A House In Nebraska

A House in Nebraska

pairing: frank castle x f!reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: gore, violence, minor character death, amy bendix (lol), language, angst!!, eventual smut

summary: He was afraid of you. Afraid that you had made up your mind and had enough of him, that this was the final straw. But the worst thing, he decided, was the possibility that this, that he, was enough for you—that you would pledge your loyalty to a man like him. To a life like this.

a/n: hey! I’ve been sitting on this idea for months and finally ready to work on it :) this will definitely be a two-parter(maybe more), but I’m selfishly enjoying this little AU loosely following season 2!!!!

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comments/reblogs/likes are so appreciated, I love to hear your thoughts <3

“So… how did you guys meet?” “Stay still.” The strong stench of rubbing alcohol burned your nostrils as you leaned over, her foot tapping mindlessly beneath her crossed legs. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Amy,” you interrupted, her blue eyes baring right back into yours. “If you want me to paint your nails, sit still.” She huffed at that. You were used to it by now, never taking her attitude personally because being sixteen was hard enough, so you paid no mind. It was almost reminiscent, a painful familiarity with the way she embodied your sister, but you chose to forget the feeling like your life depended on it. In a way, it did.

Her nail disappeared beneath a glossy black polish, the surrounding skin also falling victim to an unsteady hand. She let out a sigh and continued to count the number of stripes on her socks.

“We met in Nebraska.” “Nebraska?” She sounded disgusted, and the small room filled with laughter. “What the hell is in Nebraska?” “Absolutely nothing.”

Ghosts. Distant memories. Everything was in Nebraska.

It’s where he found you, hiding as some housekeeper in a shitty motel. You were both running from things neither of you cared to talk about while sober, so you didn’t, but he kept looking for reasons to come back.

He blamed it on the esteemed breakfast, a vending machine honeybun, but you saw through him like he was an apparition haunting your strained heartstrings.

Come with me, he asked. Where to? You didn’t really care.

You were in too deep by the time you made it to Michigan—you both were, and yet neither one of you would admit it. There was something sacred about the secrecy and inability to label what you both knew was love, or something like that; it was too precious, and you avoided any chance at jinxing it.

“But you two are together, though, right?” Amy was obsessed with knowing everything. You think it’s her way of pretending that everything was fine. Fine.

“No.” “Oh.” She straightened a bit, and you didn’t miss the way her brows furrowed. “That disappoint you?” “A little.” “Good,” you smirked. “You’re too nosey.” “I call it a healthy amount of curious.” Her back hunched again, and she watched the way your eyebrows scrunched over her fingers. “You guys are shit at hiding it, anyway.” You chuckled at that, manually manipulating her hand to inspect your work. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh come on,” she says matter-of-factly. “You guys fuck.” “Amy!” You could feel your eyes bulging from their sockets. “I knew it!” She clapped her hands before jumping from the mattress. “You don’t know anything.” “Oh come on,” she searched your face, expecting to find any confirmation to her assumptions, instead finding your lack of eye contact disappointing. “Not even once?” “No,” you lied. “Happy?” “Not really.”

The mattress failed to hide the sound of her disappointment as she threw her body onto the spare bed. You allowed yourself to find amusement in her attitude long enough to sift through a dirty duffel bag, keeping your mind occupied with something other than Frank’s absence.

Gaining Amy meant losing Frank. Hour by hour, piece by piece, chunk of flesh by chunk of flesh. The waiting never grew easier, but you adjusted, just like you always do, ending up in motels that smelled like damp polyester and cigarettes.

“I’m starving,” she groaned, pulling you from your thoughts. “We’ll get something soon.” Your stomach gurgled in agreement.

Static crackled throughout the room, momentarily stunning you, before being replaced by a weather report.

High of 89 today with an 80 percent chance of rain, folks! Grab an umbrella and stay dry!

You laughed to yourself at that—stay dry—like you ever left those shitty rooms.

It was bittersweet with Amy. You missed the sun. You missed the late night diner runs. You missed waking up to forehead kisses and soft touches. You missed the easiness of it all, pretending to be two normal people that had two normal lives, and now you were confined to a room that reeked of nail polish and gunpowder. A prisoner and caretaker.

“What do you want for dinner?” you asked, attempting to lighten the mood. “Huh?” “Dinner,” you stated. “I’ll go when—“ A knock at the door ended your conversation. “Amy,” you locked eyes with her, “get in the closet.” Your voice dropped to a whisper as you pointed the gun towards the door. “No, it’s fine!“ She practically leapt from the cheap mattress. “Closet. Now.” Your arm aches almost as much as your stomach as Amy reaches for the door handle. She was so far away, it seemed, and your legs felt cemented to the floor. “I ordered food,” she smiled, opening the door to reveal a woman holding a box. “See?”

It felt like you were staring at one of your polaroids; Amy looked pleased, beaming at you with a sense of accomplishment that she got dinner. That she could do things. That she didn’t need your help—Frank’s help. Her smile was radiant, and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for her.

“You can keep the change,” Amy offered the woman a handful of cash before turning to you with that same naivety.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You knew it was coming, and yet your stomach still dropped when her smile faded and her eyes bulged from their sockets. Amy’s lips moved frantically, but you were too focused on the way the woman’s gun left imprints against her temple.

Stupid, stupid girl.

The woman looked satisfied, puffing out her broad chest while Amy tried to talk her way out of it. “Kid,” you commanded her attention, ignoring the way you could hear Frank’s voice in the back of your head. She stared back at you, tears welling in her eyes, and you hoped to God that she would understand what you meant as you meticulously cocked your head towards the closet.

The stranger wasn’t an idiot, and she shuffled backwards, somehow digging the gun further into Amy’s head. “If you try anything funny—“

Point. Shoot. Kill.

Amy flinched as warm blood decorated her cheeks like a crimson blush.

You wish you could embrace her and muster out a lie—that it’s all over, that everything is okay now, that things can go back to normal, but you can’t, so you pull her into the room. “Closet, now.”

She listened, for once, ducking her head and hurrying to the small space Frank had designated as hers. A part of you selfishly wished she had fought back against your order. Maybe then things would feel normal, and you could pretend that the brain matter surrounding the door frame was some maximalist’s creative direction. Maