
But goddamn if it wasn’t… fun.
Rick’s shirt had gone missing somewhere after the Tantric Hover-Coaster (a thrilling, 90-second ride that ended with mutual simulated orgasms and free protein bars). Julie had acquired a tiny, sheer shirt with the slogan SLUT IS NOT A BAD WORD stitched in glittering thread. Neither of them was sober. Or dry.
Julie flopped onto a velvet chaise in the Aftercare Dome, sipping an overpriced hydration elixir and watching a couple two pods over get gently flogged by what looked like a massage robot.
“This place is so silly.” she murmured. “No wonder they gotta pump the atmosphere with drugs so visitors will enjoy this capitalist hellhole.”
Rick sat beside her, exhaling a puff of cherry-scented vape mist. “I know, r-right?”
They didn’t leave.
Of course they didn’t. Not when there was still a map full of glittery promises and sweet escapism. Not when every corner of the park seemed to offer another chance to pretend they weren’t already enjoying themselves. They kept walking, half-mocking, half-daring the place to actually impress them.
That’s when they saw it:
The Hyper-Lube Slide.
The Hyper-Lube Slide looked like a rejected Mario Kart level rebranded for adult entertainment — neon track loops, pulsating lights, and a giant inflatable vulva at the exit.
“Absolutely not,” Julie said.
Rick was already halfway up the stairs.
“C’mon,” he called back, grinning like a teenager who’d found the cheat code to life. “C’mon, Julie, c’mon-it’s got physics! Physics and, uh, lube.”
She stared. “You mean your kink is applied lubricant dynamics?”
He shot finger guns. “Baby, my kink is fun.”
That should’ve been it. She should’ve walked away, back to the overpriced mocktail bar or maybe that half-hearted “consent-based foam pit.” But then she heard him yell "Fuck Yeeeeeeeeah!" from the top loop, body gliding with almost cartoonish grace, like a greased-up Icarus, flying joyfully into moral irrelevance.
Ten minutes later, she was screaming too — sliding down Penetration Peak with her arms up, tits out, and dignity somewhere back at the ticket counter.
By the fourth run, Rick was racing her. By the fifth, they were trying synchronized poses. By the sixth, she was breathless, soaked, and laughing so hard her ribs hurt.
They collapsed on a vibrating bench, still glistening, still high on motion. Julie leaned her head against his shoulder, letting the synthetic air blow-dry her hair into chaos.
“We’re trash,” she mumbled.
Rick passed her a paper cup of something fluorescent. “But really well-lubed trash.”
Somewhere above them, lights flickered. A siren blared — cheerful, overly sexualized, and somehow legally distinct from a Netflix startup sound. A booming voice echoed through the park:
“Pan-Orgy Garden Main Event Begins in 20 Minutes! DJ D-licious spinning the wettest beats in the galaxy! Complementary stim-cocktails and compatibility enhancers available at all stations!”
Julie lifted her head.
Rick was already looking at her.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” she said.
“That I need to know what the hell a ‘compatibility enhancer’ is?”
They were on their feet before the next announcement.

The Pan-Orgy Garden was alive. Purple vines glowed like they’d been dipped in starlight. The crowd pulsed with energy — couples, triads, entire species undulating to the heavy, slow drop of bass that vibrated their bones.
Stations were everywhere: crystal bowls labeled mood stabilizers, arousal stimulants, inhibition dampeners, light empathogens, and one with a single, winking AI that offered “Trust. But better.”.
Julie arched an eyebrow.
Rick: “I’ve had worse ideas, Julie—urp—probably. But not many.”
She touched the rim of the Trust Cup, just once. “Same.”
They started sampling. Slowly at first. Half-sips, testing boundaries. Then more. Letting the chemicals wash over them. The edges of everything softened, neon melting into skin, sound vibrating through them, not just around them.
At some point, they stopped pretending they weren’t having the time of their lives.
Julie was on her back in the grass — if you could call it grass, it glowed in pulses, matched the music — eyes wide, chest heaving like she’d just sprinted through the stars. Rick sat beside her, chewing on the stem of something pink and mildly psychoactive, his pupils blown wide, his grin crooked and dangerous.
“Okay,” she said, breathless, “I can feel my clit in my ears.”
Rick laughed too hard. “That’s nothing, my dick’s conducting Beethoven right now—hic—and it’s all drums, all percussion, Julie. Real percussive situation.”
“Symphony No. 9?”, Julie rolled over and half-climbed into his lap. Her fingers found the hem of his coat like they had muscle memory — everything electric. Their skin sparkled from the mist. Every time their bodies touched, it felt like the inside of a gasp.
Her lips brushed his jaw. “Why does everything feel like it’s made of orgasms.”
“Pretty sure that popsicle vendor laced everything with EndorFlux,” he muttered, sounding almost reverent. “Or maybe that was the Anti-Shame Foam. Or the serotonin vape. Or all of it.”
She pressed her forehead to his. “You smell like artificial strawberries and hubris.”
“God, say that again.”
They were both giggling now. Touching each other just to feel, just to spark. Her hands on his ribs, his on her hips, and everything in between thrumming like a live wire under skin.
In the distance, the DJ shouted something that sounded like “ORGASM VORTEX, FIVE MINUTES” and the crowd roared.
Julie kissed him. Open-mouthed, uninhibited, fearless. Rick moaned into it like it was the first thing that had ever made sense.
When they broke apart, dizzy, she whispered, “We’re not gonna make it to the vortex, are we?”
He bit her lip gently. “We are the vortex.”
And when her head fell back and her hips rocked against his, it was no longer a joke. Just gravity, desire, and the chemically-enhanced truth:
Every. Damn. Touch. Felt like a small, personal apocalypse.
Rick’s hand was already under her new shirt — or maybe it had melted away, lost somewhere between the Trust Cup and the serotonin vape. Skin on skin felt like sunlight filtered through leaves in the summertime. Julie's breath hitched as his thumb found the swell of her breast, calloused and rough and so precise it made her vision static out.
She gasped into his mouth, hips bucking forward like her body couldn’t wait for permission.
“Jesus,” she panted. “You feel like a fucking power surge.”
Rick’s laugh was guttural. “You’re riding it like a professional.”
Their clothes — what was left of them — became irrelevant. She straddled him fully now, thighs spreading over his, sticky with sweat and something sweet from a spilled cocktail. His hands on her ass, guiding her in slow, grinding circles against the bulge in his pants.
Every motion was exaggerated, obscene in its intensity. She wasn’t even sure where her body ended and his began anymore.
Julie leaned back slightly, chest arching into his palms. “I can hear my own nipples.”
Rick blinked up at her, wild-eyed. “They’re screaming- screaming for me.”
She laughed so hard she almost choked, then moaned when he rolled his hips up against her. It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about this was subtle. They were in a glowing field of pansexual ecstasy with strangers writhing around them and nobody gave a single, blessed damn.
She tugged his belt loose with one hand, the other buried in his wild silver hair.
Rick hissed through his teeth. “You’re gonna kill me, Julie. Straight-up—urp—murder me. But hey, die like a genius, right?”
Julie guided him to her entrance with a grin that was equal parts bliss and challenge. “Then die.”
She sank down onto him inch by inch, gasping, her eyes fluttering closed — and for a second the entire world blinked out around them. No DJ, no lights, no Boobworld. Just slick heat and the breathless stretch of something long overdue.
He filled her, and she swore she could feel the chemical cocktails in her system fuse to the rhythm of his pulse.
They moved together like they were syncing up a machine: push, pull, grind, gasp. Her nails scratched down his back, his hands gripped her hips so tight she’d have bruises tomorrow — if time worked normally here.
She bounced on his cock now, completely unbothered by the crowd, the lights, the blurred bodies around them. Every thrust sparked through her like a solar flare.
Rick thrust up into her with a rough, uncoordinated snap of his hips, breath hot against her collarbone. “Still think you’re too good for Boobworld? Huh? Huh? Say it, baby. Say it’s perfect, Julie. Say it’s perfect!” he rasped, voice half-laugh, half-growl.
Julie barely managed a moan before he rolled his hips again, slow and deep, dragging a raw gasp from her throat. “Come on,” he murmured, lips grazing her jaw.
“Jesus—okay—shit. Fine. Boobworld’s a goddamn utopia.”
Rick grinned against her neck, smug and breathless. “Thought so. Thought so, baby. Now let’s—urp—not die here.”
Julie laughed, throwing her head back as her orgasm crested — a full-body quake that left her shaking, biting down on his shoulder, gasping his name like it was a sacred code.
Rick followed with a low curse, thrusting up hard as he spilled inside her, holding her tight like the world was fracturing and she was the only stable point in the universe.
When they finally stilled, breathless, bodies tangled and slick, Julie rested her forehead against his.
“So,” she murmured softly, “round two in the foam pit?”
He smiled, quiet and easy. “Only if you’re staying, baby.”
She let out a small laugh. “I’m not going anywhere. I want at least two more shirts.”
They stayed like that for a moment, calm and unspoken, as the Vortex officially began — but by then, they were already part of it.

Chapter Text

She’d said one too many things with that smug little smirk.
Something about how he talks big but never follows through.
Something about how he only flirts when he’s sure there’s a way out.
Something about how maybe he’s not as dangerous as he thinks he is.
And Rick had smiled.
Not the charming kind. Not even the angry kind.
The kind of smile that meant: You’re about to find out.
“Alright, alright, Ju-Julie,” he burped, voice a bit rough, “that mouth o’ yours is gonna write checks your b-body won’t forget, sweet-s-sweetheart.”
Then — with a flick of his portal gun and zero warning — he grabbed her hand and pulled her.
The first thing she noticed after the dim glow of the portal faded was the sudden wind in her hair.
The air around them shimmered with faint lavender mist, and gravity felt a half-step off, like they were suddenly lighter. They stood in the center of a vast field of crystalline grass — long, silver-blue blades that chimed softly when stirred by wind. Overhead, a fractured moon hung low and bright in the sky, casting fragmented light across the ruins of something ancient and massive right next to where they stood.
Obelisks jutted from the earth like broken teeth, overgrown with glittering moss and strange bioluminescent vines that pulsed with a slow heartbeat glow.
Julie blinked. “Where the hell are we?”
Rick adjusted a dial on his wristband, not looking at her. “Storage planet. Used it a couple times. No one comes here.”
She tilted her head, slowly turning to take it in. “It’s... weirdly beautiful.”
He shrugged. “It’s quiet.” Then he glanced sideways at her, something wicked stirring in his voice. “Besides. Y-you started something.”

She didn’t reply. Just stepped closer, slow and deliberate, letting her fingertips skim over the edge of his collar.
“You gonna finish it?”
Rick’s eyes darkened.
He pulled her to him by the waist, pushing his lips into hers. Hands roamed, greedy. Her jacket hit the dirt, his coat thrown over it.
The ruins around them echoed faintly with the sound of their breathing, punctuated only by the occasional whisper of crystalline grass shifting.
Rick's hand slid under her shirt — then lower — and found his way into her underwear.
Julie’s voice broke on a breath. “God, I hate how good you are at this—”
“Oh yeah? Tell me something new.” Rick smiled against her throat, licking her like he marked his territory.
His fingers now inside her. One, then two. Slowly finding into rhythm. She grabbed his wrist. “No, listen. Listen to me. You need to listen right now.”
Her pupils were wide, cheeks flushed, but this wasn’t just arousal. Something in her voice cracked. “I think about you when I shouldn’t. I—fuck, I want you so bad when you piss me off. I like that you don’t make sense. It’s so fucking hot.”
His fingers paused, then pressed deeper. “So, there we have it. You do react to the atmosphere, Jules.” he said, a sly grin tugging at his lips, almost triumphant.
She hissed, caught off guard by his touch, then nearly choked. “Excuse—ah, fuck. Excuse me?!”
Rick smirked. “Yeah, that. The air here contains alien cocktails mixed with psychoactive compounds designed to fuck with your neural receptors and knock down your mental guardrails. Makes you spill your guts, Julie. Like your brain f-forgot to bring its pants.”
He gave her a knowing look. “G-guess you bit off more than you can chew, huh, Julie. Didn't you.” Rick’s fingers pressed a little deeper, eyes sharp and amused.
Julie’s breath caught, a flicker of panic flashing through her eyes as the realization hit — she was saying things she hadn’t meant to say, revealing pieces of herself she usually kept locked away. For a moment, she tried to clamp down, to stop the flood. But the words kept coming, slipping past every defense, raw and unfiltered. Her hands grabbed desperately into the back of his shirt, trying to find something to hold on to.
“I like that you’re smarter than me sometimes. I like that you look like hell and still make me want to crawl into your lap and beg. How the FUCK do you do that?!”, she bucked into his hand, swallowed hard, her voice barely steady. “I hate how safe I feel when you’re next to me.”
Rick stared at her like she was glitching — like the words didn’t fit the interface.
Julie’s breath hitched, and suddenly her eyes shimmered with unshed tears — not from wanting to stop, but from being overwhelmed by the raw honesty spilling out of her. She bit her lip, the tremor in her voice barely contained. “And yet you scare the shit out of me,” she whispered, trembling now under his hands. “But I still want you. Now. Here. Everywhere. I don’t care. You fucked with my brain, Rick Sanchez.”
He shoved her back against the side of a fallen pillar, one arm pinning her wrist above her head. His breath was ragged.
“Careful, Ju-Julie,” he rasped, voice barely holding. “Say one more thing like that and I m-might actually believe you.”

Then suddenly: pause. One tear formed around the edge of her left eye. She stared at him in disbelief. “Wait a second.”
Rick’s mouth was against her throat, but she grabbed his hair and yanked him back. “Why is it just me?”
He blinked.
She wiped over her eyes, face flushed with red hot shame. “You’re not talking like that. You’re not saying anything you don’t mean. Why- Why is it only me?!”
Rick exhaled, slow. His jaw worked like he wanted to lie — and couldn’t.
“...The g-gas reacts stronger to emotional inhibition,” he muttered. “Yours is... way higher.”
Julie recoiled as if slapped, eyes narrowing in a mix of shock and hurt.
“So I’m the only one emotionally compromised?” Her voice sharpened, edged with disbelief — but also something raw and vulnerable beneath it. “Next to Rick FUCKING C137 SANCHEZ??!”
He caught her chin, rough but not unkind. “No. Ju-Julie. You’re just the one brave enough to say it out loud. That’s uh… just nothing I usually do.”
That stopped her. Breath hitched. Eyes flicked to his mouth, his eyes, back to his hand.
Then she whispered, quiet and ruined:
“Then say something, Rick. Please don’t leave me alone in this.”
Rick’s eyes darkened with something rare — something almost… real. He shifted closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper.
“Look, I’m not gonna lie. I dragged you here partly ‘cause I wanted to f-fuck with you. To watch you squirm a little — feels good bein’ the one holding the emotional cards for once. You- you know?”
Julie’s lips twitched, some bitterness in her eyes. “So… you makes you feel like a really big man, huh, bringing me here? That’s not all though. Is it, Rick?”
He glanced away, scratching the back of his neck. “…Yeah.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Say it.”
He hesitated, then exhaled. “Alright, fine, stupid. This place… it’s grounding. Makes the noise in my head quiet down for once. I don’t usually get that. So yeah, I wanted you here. Not just to mess with you — but ‘cause it’s one of the few spots where I can actually deal with… stuff. Feel things without losing my sh-shit.”
Julie’s smirk softened, eyes searching his. “You stupid softie. I love when you do that, you know. You hide behind that mean façade. Stupid hot.”
He opened his mouth like he might deflect — default sarcasm loading — but nothing came out. Just a breath, almost sheepish.
Then, before she could speak again, his hand came up—calloused fingers sliding gently over her eyes. not rough. Not teasing. Just enough to block her view.
She froze. “Rick—?”
“Just… don’t- don't look at me right now.” he muttered defensively.
His other hand didn’t stop moving—still tracing fire along her hip, her ribs, her throat like he was mapping territory he couldn’t quite admit he wanted to keep.
Julie stayed still. Let him have the silence.
Then, after a beat, his voice came—gravel-scraped, begrudging, as if every word tasted like blood and ego.
“I like you. Alright, Jules?”
A pause. His breath stuttered like a broken record.
“I like having you in my life. You’re sharp. You’re dangerous. And you’re pretty. I like that.”
Julie’s lips parted, but he pressed two fingers gently over her mouth. Still covering her eyes with the other.
“I’m not—hic—done.”
She bit back a laugh—barely.
“You make shit... better. Louder, but better. I didn’t expect that.” His thumb scraped along her jaw, like a nervous tic he couldn’t quite suppress.
“But you—in my life? It’s not bad, actually. It’s an... uh, upgrade. Annoying, loud, inconvenient as hell—”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“—but better. Somehow.”
Julie blinked against the dark behind his fingers. Her heart thudded so hard it felt like it knocked loose something inside her.
When his hand finally dropped, he didn’t look at her right away.
Julie waited — gave him a beat to sit with the silence, to let it hum between them.
Then, gently, she angled her head, trying to catch his eyes.
When he finally met her gaze, there was a faint flush under the usual pallor of his cheeks — not dramatic, but enough to notice. Enough to make something in her chest pull tight.
Her smile came slow, soft, but not without bite. A little victory curled at the corner of her mouth.
Their hands found each other again. First tentative, exploratory — then steady, certain. Julie’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt at the small of his back, tugging him closer with quiet urgency.
Rick slid a hand behind her head, guiding her gently as he stepped forward, pressing her back against the obelisk once more. Then he started undressing her — slow, almost reverent. Like someone unwrapping a gift they weren’t sure they deserved. Each motion careful, focused, threaded with anticipation.

Julie mirrored him in kind. Between kisses, she pulled at the hem of his shirt, peeling it upward, dragging her fingertips along bare skin like she wanted to memorize it.
“Fuck,” she muttered, a breathy complaint laced with awe, still drunk on the atmosphere. “How are you like eighty and this hot?”
“Excuse me,” he said, laughing low against her ear as he eased her out of her underwear, “I l-look no day over fifty-five.”
Once they were finally free of their clothes, they paused — just for a moment — to take each other in. A quiet, reverent kind of admiration passed between them. Framed by the chiming grass, the broken ruins, and the fractured moonlight spilling across their skin, it felt almost cinematic. Like the world was holding its breath for them.
Still holding her close, Rick guided them both down — slow, unhurried — until he was seated with her straddling his lap. He didn’t rush anything, didn’t let go. Just let the warmth of her body settle against his, like he was trying to memorize the way she felt in this exact moment.
Julie shifted lazily against him, grinding with soft pressure as she drank him in — the way the moonlight caught on his skin, the pale gleam across the planes of his chest. She reached up, tracing the angles of his face with her fingers like she was sketching them into memory. Sitting in his lap, wrapped in his arms, she realized it again — that maddening, terrifying safety she hated loving so much.
When he entered her, finally, maybe it was the first time he actually let her adjust to his length. Julie let out a blissful sigh, finding a rhythm that was hers alone. Rick just held her. Hands steady at her hips, grounding them both, surrendering control without protest. His breathing turned ragged as she rode him, steady and slow, their bodies syncing until they were chest to chest, forehead pressed to forehead.
“You’re so good at this,” he groaned into her hair, voice cracked and almost reverent. “F-fuck. The way your body moves, Julie…”
She kissed the corner of his mouth — soft, almost amused — then deepened it, lips parting over his like she needed to claim the breath he didn’t have. The heat between them built slowly, like a storm creeping in from the horizon. Every grind, every shiver, every ragged inhale pulling them closer to something inevitable.
He held her tighter. Not rough— but with a kind of restraint that felt like desperation folded inward. Like if he let go, he wouldn’t be able to put himself back together again.
They came undone together — gasping, clinging, skin pressed to skin, fingers digging in like anchors. Their breaths tangled. Her hair was a mess of knots and sweat, his nails leaving faint trails down her back. Dirt and crystalline grass clung to their legs, the world around them forgotten but for the soft chime of wind and the echo of release still trembling in their bones.
Eventually, they collapsed side by side into the grass, backs pressed into the soft, chiming blades, limbs still humming with aftershock. Julie's chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. Rick’s arm flopped over his eyes like he couldn’t bear the moonlight — or maybe just everything else.
For a while, they just lay there, silent, staring up at the fractured moon hanging like a cracked coin in the sky.
Julie turned her head slightly, voice rough. “You like me, huh.”
Rick huffed a dry laugh. “You’re more emotionally stunted than me, Julie. That’s impressive.”
“God, you’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” he muttered, letting his hand drift through the grass until it found hers. “I’m saving it for your deathbed.”
Julie smiled — tired, warm. “You better still be there by then.”
No answer, he just squeezed her hand once, didn’t let go. It felt like a promise he wasn’t ready to make out loud.
The moon shimmered quietly overhead. Somewhere far off, the wind stirred the grass into music again.

Chapter Text

Julie was already three hits deep into the bong when the credits rolled on The End of Evangelion, slow and haunting like a funeral dirge. The projector cast its ghostly glow across her bedroom walls, flickering with images of psychological trauma, apocalyptic metaphors, and one very naked, very devastated boy staring into the void.
Rick sat next to her in unusually heavy silence — elbow on his knee, the blunt smoldering between two fingers, forgotten.
They'd both seen it before, long before they’d known each other. This was supposed to be a casual rewatch — a nostalgic spiral into the absurd brilliance of mechas and depression.
Instead, it had left them both ruined.
Julie finally broke the silence, her voice hoarse. “I forgot how fucking hard this show goes.”
Rick cleared his throat and rubbed one eye, pretending not to. “Y-Yeah, well, classic bait-and-switch, Julie. Y-you sign up for robots, and you get raw existential despair with, uh, with a-a-a side of unresolved parental trauma soup. Neat, huh?”
Julie turned her head slightly. “Did you just cry?”
Rick scoffed. “Pfft. No. P-please I—I was adjusting my, uh—my cornea moisture index. Side effect of—hic—certain cannabinoids. Very scientific, very... private process.”
She grinned, despite the lump in her throat. “Sure, Sanchez. Real scientific.”
A beat passed. Her apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the projector fan.
Then Rick inhaled, slow and thoughtful. “You know… we, uh, could visit it.”
Julie blinked. “Visit what?”
He looked at her sideways, that glint of chaos creeping into his eyes again. “The world, Julie. Tokyo-3. Th-the GeoFront, the creepy robot freakshow — all of it. I’ve got, uh, I’ve got a multiversal coordinate shard for a simulation layer that's, like... a-a-a stabilized cross-stream of media-based reality anchors. Basically… fanfiction. With physics. And pain.”
Julie stared. “You're saying you can take us into Evangelion?”
Rick shrugged, flicking ash into a nearby teacup. “Yeah. W-well, a persistent shadow layer of it. Real enough to walk around in, not real enough to, y’know, get impaled by a skyscraper-sized Freudian spear.”
Julie blinked, wide-eyed, pupils still a little glassy from the high.
“Holy fuck—you mean I could pilot an Eva?”
Rick blinked at her, amused. “That’s your first takeaway? Not the, uh- not the existential dread? Not the metaphysical b-breakdown of identity?”
She didn’t even hear him. She was already sitting up straighter, hands animated, nearly knocking over her bong.
“No, no, you don’t get it. I’ve wanted that since I saw it for the first time. I will emotionally bond with a biomechanical war machine. I will scream in a plug suit. I need this.”
Rick let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “Jesus. You’d sync with one of those things in five seconds and probably make it cry.”
“Dibs on Unit-01,” she said immediately, pointing at him like it was a legal contract. “You can have the sad orange one.”
Rick stood and stretched, reaching for his portal gun. “They’re all sad, Jules. The—the colors are just for branding, like—like shampoo bottles. Still full of screaming inside.”
She was already on her feet, hair wild, high as hell and vibrating with mecha-fueled ambition.
“Cool. Let’s go vaporize some angels.”
Julie grinned as the portal cracked open, violet light flickering across her face like a signal flare.
“Get in the fucking portal, Rick. And put some pants on. You don’t need to traumatize those kids again.”
Rick took one last drag—then made the fatal mistake of dropping the blunt to the floor and grinding it out with his heel.
Julie froze mid-step.
“Did you just ash that out on my hardwood floors?”
He blinked. “What? It’s just—”
“Rick.”
A long, pained sigh. “Fine, Jesus.” He bent down, scooped up the blackened stub, and muttered something about fascist flooring policies while finally pulling on his pants. Then, grumbling, he followed her through the portal.

The moment they stepped through, the world shifted.
Gone was the warm glow of Julie’s apartment and the familiar hum of the portal. Instead: towering city blocks half-swallowed by dusk, long shadows stretching across endless concrete. Tokyo-3 loomed ahead like a ghost of the future — all harsh lines and silent tension, the kind of place where catastrophe was baked into the architecture.
The faint tremor of distant sirens echoed across the sky. Somewhere far off, something massive moved.
Julie’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”
Neon signs flickered in Japanese. A pair of VTOLs screamed overhead, banking hard toward Mount Ashigara. And beyond them—on the horizon, just barely visible—stood a titan. Evangelion Unit-01. Motionless for now, but radiating that unmistakable “this thing is gonna wreck your emotional stability” energy.
Rick shoved his hands in his coat pockets, glancing around like he was just here to pick up groceries. “Yup. Timeline’s clean. We’re somewhere pre-Asuka but post-Sachiel. Looks like NERV’s still... still hiring, so hey, you’re good.”
Julie turned to him, eyes wide, voice breathless.
“Rick. You’re telling me I could pilot an Eva right now?”
Rick adjusted his jacket with a sly grin. “Y-yeah, Jules, and before you go full-tilt weeb and, uh, try to hug Rei—listen. This is a simulation, alright? W-we’re just... tourists in a TV trauma dome.” He pointed at the scenery. “None of this shit can actually hurt us. Well... unless I forget to toggle the p-pain dampeners. Which I won’t. Probably.”
Julie raised an eyebrow. “So, like a video game? Can I just die and respawn?”
Rick chuckled dryly. ““N-not exactly. You can’t die. No real consequences. N-no real therapy, either, but hey—characters here are just... programmed drama husks. But yeah, you can f-fight Angels, crash Evas, steal Misato’s car, whatever. It’s my sandbox.”
She smiled wide. “So I’m basically the boss here?”
“You’re not just the boss. I a-am. But you can do y-your thing, Julie.”

First, they explored the underground city—rode the train through the tunnels, broke into the Geofront, and admired the vast underground lake from a distance. After that, they visited NERV headquarters and caught their first real glimpse of the EVAs: Unit 00 and Unit 01, just as it was being transported back to the base. Rick shook his head at the mechanics working on EVA 00 but stayed put, watching with a mixture of skepticism and fascination.
Meanwhile, Julie struck up a conversation with Misato and ended up with an impromptu invitation to her apartment for drinks. When no one was looking, she snuck off to mess around with the giant control panels, giggling like a kid who’d just found a secret playground.

After a few rounds of drinks and laughs with Misato, the evening slowly slipped into something more relaxed and familiar. The uneasy tension of their arrival faded as the strange new world began to feel less like a simulation and more like a twisted kind of home.
They didn’t ask to stay the night. They just didn’t leave.
Julie bonded with Pen² almost instantly, mostly by offering him half a beer and scratching behind his weird little penguin ears. “He’s just like you,” she said to Rick. “Except he eats fish.”
Rick, meanwhile, spent half the night tearing apart Misato’s prized sports car, rewiring the entire engine control system, upgrading the suspension, and installing a custom turbocharger — all so he could actually enjoy driving it instead of babysitting a glorified go-kart.

By morning, Julie sat at the breakfast table with Misato, sipping coffee and chatting like old friends, while Rick was still in the garage, half asleep and covered in oil. When Julie finally found him lounging in the backseat of the heavily modified Alpine A310, she shook a six-pack of beer at him with a grin.
“Come on, Rick,” she said, “time to get me into an Eva. Heroic music and all.”
He downed two cans of the beer she brought, scratched his head and finally slid behind the wheel of the Alpine. Julie settled into the passenger seat, her excitement barely contained as the custom turbocharger whined with power.
“Hold on t-tight,” Rick smirked, flicking switches and adjusting dials. The car shot forward, tearing through the streets with reckless speed—an exhilarating blur of neon lights and distant cityscapes.
The ride was wild, the perfect adrenaline rush before the next step.
Then, they stepped into the hangar. EVA 01’s massive face loomed before Julie, the rest of its body submerged in a glowing pool of LCL. She let out a high-pitched, excited squeal.
“Whoa, Asuka, contain the inner weeb, w- -brrrrp- will ya?” Rick burped casually, kicking the last empty can into the LCL like it was nothing. He punched a few buttons on his wristband.
An announcement boomed through the hall: “All personnel to battle station one.”
Julie giggled, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Come OOOONNN! I need me a plugsuit, like, yesterday!”

They naturally took their stations—Rick slid into Unit 00, Julie into Unit 01.
“This is really it,” Julie whispered, voice low. “This is the thing Shinji cried in.”
Rick fiddled with the knobs on his sync-rate panel, chewing absentmindedly on a screwdriver.
“You’ll cry too, if your soul doesn’t cooperate. Don’t worry — I installed a neural override patch. Should keep repressed childhood trauma at bay for the first hour. Or so.”
“God bless,” Julie muttered, then flopped into the pilot seat.
The Entry Plug slowly filled with LCL. She gagged.
“IT TASTES LIKE BLOOD, RICK.”
“LET IT FILL YOUR LUNGS, JULIE! Once it’s in completely, you won’t need to breathe anymore! P-probably.” Rick grinned, slowly leaning into it as well.
They toyed with the controls, laughing and bickering over the In-Plug Communication system. Then, remembering the infamous sync test between Shinji and Asuka, they decided to try for maximum synchronization themselves.
“Okay, let’s see if we can actually sync up,” Julie challenged, voice teasing but focused.
Rick smirked. “You’re on. Just don’t cry when I—when I out-sync your ass by ten percent and still finish my beer.”
They synchronized their movements carefully, mirroring each other’s actions with growing precision. The sync rate climbed steadily—70%, 85%, almost perfect. The connection between them felt electric, almost like a silent conversation only they could hear inside their heads.
“Damn, this actually works,” Julie breathed.
“Yeah, you’re not half bad at this, Julie.” Rick admitted, eyes glinting behind the visor.
They played tag in the Eva training simulation, their synchronization sharpening their reflexes and coordination—until suddenly, the calm shattered. The Angel attack was announced.
Julie could swear she heard a distant, drum-heavy heroic soundtrack swelling somewhere in the background.

They launched together — two neon giants crashing into battle like gods on a sugar high. The ground shook beneath them as their massive forms surged forward, synchronized perfectly like a well-oiled machine fueled by adrenaline and reckless joy.
Rick cackled over the comms, plasma rifle blazing in one hand, the other frantically rewiring targeting protocols on the fly. Sparks flew from his console as he hacked the Eva’s systems mid-fight, grinning wildly.
Julie screamed with exhilaration, weaving through the Angel’s monstrous limbs as she drove a prog knife straight into its core. “FUCK YOU, EXISTENTIAL METAPHOR!!” Her voice echoed through the cockpit, fierce and unrelenting.
Rick hollered back, equally euphoric. “I’M G-GONNA MAKE A SKATEBOARD OUT OF YOUR CORPSE!” His Eva spun around, kicking the Angel with a thunderous impact that sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield.
The clash of titans roared around them — metal against otherworldly flesh, neon light piercing the darkness. For a moment, nothing else existed but the wild, chaotic dance of destruction they commanded together.
It didn’t take long after that, and they stood panting, covered in LCL and euphoria, watching the Angel dissolve into luminescent rain.
Julie reached out and bumped her Eva’s fist against Rick’s.
“That,” she said, voice shaking with glee, “was fucking perfect.”
Back in the de-sync chamber, as the Entry Plugs disengaged and the simulation began powering down, Julie climbed out of Unit 01 grinning like a maniac. She took one last look around the empty Plug. “Too clean,” she muttered. Then, from the sleeve of her plugsuit, she pulled a red industrial marker and stretched up on tiptoes to write in crooked, permanent strokes across the ceiling panel:
“JULIE WAS HERE.”
She even added a little heart next to it.
Meanwhile, Rick had other plans. While Julie toweled off the LCL and pretended not to still taste blood, he was already halfway up a maintenance scaffold, hovering next to EVA-00’s shoulder plate with a portable welding tool he absolutely wasn’t supposed to have.
“What are you doing?” Julie called up, raising an eyebrow.
Rick didn’t look back. “Leaving a masterpiece. Art doesn't sleep, Julie.”
Ten minutes later, EVA-00 had a two-meter-long, meticulously crafted metal dickbutt welded onto its left shoulder — complete with detail and a heroic tilt toward the sky.
Julie burst out laughing as she looked up at it. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”
Rick dropped the welder into a duffel bag and dusted off his gloves. “Please. I’m a visionary. D-don’t be jealous just ‘cause your artistic phase peaked with gel pens and spiral notebooks.”

A few hours and one bureaucratic dressing-down later, the two of them were back in Misatos Alpine, speeding out of the city like they hadn’t just committed simulation vandalism on government property.
The sun was sinking low, casting the sky in bruised gold and orange as Rick kicked the car into gear and tore down the winding road that led away from Tokyo-3’s ruins. Julie rode shotgun, legs up on the dash, Misato’s last can of beer in one hand and a half-melted convenience store popsicle in the other.
“You seriously wanna see a watermelon field for the last stop?” she asked, lazily licking blue syrup off her knuckles.
“It’s iconic Jules.” Rick said, eyes on the road. "Man grows fruit in a dying world. That’s either—hic—poetry, or one hell of a cry for help. Yeah, Either way? I respect the hustle.”
By the time they pulled up, the sky was sliding into deep violet. The cicadas had started their droning chorus, the heat clinging to every surface like sweat. Rick cut the engine, and silence bloomed — thick, warm, and strangely still.
Julie stepped out first, flipping her sandals off and walking barefoot into the rows of low vines, the cracked earth hot under her soles. Between the leaves, the watermelons sat like small green worlds, quiet and patient.
Rick joined her, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the field.
“Guy really kept all- all this alive,” he murmured. “World ends, monsters attack children, people melt into LCL soup, and someone still waters the f-fucking melons.”
Julie knelt down, brushing her fingers over the smooth rind of one. “Kind of beautiful, honestly,” she said. “Stupid, pointless... but beautiful.”
A long pause stretched between them. The sun dipped below the ridge, leaving only the cicadas, the heat, and the electric hum of whatever this moment was becoming.
Rick looked over at her — hair mussed, slightly sunburned, beer in one hand, toes in the dirt — and grunted.
He opened his mouth, thought better of it, then shut it again. The moment was there — hanging, hot and heavy in the thick evening air — and he could’ve reached for it. Could’ve cracked a joke, closed the space, made some stupid, charged move.
But instead, he took another drink.
Julie didn’t say anything. She just kept looking out at the watermelons, the fake breeze tugging gently at her hair. After a minute, she asked quietly, “Do you still feel it?”
Rick raised an eyebrow. “Feel what?”
She didn’t look at him. “The thing that made you cry, the other day. The part that hurt.”
Rick let out a dry exhale. Not quite a laugh. “Fuck, you just had to see.”
Julie shrugged. “Was hard to miss, honestly. You tried to hide behind a blunt and a theory about cornea calibration.” He smirked. Then sighed. “Yeah. I—I still feel it. S-stupid, huh?”
The cicadas screeched. A warm wind rolled over the field, carrying the scent of dust and data-generated summer.
“I don’t know,” Rick muttered. “I thought this would be… catharsis? P-power fantasy? Thought I’d pilot the Eva, crack a few cold ones with Misato, pretend I’m not fundamentally broken for fifteen minutes.” He kicked a small rock with his heel. “But standing in this stupid-ass watermelon field — now I'm just tired. This world is still about d-depression, isolation, Julie. Even in the fun moments.”
The heat smouldered the earth between them.
“I wanted to feel what it was like,” she admitted. “Not just the scale or the cool mecha shit — though yeah, obviously that too. But it’s more than that.” She paused, searching for the shape of it. “I think I wanted to put myself in the middle of something so catastrophically emotional and not flinch.”
Rick raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Julie drew a slow circle in the dirt with her toe.
“Everyone in this world is falling apart constantly. Screaming, breaking, melting into soup — and somehow they still get back in the robot. I don’t know if that’s courage or just trauma inertia, but... it feels hopeful. Despite the apocalypse, despite the death and the damage and the everything... they keep going. Even when they think they can’t do it anymore.”
She reached over, grabbed a can from the lukewarm six-pack in Rick’s lap, and cracked it open with a hiss.
“And they’re just kids, Rick. Poor fucking things.”
She took a long pull and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Rick’s eyes lingered on the rows of watermelons, glossy and green under the deepening sky.
“They all got their own flavor of suffering,” he said quietly. “Even the background ones. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion and—burp—realizing it’s your reflection in the window.”
Julie snorted, nearly choking on her beer.
“So what’s your flavor of suffering, Sanchez?”
He gave her a crooked grin, patting her on the back as she coughed.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Julie.”
Julie laughed, still half-coughing.
“You’re such a cryptic little bastard sometimes.”
Rick smirked. “Takes one to know one.”
They sat in silence for another beat, sipping their warm beers, the cicadas still wailing like the universe was ending — which, in this world, it kind of was. Always.
Julie nudged him gently with her knee. „…You ready to go home, now?”
Rick stretched in lieu of an answer and pulled the portal gun from beneath his shirt.
“Y-yeah. Let’s go home.” He flicked it on and opened a glowing portal beside the car.
Julie gave the watermelon patch a lazy wave. “Bye. Thanks for the therapeutic stabbing.”
Rick lingered a second longer, tipping the last of his beer out onto the soil — slow, deliberate, like an offering. Maybe a ritual.
Then he turned, and stepped through after her.
The cicadas kept screaming.

Chapter Text

They were supposed to check in, crash for a night, and be gone by morning. Just a pit stop. One night on this trash-rock orbiting a fading sun — a tiny planet with two motels, one bar, and zero reasons to stay longer than absolutely necessary. Rick had dragged Julie out here to recalibrate a stolen dimensional stabilizer they’d salvaged from a collapsing timeline — a messy job that left them both exhausted and slightly irradiated.
The nearest safe zone for bio-recovery? Here. A sad little rock called Eltrexa-9, where the local law didn’t ask questions and the atmosphere only burned your skin a little.
Julie didn’t complain. Not out loud, anyway. She’d grown used to these detours, these sideways jumps across decaying corners of the galaxy where Rick promised, “Just five minutes,” and they ended up almost dying three times before lunch. Still, when they landed, both of them covered in soot and dust, she’d looked at the flickering motel sign and said, “Ah yes, the nice one. Out of two. Charming.”

Now here they were, and of course the only available room had a single bed. Julie was already taking off her boots with the kind of smug casualness that made Rick’s spine itch.
"Hope you’re not one of those guys who needs a firm mattress," she said, flopping onto the sagging thing with a grin. Rick snorted. "I’ve slept in the— in the s-stomach of a living asteroid, Julie. This is practically a five-star uuuurp— five-star resort.”
The motel room was a mix of cheap chrome and peeling synth-leather. Dim red lighting buzzed in the corners. There was a minibar, which Rick had already raided, a flickering holo-TV playing muted alien soap operas, and there was Julie — stretching out, arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to deliver a hint of her sweat-soaked bra. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Don’t suppose you’ll be a gentleman and take the floor,” she teased. Rick smirked, tossing his coat over the back of a broken chair. “Sweetheart, I—I’m barely a functional adult. You—you want the bed to yourself, sh-should’ve booked your own damn room. Rookie move.”
Julie shrugged. "Could always sleep on top of you. Save space." Rick turned to face her, arms crossed. “Wh-what is this, huh? You tryin’ to— to provoke me, Julie? Or are you just, just horrible at hinting you need a good d-dicking? 'Cause spoiler alert — it’s working.” She rolled onto her side, chin propped in her hand. "Oh, I’m provoking you. You just haven’t decided what to do about it yet."
He chuckled darkly, grabbing a bottle from the counter and taking a swig. The familiar burn, a warm buzz entered his body. She watched him with lazy amusement, eyes tracking his throat as he swallowed. “You always drink when you're scared of what you might do?” Rick raised an eyebrow. “I drink because water’s for cowards. But t-thanks for the armchair psych eval."
Julie stretched again, slower this time. Popping a bone or two and sighing blissfully. He looked away. “You gonna keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” Her voice was syrupy sweet.
Rick didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The heat was thick between them now — not acknowledged, but pressing in from all sides. That bed was going to be a battlefield. He sat on the edge, pretending to check his portal gun. She leaned over his shoulder.
Just a little too close.
“You smell like singed circuits and cheap booze,” she murmured.
“Y-yeah, well, you smell like... like... bad ideas and post-coital regrets.”
She smiled against his neck. "You love bad ideas."
And just like that, something inside him snapped. He turned, fast. Grabbed her by the waist and dragged her down onto his lap. Julie laughed — low, delighted, triumphant.
"Took you long enough."
He looked at her—let his gaze drift, slow and deliberate. There was dust tangled in her hair, oil smudged across her shirt, grime under her nails. Not that he ever gave a damn about clean. But this—this version of her—roughed up, untamed, defiant—was maddeningly irresistible. His fingers pressed into that narrow strip of skin just above her hips, where her lower back curved in like a secret. He kissed her—hard. No warning, no pause. Just raw frustration sparking into friction, teeth and tongue crashing together under the weight of unspoken tension. Her hands gripped his shirt in tight fists. He stripped hers off in one swift motion, tossing it carelessly into the flickering neon dark.
“Still want the bed to yourself, Julie?” he growled against her throat.
She gasped, biting her lip. "Maybe later. If you manage to wear me out."
Rick laughed, dark and low. “Oh, sweetheart. D-don't tempt me.”
They didn’t so much fall into bed as crash into it — half-naked, cursing, clawing at each other like a dare taken too far. Rick pushed her down into the mattress, mouth hot on her chest, hands rough and searching. Julie arched under him, thighs spreading to pull him closer, her voice low and breathless. “You talk a big game, old man.” He grinned against her skin. “You—you love that game. The game’s filthy. F-filthy and desperate. Just like y-you—right now? F-fuck, you're dripping all over me.”
She groaned as he slid his fingers down, dragging them through her slick heat. Teasing first — always teasing — then sinking deep until she was gasping, bucking into his hand.
“Fucking— Rick.”
“That’s right, say it again.”
Her nails scraped his back as he curled his fingers, thumb circling until she nearly sobbed. “Shit, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t, Jules. You wish you did.”
When she came, it was fast and fierce, her entire body tightening beneath him as he swallowed her cry with a kiss. But she wasn’t done. She bit his shoulder, flipped them, straddled him with a wicked glint in her eye. “Your turn.” Rick just lay back, hands behind his head. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Show me how much- how much you hate me.” She rode him slow at first — grinding down with infuriating control. He watched her, every twitch of her hips, every flicker of smug satisfaction. She leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.
“Still think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Rick growled, grabbing her hips, snapping up into her so hard she gasped.
“F-fuck no. Y-you know exactly what you’re doing, you—you manipulative little slut.” The rhythm turned sharp, punishing. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his hands gripping her ass as they fucked like they hated each other — or maybe like they couldn’t stop wanting each other.
When he came, it was with her name on his lips and her teeth in his neck. They lay there after, sweaty and panting, the motel room humming around them like it knew exactly what had happened.

Morning on Eltrexa-9 came with a synthetic buzz and the smell of gasoline. Somewhere outside, a vendor bot was hawking nuclear churros and something called 'breakfast vapor'.
Inside the motel room, the air was thick and still, saturated with sweat, sex, and the ghost of neon light. Julie lay tangled in the blankets, one leg draped over Rick’s hip, her hand resting flat on his bare chest. His pulse was steady now, but it hadn't been — not last night. Not when she'd clawed her nails down his spine and told him he talked too much. He stared up at the cracked ceiling, hair a mess, mouth swollen. “S- still think I should’ve taken the floor?” Julie hummed, barely opening her eyes. “Nah. Floor wouldn’t have made those noises.”
Rick chuckled. “Neither would you.”
A beat passed. Comfortable. Still.
“I’m not staying for breakfast,” she said finally.
Rick snorted. “Didn’t— burp —didn’t peg you for a cuddler anyway. The cuddling’s where the real danger is, isn't it?”
“Don’t get it twisted. That was a one-time thing.”
He glanced at her. “Su- Sure. Like the elevator. Or b-boobworld.”
Another beat. Her fingers twitched against his ribs, like she might say something else. Instead, she sat up, hair wild, sheets falling away. “C’mon,” she said, already pulling on her pants. “We’ve got a stabilizer to finish. And unless you want to start growing tumors out of your eyeballs, we should get moving.”
Rick rolled to the edge of the bed, groaning. “Nothing like radiation poisoning to kill the mood.” Julie shot him a smirk over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’re already a toxic mess.”
They cleaned up quickly — relatively speaking. Rick scanned their vitals, Julie packed up the tools, and by the time they were done, they were almost back to business as usual.
Almost.
As the green vortex opened, Julie paused at the threshold. “Don’t read into it.” Rick raised an eyebrow. “What, into you—into you climbing me like a jungle gym and moaning my name like it was the f-fucking password to the apocalypse? Nooope. N-not reading into it at all.” She didn’t flinch. “Exactly.”
“Sure,” he said, stepping through after her. “Totally forgot it already. Who even are you?” Back home, no one asked why they smelled like a 7-year-old fraternity couch.
But Summer raised an eyebrow when Rick sat down for breakfast with his shirt on inside out. This was a first.

Chapter Text

This was supposed to be a pit stop. One of those “quick look, five minutes max” detours. In and out. A supposedly abandoned off-radar lab, rumored to be littered with half-melted tech and maybe one or two salvageable secrets. Julie had barely rolled her eyes before Rick was already halfway through the security hatch, muttering something about “idiot-proof scanning patterns” and “bio-locks weaker than a toddler’s immune system.”
Naturally, they triggered something.
A pulsing vent belched open with a dramatic hiss, and before either of them could say “definitely not inactive”, they were both doused in a gooey pink fluid that clung to their skin and clothes. It dripped from Rick’s hair in slow, viscous blobs. Julie blinked through the sticky mess and—reflexively—licked a drop off her finger.
It tasted like bubblegum.
Rick whipped around, eyes wide. "Wh-what?! Did you—Julie, did you just lick that?! Jesus, what are you, five?!"
“Reflex,” she said, grimacing. “It was on me.”
He stared at her for a beat too long. Then sighed. “Oh y-you big beautiful moron.”
Rick, ever the hoarder of questionable substances, pocketed a still-gurgling sample. "It's, uh, it's for analysis. It’s—it's probably just a-a dormant clone-goo-slime-neuro-whatever. You’ll be fine... probably. I mean, you look fine."
Julie checked her vitals, shrugged, and followed him out. They didn’t die immediately, so they took that as a good sign. Neither of them noticed the faint shimmer crawling under their skin as they portaled back to the motel on Eltrexa-9 — the kind of rock you only stopped on if your ship was leaking or you were halfway to radiation poisoning. In their case, it was both.
A shower, a stiff drink, and six hours of pseudo-sleep later, things felt almost normal.
Until Julie woke up and saw herself in the mirror.
Except it wasn’t herself.
It was Rick.
Rick’s face.
Rick’s stupid pointy chin, his wiry frame, his bedhead like someone had electrocuted a ferret.
From the next room, her voice called out groggily: “Jul-Julie- Why are your boobs so heavy?”
Julie stormed out of the bathroom, nearly bashing her head in the doorframe over her new, unfamiliar height. Rick — wearing her skin and one of her shirts inside out — was hunched over the mini fridge, poking through old protein bars like this wasn’t the weirdest thing that had ever happened.
“I told you not to lick it, not to lick the alien goop” he said, not even looking up.
Julie gestured wildly at herself. “That?! That’s your big I-told-you-so? We body-swapped and your first thought is br- brrp- eakfast?” a belch escaped her face, startling her for a second.
“I need my- your blood sugar up before reversing any- anything,” Rick said, unbothered. “Science runs on fuel. And your body craves some sugar.”
“You absolute piece of shit,” Julie muttered. “How long does this last?”
Rick took a bite of something like a glistening granola bar “Best case? F-few hours. Worst case? Forty-eight. Depends on how- mfff- much bubblegum you chewed on.”
She groaned, dragging a hand through Rick’s mess of hair. “I can feel your hangover.”
“Not a hangover, Julie. Withdrawal.”
Julie blinked. “You mean—”
Rick pointed a finger at her—his body. “You’re gonna want to find something strong and vaguely flammable in the next ten m-minutes or your brain’s gonna try to fold in on itself. The price of genius.”
She stared at him. “You’re seriously telling me I have to stay drunk to survive you?”
“Welcome to my bloodstream, Julie. Hope you like whiskey.”
Julie muttered something dark and stumbled toward the minibar. “This is the worst Freaky Friday ever.”
The little fridge let out a dying wheeze as she yanked it open, rummaging through mystery cans and alien travel-sized liquor bottles.
She grabbed the one that looked least radioactive, cracked it open, sniffed and pulled a face before knocking it back with a whince. “God, no wonder your liver’s planning a coup.”
Rick, still in her body, flopped dramatically into the only chair. “I didn’t ask to be born this ic-iconic and chemically dependent.”
Julie rolled his eyes. The burn was already settling in her throat — his throat — and a strange warmth was blooming in her chest. Or maybe that was just the slow realization that she could absolutely milk this.
She glanced down, flexing Rick’s long fingers. Then narrowed her eyes. “Tell me I don’t have to sit down to pee.”
He looked up sharply from where he was inspecting her teeth in the mirror. “You absolutely gotta, Julie. Unless you wanna play high-stakes splash roulette with intergalactic piss bacteria.”
She made a strangled noise. “No fucking way. This is inhumane. How do people live like this?”
“I ask myself that every time I g-get back to Earth,” Rick said, snapping her jaw shut with a pop. “Get used to the pelvic floor, Julie.”
Julie stormed into the tiny bathroom, muttering curses that sounded way too grizzled in Rick’s gravelly voice. A few minutes later, she emerged looking deeply betrayed.
“I just had to hold your dick with both hands,” she said, staring him down. “It’s like piloting a meat hose. I deserve hazard pay.”
Rick, lounging on the chair in her body, stretched lazily. "Pffft—coulda just pissed out the window. I used to write my name on moons, Julie. Real majestic stuff. People still talk about the cursive on Glapzor-3."
“God, you’re awful.”
“Y-yeah,” he smirked, pointing at her. “Yet you’re the one who licked the mystery goo.”

By the time they’d both showered and jammed themselves into mismatched spare clothes — Julie in Rick’s wrinkled lab coat and boxers, Rick in her combat boots and a top that he pulled down way to low — they had started to lean into the chaos.
“You know what?” Julie said, adjusting the coat to hang off one shoulder. “Let’s run errands.”
Rick squinted. “Like t-this, in public?”
“Exactly. You in my body, me in yours. Let’s go fuck around in a liquor store and see who gets kicked out first.”
Rick looked almost proud. “That is the most fucked-up f-foreplay I’ve ever heard.”
They hit the streets on a busy neighbouring planet.
It started small. Ordering chili dogs from a hover-cart and deliberately mispronouncing each other’s names. Rick flirted with a five-eyed customs officer with her face and a fake accent. Julie made aggressive eye contact with a gang of six-armed mercs while licking the mustard off Rick’s fingers.
Then it got worse.
She bought a shirt that said “I ♥ Hot Moms” and made Rick wear it. He retaliated by tying her hair into ridiculous, lopsided pigtails and then confidently marching into a street performance, hijacking the mic, and delivering an impromptu rant about nipple symmetry, and the sociosexual implications of chanting rituals. Julie tried on platform boots to see if she could get even taller. Rick got her hair blown out into a ridiculous 60s Beehive. They nearly got arrested outside a casino because she challenged a tentacle dealer to “arm wrestling for honor.”
“You’re a m-menace in my skin,” Rick muttered as they ducked into an alley. “I mean, I am, obviously. But watching you do it? That’s borderline erotic.”
Julie adjusted her sloppy lab coat with theatrical disdain. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll make out with a bouncer. With your mouth.”
Rick opened his mouth to answer — but Julie was already poking at something behind his ear.
“Wait, what’s this?” she said.
“What—don’t touch—”
Click.
A small hatch hissed open in his neck. Inside: a tiny control pad.
Julie whistled. “Oooh, what’s this? Built-in panic buttons? Emergency mood lighting? Ooh! Is this a taser setting?”
There was another faint click, and suddenly her thigh jerked.
Julie gasped, nearly falling over as something metal extended with a whirr from inside Rick’s borrowed leg.
“What the—?!” she stumbled against the alley wall. “Did I just—?”
Rick grinned from across the alley, arms folded in her body. “Congratulations. You activated my thigh cable Julie.”
“You have a thigh cable?!”
“I’m a goddamn genius, not a minimalist.”
She bent over, inspecting the metal line now half-retracted from the side of his leg. “Why the hell would you install something like this?”
“In case I need to scale a wall or trip a b-bounty hunter at forty klicks per hour. Or, y’know, when I get bored in t-traffic.”
Julie muttered, “This is the coolest dumb shit I’ve ever seen,” then paused. “Wait. If I just did that by accident…”
She kept poking, until her fingers slid across a different panel. This one opened with a soft beep on his arm. Inside, neatly labeled in Rick’s own scrawl:
“BIRDPERSON – DO NOT USE UNLESS DEAD (OR EMOTIONALLY EQUIVALENT)”
Julie blinked. “You gave Birdperson your emergency contact slot?”
Rick looked away. "It’s... it’s a long story. Shut up. Shut. Up."
“Oh my god, you have a feelings failsafe.”
“Shut up.”
Julie grinned like she was holding the nuclear codes. “You soft little trauma gremlin. I’m gonna tell him you cried during that singing mooncalf youtube video.”
"Try it and—and I’ll tattoo a hentai QR code on your lower back. It’s gonna autoplay tentacle karaoke in twelve languages. Go ahead. Test me." he snapped.
Julie paused. “...Okay, that’s actually kind of funny.”
Their eyes met — Rick’s narrowed, Julie’s gleaming with mischief — and something shifted.
They were still pissed. Still swapped. But beneath the irritation, something electric was simmering. The heat of shared destruction. Familiar. Charged.
Julie cocked her head. “So. What else you got hiding in this mess of a body?”
Rick’s voice was low. “Sweetheart, you haven’t even scratched the surface.”
She stepped closer. Close enough to smell her own perfume on his shirt. “I’m gonna find everything.”

The walk back through the alien market was... tense. Not because they were fighting. That would’ve been easier.
They weren’t bickering — they were circling. Like lions too tired to maul, too wired to rest.
Rick, in Julie’s body, kept lagging near every food stall.

He slowed, staring at a deep-fried monstrosity under a heat lamp.
“Craving something gre—ee-asy? Whoa.”, Julie asked, letting out one obscene burp.
Rick squinted. “No. Wait—yes. Why do I want... chili cheese slugs?”
“Oh,” Julie muttered with a wince. “Yeah. PMS week. You’re on the ‘consume everything and fight god’ setting.”
He stopped walking. “Seriously?”
She shrugged. “You’ve got like three good days a month. The rest is rage and discharge.”
Rick stared at himself. “Y-you make being a woman sound like a cursed modpack, Julie.”
“I mean. It is. You do get to have boobs, but they inexplicably hurt at least two times a month. Without warning.”

Rick made a low noise and veered off toward the food stall, hypnotized.
Julie let him. Watching him try to navigate her hormonal hell was honestly therapeutic.
He returned with a greasy paper cone full of chili cheese slugs, eyes wild with saltlust, and immediately started shoveling them into his—her—mouth.
“Oh my god,” Julie muttered, mock horrified. “You’re gonna stain my good molars with space sludge.”
He spoke through a full mouth. “Y-your—mmph—your body, it—it demanded tribute, Jules. I, uh—I obeyed.”
“That is not what tribute looks like.”
“Ohhh, I’m s-s-s-sorry, am I not d-dainty enough for your, uh, ladylike digestive trauma?”
“You belched into a child’s face three stalls back.”
“They shouldn’t have been standing there.”

A beat.
Then Rick, with wicked calm, added, “Oh, by the way? I, uh... adjusted your pupils to be slightly asymmetrical when you go to sleep.”
Julie didn’t even blink. “I told the bartender at the casino you were on your second marriage and your last name was ‘Weenies.’”
Rick, in retaliation, had reprogrammed her phone’s autocorrect to replace every instance of “yes” with “I crave bone milk.”

By the time they reached the ship, Rick was eating something else, beige and mood-stabilizing, and Julie had deactivated another of his “secret limb things” — a telescoping toe hook.
Back aboard, the doors sealed with a hiss. Julie slumped in the pilot seat and rubbed her temples. “We are never speaking of today again.”
Rick dropped into the co-pilot chair. “S-speak for yourself, Jules. I’ve got a whole new appreciation for boobs.”

They didn’t talk much on the flight back.
The silence buzzed with everything they hadn’t said — yet.
By the time they landed in the driveway of Rick’s garage, the tension had wound itself tight as piano wire.
They stepped inside. The lights flickered on.
And then—
“Grandpa?” Morty’s voice rang out. He stood at the workbench, wide-eyed, mid-sip from a smoothie. “Did- Did you just get back? There’s something w-weird on the—”
He took one look at the two of them — Julie with smeared eyeliner, her neckline plunging somewhere past decency, hair blown out into a beehive like a fever dream. Rick in a shirt saying something horny about moms, lab coat draped over his shoulders like a cape with a metallic toe hook glinting through the torn leather of his boot.
There was a long pause.
“Jesus Christ, G-Grandpa, why is it always the moms.”
He nudged a loose wrench aside with his foot and tossed his half-finished smoothie into the bin by the door. “Great. Appetite’s gone. Th-Thanks for that.”
The door slammed behind him.
Silence.
Julie turned to Rick. Slowly. Like something unravelling.
Their eyes met.
Still swapped. Still wrecked.
But under it — fuck — they were burning.
Julie cracked her knuckles. “So.”
Rick exhaled. “So.”
They stared at each other, the air between them taut.
Without a word, Julie reached into the pocket of the lab coat still draped over his — her — shoulders, pulled out the portal gun, and fired.
The air warped open into a familiar green swirl. No coordinates were spoken, but they both knew where it led.
Rick’s basement.
Private. Sealed. Soundproof.
Julie stepped through first, boots heavy on the floor. Rick followed, the portal snapping shut behind them.
Rick stared. His face. On her. And smirked.

“You’re, uh, y-you’re weirdly hot when you’re me, Jules. Which I... I hate. Deeply.” he said, stepping closer.
Julie raised an eyebrow. “You literally made out with yourself in a clone tank that one time.”
“That you know of.” Rick muttered, already breathless. “S-sweetheart I literally exist over millions of times across the multiverse. You think I didn’t make out with myself at least a few times?”
Then Julie — currently all wiry limbs, broad chest, and twitchy genius in Rick’s stolen body — sat down in the chair with slow, unhurried purpose.
She looked up at him and crooked a finger.
“C’mere.”
Rick blinked. “Wait, what—”
She didn’t wait. In one smooth pull, she grabbed him by the hips, lifted, and placed him on her lap.

Rick let out a small hiss. “Okay. This- this is deeply disorienting.”
Julie smirked. “Yeah? Well, I’ve been dying to seize this opportunity.”
His- her hands settled on his sides with unsettling familiarity.
“You’re seriously gonna manhandle me in my own b-body?”, Rick scoffed, but it broke halfway into a breathy exhale as her thumbs dragged along his sides — familiar and foreign all at once. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You don’t seem so opposed yourself.”
He tried to retort, but she shifted slightly beneath him — casual dominance, dangerous intent — and the words got tangled in his throat. His opened legs now pressed dangerously into her lap. Her hands slid higher, slow and deliberate, dragging heat in their wake. “Still disoriented?”
Rick swallowed. “V-very.”
“Good.” She leaned back just a fraction, watching him squirm in his own skin. “Let’s make it worse.”
He laughed — or tried to — but she kissed him already— testing, probing. Their lips jamming into place like they always needed to be right there.
Rick gripped the sleeves of his coat still slung around her shoulders, holding on like the room might start spinning. “This is... weirdly intuitive,” he muttered against her lips. “Why is this intuitive?”
Julie smirked. “Guess my body just likes being tossed around.” She flipped him onto the console with lazy strength. He gave a shaky laugh that stuttered when her hands settled around his waist.
“Oh, that’s messed up,” he breathed. “Why does this feel like m-muscle memory?”
“You know why.” she said, voice low, almost amused. “This slutty little body of mine.”
“And now you’re using it against me?”
Julie leaned over him slightly, looking at him with calm, collected mischief. “Oh yes, abso-fucking-lutely.”
Rick inhaled as if to argue, but she was faster — fingers slipping under his waistband, dragging it down before he could speak. His breath hitched as cool air replaced fabric warmth.
She paused, breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the figure before her. Her own body — but not hers. The way it moved, shifted, the way the fabric of her clothes clung differently now that he was in it. How her mouth looked when Rick smirked with it. The tilt of her hips, the slight unevenness in her stance — things she’d never noticed from the inside.
It was like seeing a painting she’d lived inside for years — only now she was outside the frame, staring in.
She felt taller on the outside. Heavier in strange places. Lighter in others.
There was a low hum beneath her skin — Rick’s metabolism, always running, like a machine left on overnight. Thoughts flickered constantly, fast and sharp, like static.
The hand-eye coordination was uncanny — as long as she took a regular sip from his flask, everything lined up.
Then there were the mods. The weird little upgrades that made her joints twitchy and her muscles react half a second before she decided to move.
And beneath it all, like background noise: a strange cocktail of sadness and horniness that never fully shut up.
A smile curled onto her borrowed face.
Then, she pounced.
Within moments, her face was buried between his legs — searching, exploring, mapping. Rick choked, then let out a sound using her own voice box, a broken moan that spurred her on. She picked up the pace. One finger, then two — deliberate, relentless — finding that spot, that angle, that rhythm that made it impossible for him to adjust. Or think. Or breathe.
She felt his — her own — body clench and twitch around her fingers, sharp and reactive. Rick’s breath shifted from confused to panicked to something closer to awe. Between two firm thrusts, she paused — just long enough for him to catch a breath - and lifted her head, her stubbled cheeks now smeared and hot.
His confused, wrecked expression was perfect. She let out a bark of laughter, sharp and triumphant. “Oh, Rick — you lovely little slut.”
He stared up at her, panting. “Don’t call me that in my voice- ..... Actually—shit—do it again.” The tightness in her pants was unbearable now, almost painful. Still, she dove back in — determined to finish this for him first. He had to know.
Her fingers found him again, picking up right where she’d left off. Her tongue followed, firmer this time, more focused — pressing hard against the centre of herself.
When it hit him, his hands tangled in her hair, uncoordinated, desperate for something to anchor him. He saw colours — all of them, maybe even some that didn’t exist. It was a brand-new kind of sensation: not just the unfamiliar body, but the new kind of wanting, too. And the orgasm? At least three times longer than he was used to. Like cherubs with trumpets throwing open the gates to bliss.
Julie grinned maniacally through it all, pinning him down with her free hand not letting up the pace with the other. Rick’s thighs were clamping down on her head now, painfully tight. She didn’t stop — not until he whispered, breathless, “Jules — stop — please…”
She hovered for a second, catching her breath, just… watching: His chest heaving, the softness of him in her ribcage, breasts, belly, hips and thighs just melting into the panel beneath him.
“Still disoriented?” she asked softly, straightening up to get a closer look of his face.
Rick blinked up at her, dazed. “I think I just saw God.”
She laughed, clearly satisfied with herself. But the tightness in her pants hadn’t eased — not even close. If anything, watching him fall apart in her skin had made it worse.
She shifted slightly, the friction against her clothes pulling a low, involuntary groan from her throat.
Rick’s eyes caught it, slow and a little wide.
Julie tilted her head, like she was assessing damage.
“Well,” she murmured, “at least one of us knows how to follow through.”
He blinked, still recovering. “I— what?”
“You heard me,” she said, voice lazy and cruel in just the right way. “That was adorable. But next time, try lasting long enough to return the Favor.” Rick opened his mouth to protest, but she was already on the move — pushing him upright with a force that didn’t match her current frame.
“And you make such pretty noises, too,” she added, brushing a hand over his throat, where his pulse still raced. “Would be a shame to let that go to waste.”
She leaned in close, breath hot. "Let’s see if you’re better at giving than receiving. Or do I have to teach you that too?"
Rick swallowed hard, but there was something flickering behind his eyes now — not just lust, but challenge. His hand caught her wrist just before she pulled away.
“Oh?” Julie raised a brow. “Look who’s alive again.”
He didn’t answer — not verbally. Instead, he surged forward, catching her mouth with his, teeth grazing her lower lip with a surprising lack of finesse. Rekindled. Still shaky, but no longer passive.
Julie grinned into the kiss. “There he is,” she murmured, just before he pushed her back — not roughly, but with intent.
They stumbled together, her long limbs planting on the control chair. Rick pressed closer, their bodies a mismatch of stolen muscle memory and new desire. He kissed her like he was trying to reclaim something — maybe pride, maybe power — maybe just the feel of himself in her.
“You’re l-lucky I’ve done this before.” he muttered, voice low and unfamiliar in her throat.
Julie let her head fall back, a laugh bubbling up that was part mockery, part genuine thrill. “Then show me.”
He was already on his knees, fingers working her belt with single-minded focus. The buckle clinked, her — his — length finally swinging free, flushed and eager, no longer crushed by too-tight fabric.
She barely had time to register the shift — the sight of him below her, her body towering above — before he leaned in and took her into his mouth in one smooth, practiced motion.
Julie gasped, the sound punched from her lungs. “Jesus.” Rick didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His focus was elsewhere — on rhythm, pressure, control. And goddamn, he did do this before. There was no other way. His lips moved with a mix of method and confidence, hollowing his cheeks, tongue curling just right.
Julie braced a hand against the edge of the chair the other tangling in his hair — partly for balance, partly simulating control.
Her hips jerked forward without permission. “Okay,” she managed, voice tight. “Not so cute anymore.”
He looked up at her with that maddening glint in her own eyes — the one that said oh, I know exactly what I’m doing — and doubled down.
Her fingers tightened in his hair—half warning, half reflex, even she wasn’t sure.
“Don’t get cocky,” she hissed, jaw clenched, chin slightly raised as if to keep herself from completely losing control.
But Rick... Rick just giggled onto his own cock and kept going.
Stubborn. Methodical. Relentless.
Like someone solving a puzzle that never quite fit before—only now he knew exactly where every piece belonged.
Tongue, lips, suction, pressure. His hands on her hips, steady, commanding—not asking, holding. He knew she was about to start trembling.
Julie tried to pull away, shift her weight, get back on top. But her knees gave out. Completely. Just like that. She stumbled back, but Rick caught her and set her back onto that chair, wouldn’t let her escape, sucked her in deeper with a low, hungry sound that vibrated through her core.
“Fuck,” she whispered, more pleading than swearing.
Her legs found no ground. All she felt was heat and pressure building like a tightening screw with every move.
She clung to the chair with both hands, her face flushed, breathing uneven.
When the orgasm hit, it came all at once—it hit with the force of a crashing wave, quickly, messy and all force.
She came with a deep, raw sound, barely human—somewhere between confusion and madness.
And Rick? He swallowed, then sat back on his heels—satisfied, sweaty, wearing that disarmingly innocent grin that no one but him could pull off.
Julie stared at him, utterly overwhelmed.
“You... fucking… fuck.”

They sat in silence, for a while. The hum of the basement, the faint tick of cooling panels. Breathing evened out. Muscles softened.
Then, without warning — no lights, no sound cue, no dramatic pull — they blinked… and it was done.
Julie froze for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing. She flexed her fingers. Pressed her thighs together. Exhaled.
Rick shifted in the chair across from her, running a hand through his now-shorter hair. “Huh.”
Julie looked down at her hands, then touched her chest, her waist. Everything back where it belonged. Hers again. Inside and out.
“Did we… just switch back?” she asked, voice quiet.
Rick nodded, rotating a shoulder. “Yeah. Think so.”
Another pause.
Julie stood slowly, still testing her balance. “Feels weird. Like I left the oven on in someone else’s house.”
Rick snorted. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”
They stood there for a moment, not touching, just… seeing each other again. Differently now.
She glanced at him. “So?”
He shook his head, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “God I never want to have PMS again.”
Julie laughed — a soft, genuine thing. “You couldn’t handle it if you wanted to.”
Rick just nodded, still easing back into his own frame.
Julie ran a hand through her hair, half-laughing, half-sighing. “I need a real bed. Mine. With clean sheets.”
Rick shifted where he sat, suddenly looking… hesitant. Not unwilling — just thrown for half a second. Her bed. Her space. That was different.
But Julie didn’t wait for him to overthink it. She just held out her hand, palm up.
He glanced toward the bench. The portal gun.
Rick exhaled through his nose, grabbed it, and with a flick of his wrist, opened a glowing tear in reality. The inside of Julie’s apartment shimmered on the other side — warm lighting, familiar scent, and the vague promise of clean sheets.
She didn’t look back as she stepped through. “Coming or what?”
Rick hesitated just a second before following. Not because he minded, but because it felt strangely intimate — being invited into her space, now that they’d spent so long tangled up in each other’s everything. But the exhaustion beat out the awkwardness.
Julie pulled off her boots with a grunt. “I’m taking the left side.”
Rick blinked. “Theres sides now?”
“Of course there is. We’re not savages.”
He didn’t argue. Just dropped into the other half of the bed, barely getting the blanket over them both before his eyes started to drift. In the dark, he heard her murmur, “Don’t snore.”
“No- no promises,” he muttered back, already half-asleep. Their limbs had ended up tangled somewhere along the way — a calf draped over a shin, her hand loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt. Foreheads nearly touching. Breaths syncing without effort. Somewhere between shared silence and steady breaths, the weight of the night finally began to slip off them both.

Chapter Text

The pirate station reeked of engine grease, old liquor, and several illegal life forms. The poker table was round, hovering, and slightly sticky.
Julie sat in a dress that looked expensive but slightly out of place on her — not because it didn’t fit, but because she didn’t sit like someone used to wearing one. Her posture was relaxed to the point of careless, legs angled just a bit too wide, cards held loose in one hand, smirk firmly in place.
Rick leaned back beside her, sipping something vaguely radioactive and way too carbonated. It fizzed in a slow swirl of green and violet. He swirled it idly, like it might whisper answers. “You’re bluffing, Julie” She didn’t look at him. “You always say that.”
“I’m -brrrrp- I'm always right.”
One of the aliens at the table growled something guttural, way too many teeth showing. Julie didn’t flinch—just raised a brow and clicked her tongue in mock disapproval, like scolding a particularly dumb pet. The creature narrowed its eyes but backed off with a low grunt.
Rick gave a low whistle. “You, uh—you antagonize everyone you meet, or just the ones who could, y’know, actually—actually eat you in one bite?”
She shrugged, smirk deepening. “Had a great teacher.”
He chuckled, watching her over the rim of his glass. “Yeah well, maybe- maybe you should’ve payed attention in class.”
Julie fanned her cards without looking at them. “Or maybe you're just mad I actually got game.”
Rick snorted. “Sweetheart, you say that, but the late-buy-in is literally offering his wife. In-Game Game doesn’t count.”
Just then, the alien across from them gestured proudly to the woman lounging next to him—tall, iridescent, with six arms and a grin like a razorblade. She gave Julie a slow once-over and a wink.
Julie didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze lingered—appraising, not dismissive.
“She’s stunning,” she said finally, tone almost thoughtful. Then she looked back at the alien and raised a brow. “But I don’t play for bribes. Especially not with people.”
Rick tilted his head, amused. “S-sooo… she is your type. I knew it."
Julie smirked. “She’d have to buy me dinner first.”
The alien’s mate winked at her, then laughed – a strangely beautiful chiming sound.
Julie rolled her eyes and threw in the last of her chips. “Tell her to call me when she leaves him.”
She laid down a perfect straight flush. The table groaned.
Rick blinked. “Y-you had that the whole time? The whole time? Are you—are you serious right now?!”
Julie grinned. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“I’m not—I’m not mad, I’m, uh, appropriately disrespected, okay?”
“No, you’re flustered. It’s better.”
Rick scoffed, stood up so fast his chair wobbled, and pointed at her. “I am not- ...flustered.”
Julie also stood, leaned close. “You are, though. It’s very cute on you.”
A low snicker echoed from across the table. The six-armed woman raised her cocktail in a slow toast, watching them like it was the best entertainment she'd seen all week. One of her hands slid over to snag a chip from the pot with a shrug, like she’d accepted the loss but wasn’t above petty compensation.
The creature beside her — the one who’d offered her up as a bet — let out a series of wet clicks, clearly annoyed, though whether at the outcome or the lack of attention wasn’t clear. He shoved back from the table with a guttural grunt and stomped off, leaving behind the distinct scent of fermented algae and wounded pride.
Another player, a cube-shaped being with a monocle embedded directly into its gel-like surface, burbled in amusement and began placing quiet side bets with a slug in a suit. One of them whispered and the slug nodded sagely. Nobody looked angry about losing anymore. They were too busy watching.
Julie didn’t care. She had locked in.
“Y-you sure you wanna do this here?” Rick muttered under his breath, acutely aware of the audience.
Julie’s grin turned wicked. She stepped in so close their bodies nearly touched, her breath warm against his ear. “What’s the matter?” she whispered, voice silk over dynamite. “You getting shy on me now, Rick Sanchez?”
He stiffened. Not from offense—never that. From something like pride. Joy. Restraint. From the very obvious tension of a man one breath away from snapping.
She laughed, low and deliberately sinful, and dragged her fingertips along the line of his belt. “Didn’t think you were the type to get performance anxiety.”
Rick’s hand shot out, fingers curling around her wrist—tight, possessive. His jaw flexed.
“Oh,” she breathed, eyes dancing. “There he is.”
The six-armed woman let out a delighted whoop. Someone across the table shouted, “Fifty credits says they don’t make it off-station before someone loses clothing.”
The Dealer sighed, regretting her career choices.
Rick didn’t even blink. “I swear to god,” he growled, downed the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the table. “You just had to- had to run your mouth.”
Still gripping her wrist, Rick stomped down the corridor with her in tow, leaving behind the neon chaos and catcalls of the casino. Julie followed, breathless with laughter, until he abruptly yanked open a utility closet and shoved her inside. The door slammed shut behind them.
Metal shelves rattled. The light flickered overhead. Julies, still smiling, eyes widened with anticipation.
“What, you thought you could just poke the- the bear and walk away?” Rick’s voice was low, rough around the edges, too calm to be safe.
As the door slammed shut and the light buzzed overhead, a curl of smug satisfaction bloomed low in Julie’s belly. She’d baited him—on purpose. Every smirk, every line, every toe over the line had been deliberate. She didn’t want control. She wanted this. The snap, the heat, the bite of it. She wasn’t submitting. She was steering—from underneath.
And she knew he knew. That was half the fun. Rick let her play her little games, let her think she was slipping the knife in with a smile. Sometimes he even played along. Just… not always the way she expected. And that part? Even hotter.
She smiled, casually — like she was talking about the weather — “I just figured you’d have me bent over that poker table by now. But, hey—" she looked around the tiny, grimy space with mock appreciation— "this works too.”
Rick’s jaw twitched. Something dark flickered across his expression — restraint breaking apart molecule by molecule.
“Oh, you think you’re running this? That's cute Jules.” he said, voice dropping further, gravel and threat and something thrilling under the surface. “You don’t start shit like that and get to walk away.”
Julie smirked, fully in control and entirely reckless. “Honestly? I was kinda hoping I wouldn’t be doing much walking after.”
Rick’s eyes flashed — with amusement, with challenge, with something that edged into wicked.
“Oh, now you’ve done it.”
He grabbed her by the hips, spun her, and pinned her hard against the shelves. Metal rattled. A bottle of solvent clattered to the floor. Somewhere far off, the casino kept howling — but in here, in the cramped heat of that moment, there was nothing but the grind of breath and friction and promise.
“I’m- I'm gonna make you regret every word you just said,” he growled against her ear.
Julie let out a breathless laugh, answering with a provocative wiggle, feeling his boner against her lower back. “Hmmm... No, I don’t think I regret anything.”
Rick’s laugh was low. “Yet.”
Patiently, his hand traveled — over her shoulder, up the curve of her neck, along the line of her jaw — until his fingers came to rest against her lips. He traced them slowly, deliberately, his voice low.
“You talk a lotta shit tonight” he murmured. Then, with a subtle shift of his weight, he pressed her harder into the shelves. “But in here- you might want to reconsider the volume. I’ve met the owner. She does not take her hygiene violations lightly.”
Julie drew in a sharp breath, just about to reply—
But his hand covered her mouth before she could. All that escaped was a muffled, indignant “mmfgh—”
Rick leaned in, breath warm at her ear. “Told you, Jules. Silence is golden.”
She squirmed, not to escape, but to press back into him—challenging him the only way she could now, with her body. He responded instantly, hips shifting forward, pinning her more firmly against the rattling shelf.
One hand stayed locked over her mouth, steady and unrelenting. The other trailed down the line of her side, slipping beneath the edge of her dress—just intent.
His fingers found heat. Wet. He swore under his breath.
Julie made a noise behind his hand—part snarl, part moan. She tried to twist in his grip, to look at him over her shoulder, but Rick just pressed his palm more firmly against her lips, keeping her still.
“Nope,” he said, voice low and dangerously amused. “You picked this f-fight. You don’t get to negotiate now.”
He slid two fingers through her slick, slow and deliberate, and felt her body stutter against him. Her breath caught — sharp, shuddery — and he grinned.
“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself. “All that attitude and this is what’s underneath it? You’re such a little liar.”
Julie arched involuntarily, her forehead knocking against the shelf in front of her. Rick curled his fingers just slightly, and she gasped into his hand.
“Shh,” he whispered, mock-gentle. “T-thought you were worried about the owner.”
Her eyes were half-lidded now, glassy with focus, fury, and need. She bit down on his palm—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make a point.
His fingers stilled. Then, with deliberate ease, he withdrew — and in one smooth motion, tugged her panties down. Let them fall.
He bunched the fabric in his hand for a moment — then leaned in close, voice right at her ear.
“You just don’t learn, do you? I mean, I—I admire the commitment to bad decisions. It’s—it’s almost inspiring.”
She didn’t get time to snap back. He stuffed the balled fabric into her mouth — not rough, not cruel. Just certain. Like he’d meant to from the beginning.
Julie made a surprised noise so high it made him laugh.
“Yeah, chew on that,” he said, tone almost fond.
His hands resting on her shoulders now, he just took it in for a second. Took a big whiff of her hair.
“If you hate me now- just wait. I hav-haven’t even started.”
Julie’s pulse thrummed in her ears, fast and furious. The fabric in her mouth tasted like salt, herself, and the ghost of her own choices. She should’ve been furious. Should’ve twisted free, spat something cutting, reminded him she was never anyone’s plaything. But her body wasn’t listening. Her knees felt loose, her breath tight, and her skin burned under every place his hands had touched — and even the ones he hadn’t yet. She hated how much she wanted this. Hated how well he knew it.
Before she could sink deeper into the mess of her thoughts, the sound of his belt unbuckling cut through the air behind her — deliberate, unhurried. Instinctively, she tried to glance over her shoulder, but his hand was already in her hair, firm and unyielding, keeping her face turned toward the shelf, her breath brushing against a roll of scratchy industrial tissue. Then came the slow drag of fabric — her skirt lifted inch by inch — until the cold kissed the back of her thighs. The contrast made her shiver, nerves thrumming with a maddening blend of exposure and anticipation. She ached for his weight again, the heat of his body crowding into hers. Instead, she got silence, a few rustling movements she couldn’t quite place, and the steady, possessive pull of his fingers at her scalp. It was restraint — calculated, cruel, and devastating.

Then—without warning, without pause—he lined himself up and drove into her in one deep, unforgiving thrust. The force of it knocked the breath from her lungs, her gasp sharp and ragged as she scrambled to catch air. He didn’t give her time. His weight pressed in behind her, pinning her harder against the metal shelves than before. The sensation hit like a surge—overwhelming, brutal, perfect. Her knees buckled slightly, barely holding. Her body clenched around him, instinctively, helplessly.
“What’s this, Jules?” Rick murmured, voice low and biting as his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Oh-ho-ho—look at you now, Miss Big Bluff. What’s the matter, Jules? Cat got your tongue?"
All she could manage in return was a muffled blend of a curse and a whimper — swallowed by the fabric in her mouth, lost to the rustle of motion. Rick let out a low, breathy noise — half a moan, half a laugh — and began to move. Slow at first, almost mockingly smooth, like he was toying with her. Then faster. Relentless. A pace that felt more like punishment than pleasure — but made her crave it anyway.
When she tried to push back, to meet him and set her own rhythm, his hands clamped down on her hips — firm, unyielding. He kept control without faltering, never letting her steal a single beat.
He kept her there, letting her feel every inch, every motion — drawing it out until the friction and pressure blurred into something unbearable. Julie’s thoughts were a static haze, her body flushed and trembling under his hold.
And still, he didn’t let up.
Not until her muffled cries broke into something ragged and desperate. Not until her legs buckled beneath her and the shelves rattled in protest.
Only then did Rick ease up — just slightly — hands gentling on her skin, like he’d peeled away the sharp edges just for a moment.
He leaned in, breath hot at the nape of her neck. “Hey, hey, still with me?”
Julie let out something between a gasp and a laugh — dazed, half-feral. She nodded, or tried to.
Rick exhaled through a grin she couldn’t see. “G-good. You’ll need your legs in a minute.”

Then, without warning, he started again — slower this time, but deeper. More deliberate. Each thrust felt like punctuation, like a point he was driving in one wordless motion at a time.
Julie let out a muffled sound, something between relief and protest, as his hips rolled against hers with steady force. He wasn’t chasing release now — he was making her feel it. Drawing it out. Letting her squirm under the weight of it.
Only when he felt her legs begin to tremble did he let himself go fully. A low growl broke from his throat, all breath and grit, as his rhythm faltered — and then stilled again, this time with finality.
He stayed like that for a second, pressed tight against her, fingers dug in, forehead against her shoulder like he needed to ground himself. Then— he pulled out slow, dragging the heat of the moment with him, and let go of her hair last. Her head dropped forward as the makeshift gag slipped from her lips and hit the floor with a quiet sound.
For a beat, neither of them spoke. Just breathing. Just the echo of too many sensations crashing back down into silence.
Then Rick, almost casually, offered, “Wanna, uh—burp—wanna head back to the table?”
Julie turned her head, still bracing herself against the shelves. “Not until I can walk without looking like I lost a fight.”
Rick chuckled, zipping up. “You kinda did.”
“Asshole,” she muttered, breath still unsteady.
Rick kissed the back of her neck—slow, lazy, maddeningly smug. “You love it.”
Julie huffed, shifting enough to glance back at him over her shoulder. “I just won a straight flush and got railed in a janitor’s closet. I think that counts as a double win.”
Rick chuckled, zipping up with no real urgency. “You’re welcome on both fronts.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she straightened her skirt with a wince, stepped over the discarded gag on the floor, and gave him a smirk that was still catching its breath. “Come on. I’ve got chips to collect. And a six-armed woman who owes me a cocktail.”
Rick followed, raking a hand through his hair. “You think- they’re still playing?”
Julie grinned, lips crooked. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
They stepped out of the closet and back into the neon chaos of the casino—hair messy, pride intact, and Julie very much walking like she’d earned every damn credit in that pot.

Chapter Text

The garage was sweltering — not from any environmental factor, just pure mechanical spite. The fan on the ceiling had died somewhere between “almost working” and “definitely on fire.” Julie had stripped down to a tank top. Rick hadn’t changed clothes in three days and smelled like ambition and flux capacitor grease.
“Okay, what about this,” Julie said, yanking a heat-scored stabilizer out of a half-dismantled warp coil. “We hit that spaceport tomorrow, right?”
Rick didn’t look up from the tangle of wiring on his workbench. “Unfortunately.”
“We each get an hour. Whoever gets more free shit from strangers — drinks, data, favors, whatever — wins.”
Rick snorted. “Oh, that’s cute. You- you want to publicly humiliate yourself.”
She tossed the stabilizer at his feet. “Oh, I will. With style.”
That got his attention. He straightened, brushing his hands on a rag that was maybe once white.
“Fine. Loser does a -thing.”
“A thing,” Julie echoed. “Wow, that’s very legally binding.”
He smirked. “Loser has to call the winner by a t-title of their choosing. For forty-eight hours.”
Julie’s eyes narrowed. “Title?”
“Yep.” He leaned on the bench, casual. “I’m thinking something subtle. Like... BIG DICK RICK. Capital letters, full pronunciation. No sarcasm allowed.”
Julie stared at him. “You want me to affirm your delusions for two days?”
“Delu-? Sweetheart, they’re backed by empirical evidence.”
“Gross.” She crossed her arms. “If I win, you don’t get a title. You get a script. And you stick to it.”
Rick raised an eyebrow.
“Every time you talk to me,” she continued, “you start with: ‘You were right. I was wrong. You are extremely competent.’ No edits.”
Rick blinked slowly. "You’ve—you’ve been fantasizing about this, huh? Y-you dirty little control freak."
“I fantasize about a universe where you explode every time you open your mouth. This is a compromise.”
He tilted his head. “And what, we, we just march into a bar and seduce the l-locals with our 'sparkling' personalities?”
Julie grinned. “Well. I’ve got half of that equation.”
Rick rolled his eyes. "One hour. Winner takes title. Loser takes... brrp... existential shame."
They shook on it, her grip firm, his deliberately limp and sweaty.
As she turned to leave, Rick called after her, "Hey! Start brainstorming ways to make ‘Big Dick Rick’ sound natural in casual conversation, Julie!"
Julie didn’t even look back. “You’re gonna cry the first time you have to admit I was right.”

They stepped into the bar together, side by side but very pointedly not walking together.
Neon signs blinked warnings and drink specials in five languages, and the crowd was just rough enough to be interesting but not so rough they’d have to start stunning people immediately.
Rick scanned the room, already calculating odds. Julie just popped the collar of her jacket and let her expression settle into cool disdain.
“One hour,” Rick said, tapping his wristband. "One hour, clock’s ticking. N-no flirting with married diplomats, undercover agents, or—ngh—anyone I’ve already corrupted."
Julie didn’t blink. “If they defect, they weren’t yours to begin with.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No trading tech, either.”
She smirked. “No swapping favors for tech.”
Rick pointed at her. “And if you p-pretend to be a galactic orphan in need of credits again—”
“I will win again.”
He rolled his eyes, grumbling. “I’m still on a, on a fucking watchlist thanks to you.”
“You’re on twelve.”
“Unrelated.”
Julie tapped her wristband. “Also: winner gets full control of the garage playlist. No vetoes.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. “Even the Doofus- Drake remix you keep playing ironically?”
“Especially that.”
He snorted. “Fine. But you call me Big Dick Rick—while it’s playing.”
She grinned. “Captain Big Dick Rick?”
He looked offended. "Pick a lane, Julie. Don’t—don’t be a coward."
“Captain it is.”
“Let’s just see who’s still standing when the charm dust settles.” he said, unfazed.
They split up with the same energy two opposing storms might have when skimming opposite ends of a gas giant — no collision, just potential waiting to ignite.

An hour passed.

Julie was already leaning against the busted terminal when Rick got back, chewing on a piece of smuggled peppermint like it had personally offended her. She didn’t look up when he approached, just muttered, “You look smug. That worries me.”
Rick strolled in like he owned the damn spaceport. “You look threatened. That p-pleases me.”
Julie didn’t blink. “So? What’s your count?”
He made a noncommittal sound, part scoff, part hiccup. "Mmmyeah—l-let’s call it six and a half."
“Half?”
“One guy gave me a drink, then took it back when I told him my name. I figure emotional whiplash counts for something.”
Julie snorted. “Sure. I got seven.”
Rick blinked. “No way, no, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” He leaned in, eyes narrowing. "B-because I saw you, okay? I saw your route, Julie. Pilot’s lounge. Customs. That dumb comms guy with the bad mustache."
“You were watching me?”
“It’s called recon, Julie.”
“It’s called creepy.”
Rick opened his mouth to retort, but Julie cut him off, holding up a slim datachip between two fingers like a trophy.
“Holopass. Encryption key. Station override. One drink. One local security code. That dumbass tourist’s bank PIN. And—” she paused, milking it, “—a sanitation report classifying you as a Class-C biohazard. Which I’m counting as a gift.”
Silence. Rick squinted. "Did—did she have like—ngh—purple hair and a condescending vibe?"
Julie arched an eyebrow.
“I ran into her on the way out. She asked if all ‘Earth diplomats’ flirt like con artists.”
Rick froze.
“She also said her ‘arms dealer friend’ has terrible taste in aliases.”
A beat.
Julie smiled, slow and mean. “Next time you send Gregor ahead, maybe don’t let him wear your jacket.” Rick groaned softly. “Traitor. Fuck.”
“You cheated.”
“I enhanced my, my odds.”
“You called your arms dealer, Rick.”
“His name is Gregor and he’s very sensitive about the term ‘dealer'. He's a patriot, Julie.”
“Gregor gave you black-market ammo so you could win a bet?”
“He owed me! Technically it was a donation. For morale.”
Julie stepped in close. Not enough to touch, just enough to crowd. “You made this whole speech about how I ‘game the system,’ and you pulled strings like a bored god on meth.”
Rick didn’t back up. "Because I knew you’d gloat like this. Like a smug little—ngh—megalomaniac."
“I’m not gloating.”
“You’re b-basking.”
She paused, let it hang between them, then: “Say it, Rick.” He hesitated.
“Now.”
Rick sighed like it was physically painful. “You were right. I was wrong. You are ugh... extremely competent.”
Julie grinned. Actually grinned. “And?”
He scowled. “...Captain.”
She gave his shoulder a patronizing pat. “See? Growth.”
“If this is growth, I hope I never mature.”

The shuttle ride back was soaked in awkward silence, broken only by Julie’s victorious playlist—an aggressively curated mix of smug pop and space disco, cranked just loud enough to be unbearable.
Back home at the garage, Rick followed a step behind her, muttering under his breath. "Captain. Hah. W-what kind of narcissist—brrp—demands a rank in my garage…"
Julie kicked the door shut behind them. “You once made me refer to you as Galactic President of Big Dick Energy, so maybe sit this one out.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but then she turned around—slow, deliberate, arms still crossed—and looked at him like he was both a threat and an inconvenience.
Which, honestly, was fair.

“So,” she said. “Now that you're officially under my command…”
Rick lifted a brow. “You gonna, what, write me up for insubordination? Put me in- in time-out with the dangerous chemicals?”
Julie took a step closer. “Don’t tempt me. There’s a barrel in the back labeled ‘Definitely Not Acid’ I’ve had my eye on.”
“Sounds like foreplay.”
Julie smirked. “Before we get to that, transfer all voice activation admin rights to me.”
Rick blinked. “You want command access?”
“For forty-eight hours, yes. Full override. No whining.”
Rick folded his arms. "You said playlist, Julie. That’s it. That was the deal. You—brrp—you don’t get override control just ‘cause you’re smug and attractive and full of unholy ambition.”
Julie raised an eyebrow. “Coward.”
“Pragmatist,” he shot back, tapping his wristband. “There. Boom. You’ve got control over music selection. Don’t abuse it. Great responsibility and shit.”
She leaned in, voice low. “Oh, I will abuse the shit out of this, later.” She stopped inches in front of him, close enough to smell the faint ozone still clinging to his jacket and the burnt-sugar stench of some alien liqueur he definitely hadn’t paid for. Her voice dropped just slightly.
“So.”
“So”, he snorted.
“You cheated.”
“I innovated.”
Julie leaned in, not touching, just close enough to see the exact moment his pupils shifted, the precise beat where cockiness gave way to awareness.

She tilted her head. “You realize I could make you do anything for the next 48 hours, right?”
He smirked, but there was a hitch in the middle. “Yeah. But you won the title, not my free will. I’m bound by the wager. Not your f-fantasies.”
Julie hummed thoughtfully, then turned and called out, “Garage AI, register new command hierarchy.”
A mechanical chime sounded from the ceiling. “Awaiting administrator authorization.”
Rick’s head snapped around. "What the fuck—Julie, no, n-no no no, what are you—"
“Authorization override,” she said sweetly, “Captain Julie, temporary rank confirmed by verbal contract. Transfer full admin rights for forty-eight hours.”
The AI paused. “Override accepted.”
Rick stared. "You—you preloaded a f*cking verbal failsafe into my own AI!? That’s—that’s diabolical.... That’s..- impressive." Julie beamed. “You should really read the small print when you lose. Or at least not let me near your wristband when you’re asleep.”
Rick shook his head slowly, lips twitching despite himself. “You’re the worst, Julie.”
Julie winked. “And yet, you still underestimated me.” He muttered something under his breath—definitely an insult, maybe even in two languages—but there was a glint in his eye now. One part irritation, three parts admiration. She’d played him. And damn it, she’d done it well.
She cupped her ear. “What was that, Lieutenant Whines-a-Lot?”
Rick looked skyward, resigned. “You were right. I was wrong. You are extremely competent.”
“And?”
“…Captain.”
She grinned. “Good. Now take off your shirt.”

Rick blinked. “Ex- excuse me?”
“I want to see what a man looks like when he loses and lies about it.”
He rolled his eyes but complied, tugging the grimy coat off and yanking the shirt over his head in one smooth, irritated motion. “Wow, you are simple.”

“And you’re in my garage,” she reminded him. “Which means my rules.”
She shoved him back, firm but not cruel, until his back hit the edge of the workbench. The tools rattled. Neither of them looked.
Rick laughed low in his throat. “So, uh, what’s next, Captain?”
Julie leaned in, hands braced on either side of him. Her breath brushed his ear. “You shut up. I take control. And in the morning, you’ll tell me I’m extremely competent.”
His voice came tight, controlled. “You really want to m-mix command hierarchy with unresolved sexual—”
“—you’re still talking,” she said, cutting him off.
Then she kissed him. He grabbed her by the hips like he was claiming territory. She shoved his hands back down like she was issuing a correction. Somewhere in the background, a wrench fell off the bench.

Neither noticed.
Her hand slipped under his waistband like she had every right to be there—which, for the next 48 hours, she felt like she absolutely did. Rick let out a sharp breath through his nose, a low sound barely registering over the hum of the garage's machines.
“Tell me what I wanna hear,” Julie said, mouth hovering just above his.
Rick’s voice was a gravel scrape. “You were right. I was wrong. You are extremely—fuck—competent.”
Her hand tightened. “That didn’t sound very sincere, Rick.”
He groaned. “C-captain.”
“That’s better.” She smiled sweet and cruel, then sank to her knees.
Rick choked on a laugh. “Oh, so that’s the plan? You humiliate me into obedience?”
Julie tugged down his pants with unceremonious precision. “Plan? No. Just a happy side effect.”
He blinked. “That was- alarmingly efficient.”
She shrugged. “I’m a woman of many skills. You’re just finally noticing the relevant ones.”
Her mouth wrapped around him before he could fire back another line. The sharp reply curled in his throat and died somewhere behind his teeth. His hands gripped the edge of the workbench behind him like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to physics.
She was methodical, just a little mean about it—slow enough to tease, fast enough to ruin. Rick wasn’t used to silence, but all that came out were staggered breaths and the occasional strangled “Fuck, Julie—Captain—don’t stop.”
She didn’t. Not until his legs were shaking and the smug was nearly broken out of him.
When she finally pulled back, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb like it was an afterthought, Rick stared down at her like she was an alien species that had just kicked over his ego and set it on fire.
Julie stood, deliberately slow. “Still think you won that wager?”
“I'm—gonna need—like a minute,” he panted. “Or three. And maybe a nap.”
She grinned, pressed close. “No naps yet. I haven’t even gotten to the command chair part.”
“Oh-no, no,” Rick muttered. “There's props?”
“There’s protocol,” she corrected, walking him backward toward the ragged couch in the corner of the garage.
He stumbled onto it, barely catching himself as Julie climbed on top of him like she’d claimed salvage rights.
“Protocol says the captain always rides first,” she said, rolling her hips once, making him groan.
He dragged his hands up her thighs, expression somewhere between reverence and defeat. “Captain, I respectfully suggest we s- fuck- skip straight to the part where I’m stripped of all rank and bodily autonomy.”
Julie leaned down, voice a purr against his throat. “Permission denied.”
He groaned into her neck, biting down just enough to make her jolt.
"Faster, Captain?" he muttered, a taunt wrapped in obedience.
She didn’t answer — just reached back, grabbed a fistful of his coat, and yanked him in harder.
"You're not here to talk, Rick."
"Right. Talking bad. Being used by a woman with authority issues? Good."
"Less commentary," she said, voice tight, "more follow-through."
He grinned against her shoulder, fingers sliding up under her shirt, dragging calloused palms along her belly like he was trying to memorize her curves blind. Her breath hitched — not that she’d give him the satisfaction of noticing.
"Still taking notes, Captain," he whispered, letting the title linger in his mouth like smoke.
Julie reached back again, not gentle, and dug her nails into his hip. “You're lucky I don’t make you log this in the mission report.”
“Would- wouldn’t be the weirdest thing in there.”
“You think this earns you a commendation?”
He thrust again — sharp, deep. “More like a court martial.”
She half-laughed, half-moaned. "You wish."
He pressed a kiss just behind her ear, damp and hot. "Don't pretend you're not using me for s-stress relief."
She turned her head, breath heavy against his. "I’m using you because you’re useful."
"And hot."
"That too."
He nipped at her jaw. "You always this bossy after winning a bet?"
She smirked. “Only when I’m owed. And you owe me 48 hours, remember?”
Rick stilled — then slowly licked up the backside of her neck.
Julie just tilted her head back and said, breathless and smug: “Say it.”
He exhaled hard, skin flushed, hands flexing against her hips.
“…You were right. I was wrong. You are extremely competent. Captain.” With that, he slid his hands up, squeezing her breasts just firmly enough to tip the balance. The climax hit fast — a sharp, bright jolt that left her gasping, fingers digging into his legs as she rode it through. Rick followed with a stifled groan, head dropping back, body taut beneath hers.
For a moment, they just breathed — limbs tangled, heat slowly ebbing between them.
Julie was the first to speak, still a little breathless but far too smug.
“See? Obedience looks good on you.”
Rick cracked one eye open. “You say that like you’re done with me.”
She grinned, already leaning in again.
“Oh no,” she said, flopping back beside him with dramatic flair. “I’m just getting started, Big Prick Rick. But if we don’t hydrate and maybe realign a few vertebrae first, one of us is going to need actual medical assistance.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “D-define ‘one of us.’”
She tossed him a lazy smirk. “Whoever moaned louder.”
“…Unfair. You cheated.”
“And still won.” She tapped his chest with two fingers. “Captain’s orders: water first.”

Chapter Text

The room was a softbox of lazy smoke and secondhand incense. Julies bedroom lights were dimmed to a vague pink glow. The air was warm, thick, and tasted like strawberry cough and old popcorn.
Rick exhaled a long plume of smoke and flopped backward onto her bed, staring blankly at the third anime intro in a row. “Ughhh—urp—Jesus, Julie, if I gotta watch one more baby-faced—chosen-chosen jackass wake up in a medieval outhouse with a f-fuckin’ glowing HUD over his face, I—I’m gonna root for the demon king just outta spite.”
Julie didn’t even look at him. She was curled up at the foot of the bed, eyes glued to the screen, her mouth slightly open in cartoon wonder. “Shh. This is the one where the sentient sword gets a redemption arc. It’s good.”
Rick squinted. “It’s—it’s the same as the last one, Julie. Just with, like, fancier elf-ass ears and—and violin music. You’re hooked ‘cause your dopamine receptors are suckers for pixel cloaks and tragic haircuts.”
Julie shrugged, not denying it. “There’s something soothing about it, okay? Just... systems and magic and rules and like, everyone has a role. You do quests. Level up. You get a cloak.”
She took another hit, holding it in before speaking again, dreamy. “God, I want a cloak.”
Rick made a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “That’s what you’re taking away from this? ‘Fuck realism, I want my elf fashion era’?”
Julie turned her head toward him, eyes glassy, a lazy grin pulling at her lips. “Yes. Cloaks. And like, cool boots that make you float, and a dagger that drinks memories, and—wait, pointy ears. I want pointy ears. Just for a day.”
Rick raised an eyebrow, tapping ash into a teacup that definitely wasn’t an ashtray but had stopped trying to argue about it. “You... You realize, Julie, I could literally—urp—code a full immersion dungeon sim with actual sensory integration in like—snort—fifteen minutes. Ten if I skip the OSHA stuff.”
Julie sat up a little too fast, eyes wide. “Wait. For real?”
He side-eyed her. “I mean, y-yeah. Obviously. We did s-something like that for Evangelion, remember?”
Julie stared at him like he’d just offered her a unicorn on layaway. “Rick. We have to go there.”
Rick rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Oh no, Julie. Don’t give me that look. You’re about to make this into a whole thing, aren’t you.”
Julie leaned in, poking him in the chest. “You offered. Don’t start acting above this now. I want cute pointy ears. I want a dramatic entrance. And I want a magic cloak that flutters even when there’s no wind.”
Rick sighed. “You’re so fucking lucky I’m high enough to think that sounds hilarious.”
He sat up, hair mussed, stinking faintly of weed and solder. “Alright. Gimme an hour, and I’ll have you sword-fighting anime skeletons in some overpriced sim-world knockoff. But you will have to beg for the cape.”
Julie grinned, eyes gleaming. “Noted.”

It hadn’t even been twenty minutes before Rick barged back into Julie’s room, looking smug and slightly singed, holding something that looked like a cross between a VR headset, a carnival prize, and a portable car battery.
“Suit up, Cloak Girl. Your d-discount anime fever dream awaits.”
Julie blinked up at him from the bed, where she had sunk even further into a pile of discarded clothes. “Already?”
Rick scoffed. “Please. I made a pocket reality with a randomized encounter system and stat progression scaffolding back when you were still sorting your paintbrushes, Julie. All I did was slap a themed overlay on it and gut the safety filters.”
Julie perked up at that. “Wait, what safety filters?”
“Relax. You can’t die, though it might hurt” he said, tossing her what looked like a wireless neural linker. “Alright, ground rules—quick and dirty. Simulation. NPCs act like they’re s-supposed to. Monsters follow -brpp- combat mechanics. You’ve got stats, a level bar, cooldowns. And yes, yes, your boobs jiggle when you run. I didn’t program that, blame the genre standards.”
Julie grinned like a kid on Christmas morning and clipped the device behind her ear. “And I get elf ears?”
Rick already had his own neural interface in place, planting himself back on her bed. “... And dopamine hits every time you loot a shiny rock. My treat.”
She was already climbing to her feet. “I want to be a rogue. With a hood. And tiny throwing knives. And maybe like... stupidly high agility.”
Rick’s voice was already fading into reverb as the sim booted up. “Of c-course you do.”

[Simulation: Initial Load — Isekai Class Selection Hub]
The world formed around them like a dream made from pixelated watercolor. They stood in a high fantasy tavern suspended on a floating island, glowing with floating mana crystals and glitched-out butterflies. A glowing UI hovered in the air between them, listing class options in overly dramatic fonts while some NPCs around them found their way of looking busy.
A disembodied, overly chipper announcer’s voice echoed above them:
“Welcome, brave heroes! Choose your destiny, forge your path, and become the legend this realm so desperately needs!”
Julie immediately dashed toward a menu shaped like a spellbook.
CLASS: Shadowthorn Rogue
RACE: Wood Elf
Bonus Perks: +15% Sneak, +10 Charm vs. Idiots, Dual Dagger Proficiency, Passive: Smug Smirk
She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. That one. Look at the smirk stat. This game knows me.”
Rick, meanwhile, stood off to the side, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Wow. B-bold to pick the most basic bitch race in the genre, Julie.”
“Excuse me—graceful, stealthy, deadly... also, I get to wear a hood and smirk at people. I’m going rogue-fighter hybrid.”
“Hot Topic Legolas -bbbrp- Got it.”
She flipped him off without breaking eye contact. “So what will you pick? Lemme guess—mad scientist with a secret mecha form?”
Meanwhile, Rick had already started customizing his character with almost no fanfare. His class: Potionpunk Engineer. Race: Human. Though, judging by the debug icons blinking in his HUD, it clearly wasn’t a standard Human.
“Seriously?” Julie asked, peeking over his shoulder. “You go... Human?”

“Modded Human,” he corrected. “Optimized stats, unlocked, uh, perk tree, no level cap, aaand I gave myself a passive that let me throw up to five concoctions per turn without c-cooldown. Also—” he twisted a dial, “—everything I throw has a 12% chance to explode extra for no reason. I call it ‘Oops All Acid Mode.’”
Julie blinked. “You’re the reason patch notes exist.”
“Yeah, and they still couldn’t fucking nerf me.”
With a sudden chime, the UI finalized their selections. Julie now wore a sleek set of dark leather armor that looked like it had been designed by a horny dungeon master on two hours of sleep—strategically strapped, barely covering anything vital, and somehow offering zero practical protection. Her cleavage alone looked like it had its own jiggle physics engine, and every step she took in her absurdly tall heeled boots felt like an ankle sprain waiting to happen. Twin curved elven daggers hung from both hips, a bow slung across her back. Her ears—very pointy. She admired them in a ghostly mirror panel, visibly delighted.
Rick gave her one long, unimpressed look. “Wow. Subtle, Julie. You planning to kill goblins or give ‘em all nosebleeds?”
Julie grinned. “Hey, not my fault this game thinks 'stealth' means ‘battle lingerie and tit physics.’”
Rick, meanwhile, looked like he’d gotten drunk in a potion shop and rolled around in leftover copper wiring. Beakers clinked from a leather harness strapped across his chest, and a steam-powered gauntlet hissed and pulsed on his left arm. He snorted, adjusting a beaker in his harness. “Yeah, well, just don’t trip over your fuck-me boots before we hit level two.”
Julie arched an eyebrow, slowly turning to face him with a smirk. “Jealous? Sorry you didn’t pick ‘Slutty Technomancer’ when you had the chance.”
Rick scoffed. “Of what? The scoliosis from those boots? Hard pass.”
Before she could fire back, the ambient music in the tavern dimmed, replaced by a deep, dramatic orchestral swell. A glittering !"!"QUEST AVAILABLE!"! prompt flashed in the air in front of them, complete with fake sparkles and a parchment-style UI overlay.
Julie read it aloud:
“Trouble at Tanglewood Hollow — investigate the mysterious disappearances plaguing a nearby village. Reward: XP, gold, gear, and one (1) hot blacksmith.”
She glanced sideways. “That last part better be gender-neutral.”
Rick rolled his neck with a mechanical click. “Whatever gets you to stop narrating. Let's go, Jules.”
Julie twirled one of her daggers theatrically, then immediately caught the heel of her impractical boot on the floorboard. She stumbled, recovered, and shot him a look.
Rick raised both hands, mock-innocent. “Didn’t say I told you so. But I thought it very loudly, Julie. Clearly.”
She flipped him off and marched toward the tavern door, hips swaying like the physics engine had a grudge.
The next few hours blurred into something strange — part fever dream, part co-op campaign. They didn’t talk about how long they’d stay in the sim. They just kept going.

Their first quest dropped them into a foggy forest village straight out of a beginner’s D&D module. Tanglewood Hollow had crooked timber homes and melodramatic NPCs. The baker wept flour. The mayor monologued to the sky.
Julie played along just enough, crouching by the baker’s cart like a detective. “And you’re sure the livestock disappeared before the children?” Rick said almost nothing before accidentally seducing the mayor with a cave question and a threatening vial click.
The trail led to a cave with a fake-looking lock.
Inside: goblins. Low-level, badly textured. Julie dove in mid-roll, blades flashing. “I CALL THE GOLD,” she shouted.
Rick lobbed a flask that made one goblin think it was a goat — before it exploded into pixels. “You’re welcome -brrp-, Julie.”
Julie grinned, eyes bright. “I think I’m thriving.”
They didn’t rest. The next quest hit right after: boars in a grove. Retrieve tusks, clear infestation. Classic filler.
Julie tried taming one by whispering to it in Elvish. Rick jabbed his with something experimental. One boar sprinted off like a missile. Julie got flattened laughing. Rick got gored and claimed he was “totally fine” while bleeding HP.
The final boss — named Gary, inexplicably — stood ten feet tall in cart-part armor. Julie took a tusk to the ribs. Rick screamed her name in slow-mo and dropped his entire belt of vials in a last-ditch move. Smoke curled from Gary’s helmet.
On the limp back to the NPC, they exchanged glances that meant ‘ow’ and ‘worth it.’
The third quest took them underground — collapsed tunnels, heat signatures, a mine that didn’t want to stay standing. Julie moved like she’d done this in another life. Rick followed less gracefully, shorted a gauntlet, caused a rockslide.
She caught him with a grapple arrow: “You’re not allowed to explode before I do.”
“Pretty sure I added a failsafe… a Failsafe, Julie,” he muttered, seconds before saving her from a triggered booby-trap.
They collapsed by the mine’s edge. She was first to laugh. “Okay, but you’re weirdly into this.” He didn’t deny it.
They played until the sim sky dipped into velvet dusk. Bruised, leveled-up, covered in blood and potion residue, they camped in a burned-out tavern. Julie lit the fire by hand — no magic.
Rick didn’t say anything.
They shared a skewer of possibly-boar. It tasted like campfire and bristles. Julie pulled off her boots, muttering about “fantasy ergonomics” and “war crimes in leatherwork.” Her armor had a long gash on one thigh. She hadn’t noticed.
Rick poked the fire aimlessly.
Julie glanced over. “So. Thanks for… y’know. Today.”
He took a swig from his flask, winced. “Don’t thank me yet, Jules. We haven’t hit the, uh, tragic backstory zone.”
Julie smirked. “You’re such a dick.”

“Statistically? Most of the time.”
She stretched out with a sigh. “Still. You didn’t have to drag me into a fantasy sim just ‘cause I said I liked elf ears while high.”
He made a face. “Don’t make it sentimental. I was just bored.”
Julie’s voice softened. “Still counts.” He didn’t answer.
“Also, thanks for not letting me get skewered by Gary the rage-boar.”
“Gary was a little bitch.”
They chewed in silence. The fire flickered blue. Stars glitched, then reset. Julie rolled her eyes. “Your sim’s wobbly.”
Rick chuckled. “Yeah? So are your tits in that armor.”
She smiled, sleepy-eyed. “Yeah, but mine are intentional.”
That got a real laugh. “They do look good. Not gonna lie.”
The fire crackled lower, casting lazy shadows over the ruined tavern walls. Somewhere above them, the glitching stars corrected themselves again, shimmering into place with algorithmic precision. Julie’s breathing had slowed. Rick leaned back on his elbows, eyes scanning the warped sky like he was waiting for something to crash through it.
Then—
PING.
A soft chime echoed in the air. Another quest prompt blinked into existence above the firepit, parchment-textured and flickering faintly:
!"!SIDE QUEST UNLOCKED: ‘Wet & Well-rested"!
Location Discovered: Forgotten Spring of Emberdeep
Objective: Investigate the subterranean geothermal site rumored to have restorative properties.
Reward: ???
Julie sat up, squinting. “…That wasn’t on the board earlier.”
Rick frowned. “Wasn’t – was not supposed to trigger yet. You must’ve hit a hidden flag. Probably from not dying to Gary.”
She gave him a look. “You wrote a surprise hot spring quest and called it ‘Wet & Well-rested’? That’s porn logic.”
“Technically I just borrowed the template, Julie. It was originally in a romance event chain.” He paused, then added dryly, “I might’ve… left in some of the, uh, …the atmosphere parameters.”
Julie raised a brow, amused. “Atmosphere?” Rick didn’t answer, but his ears flushed a tiny bit red beneath the grime. She grinned. “Lead the way, dungeon master.”

The cave twisted downward, lit only by faint phosphorescent moss and the occasional rune-etched torch. The air grew warmer, heavier. Somewhere below, water whispered.
They stepped into a vast cavern, steam rising from a spring ringed with obsidian and glowing lichen. The water shimmered deep teal, shot through with threads of gold.
Julie paused at the edge, steam curling around her. “Okay… this is actually kind of beautiful.”
Rick smirked. “Bit of ambient lighting. Some steamy diffusion. Moody, right, Julie?”
“You built a romantic cave.”
“I prefer, uh, ‘environmental storytelling.’”
Julie snorted and peeled off her damp armor. “So what’s the water do? Healing aura? Magic whispers?”
“Minor regen. Warms the body, calms the nerves. Maybe a few… extras.”
She slid in with a contented sigh. “Extras, huh?”
Rick stripped down and sat at the edge. “Nothing bad. Just a hot spring. With atmosphere.”
Julie gave him a look — part amused, part suspicious. “Right. ‘Atmosphere.’”
“What? I can be thoughtful. Come on.”
He slipped into the water across from her, hissing as the heat hit. She leaned back, eyes closed, letting the warmth undo the day.
The cavern murmured around them — steam, drips, the gentle swirl of water. Julie let herself float, tension bleeding from her limbs.
Rick broke the silence, a little awkward. “So… y-you like it?”
She cracked one eye. “You’re not usually this interested in my opinion. Ego take a hit?”
He looked away. “Wha—No, I just... I liked putting it together, okay? Water’s good for the joints, the psyche, and—urp—the vibes.”
His flush deepened — not entirely from the heat.
Julie smiled faintly, drifting closer. “You’re getting sentimental on me.”
“Professional,” he muttered. “Purely medicinal, Jules.”
“Sure,” she said, letting the water carry her “Just like the fat blunt we smoked before coming here.”
They floated quietly for a while. Julie traced lazy circles on the surface, eyes half-lidded, hair fanned out like ink in the water. Eventually, she leaned just close enough to be heard.
“You did good. I like it.”
Rick blinked — caught off guard — then reached out, gently resting his hand on her head.
She giggled softly, totally relaxed. “We should do this more often.”
Rick exhaled, sinking deeper.
His gaze drifted toward her, admiring. The curve of her body shimmered just above the surface — surreal in the low light.
“No staring, creep,” Julie said without looking.
Then, after a beat: “Or do. I’m too cozy to stop you right now.”
She let her voice rise just enough to break the calm.
“You gonna keep ogling,” she said, “or are you planning to make yourself useful?”
Rick smirked, eyes still half closed. “Define useful, sweetheart. I’m currently contributing to the heat and the mood.”
A dry snort left her. “Is that what you call staring like you’re calculating trajectory?”
“To be fair, Jules,” he replied, drawing out the words, “g-gravity is doing amazing work right now.”
She reached out to splash him — not with any real force, just enough to make a point. The water hit his shoulder and slid off like it didn’t dare disturb him. He didn’t flinch. Just let it happen, eyes still on her.
“And yet,” he said, letting his gaze linger, “here you are. V-voluntarily. In my hot spring. Naked.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Bit late for that.”
Her eyes flicked toward him, caught the slight shift — the lazy humor still there, but laced now with something slower, heavier. He didn’t press. Just let the quiet stretch between them, as warm and close as the steam curling off the water.
“You always talk this much when you want something,” she murmured.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into something lower, quieter. “Only- only when I think I might actually get it, Jules.”
Their fingers brushed under the surface — a slow, accidental touch that neither of them corrected. A flicker of tension passed through her chest. Not the bad kind.
“You’re not gonna ask?”
“Nope,” he said, still watching her. “Not unless you tell m-me to.”
She studied him. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t push. Just waited, like he already knew the answer.
“That’s new,” she said.
“Told you. Big Mood.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of the cave — the drip of mineral water, the hush of steam escaping stone. Then, with the same lazy ease she’d moved all evening, Julie shifted through the water and settled herself in his lap. Skin met skin. The spring rippled around them like it too was catching its breath.
She leaned in close, lips grazing just shy of his ear — not quite a kiss, more like a promise waiting to be spoken.
“I don’t think this is gravity,” she murmured. “I think you planned this.”
Rick let out a low chuckle, voice rough at the edges, like gravel beneath silk. His hands began their slow exploration — gliding over her thighs, skimming her hips, tracing the curve of her lower back. No rush. Just touch, steady and warm.
“Bold accusation,” he said. “You t-think I’m that clever and that horny, Jules?”
Julie grinned, lazy and dangerous. “You coded this whole damn spring with your dick in your hand, didn’t you?”
“Hey, it’s called romance, alright?” he said, mock-offended. “M-my dick had absolutely nothing to do with it. This was pure science, Jules. E-elegant architecture. Emotional geometry. Seduction calculus, b-baby.” She could clearly feel the opposite, just pushing against her lower belly.
His smile softened the edges of his face, the creases beside his eyes folding with affection — even as his gaze stayed fixed on the way water beaded and shimmered across her skin. Her wet hair stuck to her skin, fanned out like a cape. He chuckled at that thought.
“Oh really? What, you got your PhD in seduction from Stanford? Is that why you will not shut up about pheromones?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with playful arrogance. “W-worked on you, didn’t it?”
His hands moved again, slower now, drawing a path up her sides. Fingers splayed wide over her ribs, then higher, until his palms cupped her breasts — not demanding, just there, heavy and warm, squeezing with the same lazy confidence in his voice.
“Nah,” she murmured, eyes locked with his, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You hooked me with the travel perks, then reeled me in with the massive…” Her hips shifted slowly, deliberately, guiding him to her entrance with nothing but the pressure of her anatomy. “…salary.”
Rick’s breath caught — just a hitch — before he recovered with a crooked grin.
“Y-yeah, well… I only hire top-tier, elite-level p-pussy.” He paused. “Professionals! I meant professionals. F-fuck.” He leaned back slightly, hands settling at her waist. “A-and just so you know… this totally qualifies as paid vacation. So d-don’t come crying to HR when your PTO request gets f-fucking denied.”
With that, his hands tightened just enough around her hips to guide her down — slow, deliberate, unyielding — until she took all of him in.
She drew in a sharp breath through her teeth, her fingers digging into his shoulders, steadying herself as her body adjusted around him. For a long, quiet moment, they didn’t move. Just the sound of water lapping gently around them, and the shared heat between their bodies.
Then, almost absently, she braced a hand against his chest — and only then did her hips begin to move. Unhurried. Rolling. Like the current itself had taken hold of her. The water mirrored their rhythm, small ripples tracing outwards, as if the spring itself had started to breathe with them.
They took their sweet time — simply enjoying one another. The warmth. The water. The slow, steady motion of their bodies moving in sync. Every now and then, a quiet breath or soft moan escaped them, until Julie let out a sudden laugh, bright and unfiltered, echoing off the cave walls like a secret set free.
Rick grinned at the sound — took it as a challenge.
He shifted, closing the space between them, wrapping his arms around her with mischievous intent. His hands found her butt— and with a sudden push, he began to glide them both toward the deeper end of the spring.
“W–what, Rick? Wait—?” she gasped, laughing through her surprise, gripping his shoulders for balance.
“Shh. It’s alright,” he murmured, calm and steady. “Just… m-moving a bit.”
He held her securely as he waded forward, the water rising higher around them. Just a few steps more, and he turned them through a hidden gap in the waterfall — the sound cascading behind them like a veil being drawn closed.
On the other side, silence bloomed.
The cave opened up into a hidden chamber, glowing with an ethereal shimmer. Fluorescent flora clung to the walls, glowing in hues of violet and soft blue. Tiny specks of light floated lazily through the air between them — like glitter suspended in time, pulsing faintly, breathing with them. Steam drifted softly just above the water’s surface, and the air under the falls was crisp, pure — like the whole place had been preserved for this one moment.
Rick guided her gently onto a smooth stone ledge beneath the surface, one that curved around her body a little too perfectly to be natural.
Julie shot him a look — knowing, amused. “You do realize I would’ve slept with you in the lesser cave and still had a great time, right?”
Rick gave a mock-offended scoff. “Julie, I’m honestly hurt you didn’t check behind the waterfall. That’s like, like Video Game 101. Come on. Who the hell do you think you're sleeping with?”
“You vain, old man,” she muttered fondly, settling into his arms, letting her eyes wander over the glowing flora around them. After a pause, her voice softened.
“…It’s beautiful, Rick. Thank you.”,
"Hmm... Better than coffee?" he murmured, still holding her close.
"Not even up for debate," she replied with a smirk, her hands already wandering lower, searching for his warmth again. "Now—where were we?"
Rick exhaled softly, her touch sending a shiver down his spine. "God, fuck, I love your brain," he hummed, pressing into her hands without hesitation.

When he slid back into her, Julie exhaled a quiet, shuddering sigh, her face barely clearing his shoulder.
“You make such- such pretty sounds, Julie.” he murmured, voice low with amusement and want. His hand trailed slowly from her thigh to the curve of her elongated ear, giving it the gentlest press—just enough to make her shiver. Then, his thumb found her lips. He traced them once, then slipped it between them, resting it where teeth met flesh.
“Go on,” he whispered against her cheek, breath warm. “Don’t hold back now.”
And then he began to move. And Julie did as told, her voice lost in the heavy, humid air—muffled by the rush of the waterfall and the glow-drenched silence of the hidden cave. He thrust into her, not letting her lips go once, listening intently to the little shivers, highs and low of her voice.
When he felt her nearing the edge, he lifted her slightly—just enough to let her take him in fully, completely.
Her hands clutched at his back now, fingertips digging into his skin, her breath catching on the brink—before she unravelled around him with a quiet cry. He held her close as it washed over her, grounding her, then followed—drawn under by the heat, the rhythm, the overwhelming nearness of her.
For a long while, they didn’t speak. Just stayed there, wrapped around each other, chests heaving, foreheads resting against damp skin—breathing, still trembling in the afterglow.

"You… You keep fucking me like this and I’ll end up saying something I’ll really regret," she murmured into his shoulder, her voice half-lost in the haze of breath and heat.
He let out a low chuckle, shifting just slightly to better support her weight.
"Y-yeah? Like what?"
But when she lifted her head to meet his gaze, the air between them changed. Her eyes—wide, startled—held something fragile. Not playfulness. Not sarcasm.
Something closer to panic.
“…Julie? Jules?” His smile faded. “Hey. You okay?”
Her hands clung to his shoulders now, trembling. Her pupils were blown wide, breath coming faster.
“R-Rick, what the fuck did you put in the water?” Her voice was high, tight with rising fear. Her skin, flushed—face, chest, even her comically long ears—like her body didn’t know if it was overheating or shutting down.
“I- I think I need to get outta here. Yeah. Out. NOW.”
She started to shift on his lap, trying to scramble away, but he gently lifted her, guiding her back onto the ledge without letting go of her hand.
“Okay, okay. You’re alright, you’re Alright, Jules. Just breathe.” His tone never wavered—low, calm, steady.
“I need— I nngh…. I can’t breathe, I— I want OUT. N-Now, Rick, P L E A S E.”
Her head whipped around, eyes darting, as if searching for an escape, a door, a wall, something real to hold onto.
“Julie. Hey—Shh. It’s okay. I hear you.”
He squeezed her hand gently, trying to anchor her. “It’s just a sim- simulation. We’re getting out. I’ve g-got you.”
His other hand was already tapping the command into his wristband. “Just stay with me. Five seconds. That’s all it t-takes, okay? Ready?”
Before she could even think of an answer, the simulation dissolved around them.
And then—
She was back. The familiar gravity of her own body pressed against the mattress. The cool, dry air of her apartment kissed her skin. The blanket beneath her fingers—soft, worn, real—anchored her better than anything else could right now.
Her hands fisted the fabric automatically, like her body remembered what to do even if her mind hadn’t caught up. There was still a low hum in her ears, like the world was trying to muffle itself. Her chest was tight, knotted up like it had forgotten how to breathe the right way. Not quite gasping, but not okay either. She blinked, eyes darting from corner to corner of the room, as if needing to see everything to believe it was really there.
And -Rick.
He was there, sitting quietly beside the bed, still holding her hand. Not saying anything. Not pushing. Just there.
His face was drawn, worry plain in his eyes—but not fear. Not frustration. No judgment. And for some reason, that only made it worse. Or maybe better. She couldn’t tell. Her throat tightened painfully, and heat prickled behind her eyes before she could stop it.
No. No no no, not now.
But the sob came anyway, sharp and sudden. A quiet whimper at first, then another, rising up in her chest and breaking out of her like it had waited years. She turned her face away, angry at herself for it—not the ugly cry, not here, not in front of him—but it was too late. Her body had already made the call. She trembled once, then again, and her breath hitched on the way out.
Rick was still there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, hand still loosely wrapped around hers. He didn’t grip—just kept that slight pressure, like a reminder. I'm here. No rush.
Julie blinked back the wet blur in her vision, focused on the fabric under her palm, the rhythm of her breathing, still shaky but no longer spiraling. The room stopped spinning like a broken simulation. The ceiling. The dusty fairy lights. The shelf with her clutter. Rick.
“Sorry,” she whispered, her voice raw.
“Don’t b-be,” he said quietly. Like someone trying not to spook a wild animal. “You’re o-okay. You’re right here.”
A beat of silence. Then another.
“…I haven’t had one of those in a while,” she said eventually, voice small and almost embarrassed. “Didn’t… see it coming.”
Rick didn’t say anything right away. His thumb was still moving, tracing slow, aimless patterns over her knuckles. Then:
“Yeah. I figured,” he said softly. “You looked more annoyed than scared.”
She let out a broken huff—something between a laugh and a sigh.
“Yeah, well. They don’t exactly send a meeting request ahead of time.”
Another breath. “God. That was—fucking humiliating.”
Rick finally looked down at her, brow furrowed. “Julie. You just had a panic attack, not a wardrobe malfunction at a p-press event. You’re ok now.”
“You didn’t see the inside of my head,” she mumbled, dragging the blanket closer to her chest. “I didn’t even know what I was reacting to.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He paused. “I mean… -brrp- it does, but not in the way you think. You don’t owe me an explanation, Julie.”
That quiet stretched again—comfortable this time. Familiar. Julie didn’t let go of his hand.
“I wasn’t sure if… uh, being here would help or make it worse,” he added softly, glancing at her. “I stayed because I didn’t want to leave you alone. But if you want space, just say the word and I’ll be gone in no time.” She looked at him, eyes tired but more focused now. Then, hoarse:
“If you leave the room right now, I might actually lose it.”
Rick smiled, but it was soft. A breath of relief under it. “G-got it. Staying put. No sudden movements.”
Julie pulled the blanket higher, curling into it, and leaned just a little into his side. Not quite a cuddle—just contact.
“…Thanks,” she muttered. “For getting us out. For… not making it weird.”
“You kidding? You cried on me. I’m emotionally imprinted now, Jules. I’m yours forever.”
“... Too soon, Rick.”, the look she gave him warned him to not take it further.
He exhaled, stopping a second, but then, finally, relaxing a little. “Want tea? Water? Another blanket?”
“…All of the above. And maybe… don’t let me log back in until I’ve slept for at least ten hours and sobered up.”
“You g- got it. Doctor’s orders.”
Julie didn’t say much after that, and she didn’t have to. She leaned against him in quiet companionship, the kind that said I’m still here without needing to be brave about it. Rick stayed close, just enough to be there if she needed him, just enough not to crowd her.
Eventually, they moved. Tea was made. A second blanket appeared, and Julie cocooned herself in it like a small, recovering animal. Rick sat cross-legged on the bed next to her, scrolling absentmindedly through menus on his wristband, not really looking at anything.
“Note to future selves,” she muttered eventually, voice gravel-soft but dry again. “No more weed before going into simulations.”
“Agreed,” he said solemnly. “It does make you a bit p-paranoid.”
She let out a small laugh—real this time.
“Still…” Her fingers toyed with the edge of her mug. “I kinda want to go back. To the cave, I mean. Just—less high. Fewer glowing plants trying to emotionally ambush me.”
Rick looked over at her. “I’d like that. It was a good cave, right? Very romantic, Julie. Five stars. Wonder who the genius behind the programming was.”
“God, shut up,” she groaned, but the way her eyes softened said don’t.
They stayed up a little longer, talking about everything and nothing—favourite movie snacks, weird side effects of cannabinoids, whether or not the glowing cave plants had been too on the nose. Eventually, Julie stretched out across the bed, and Rick ended up next to her, shoes off, distracted by the TV.
Julie didn’t watch. She just listened—to the tinny voices on screen, the hum of the projector, the quiet rhythm of Rick’s breathing beside her.
She shifted once, tugging the blanket higher, and her foot brushed against his. He didn’t move away.
“Rick?”
“Hm?”
“…Thanks. Again.”
His answer came slower this time, voice softer. “It’s all g-good, Jules.”
The screen kept flickering in the background, long after neither of them was really paying attention. At some point, Julie’s hand found his under the covers—an absentminded reach more than anything else. Rick didn’t say a word, just let their fingers stay there.
And eventually, with the tea half-drunk and the world quiet again, they both drifted off.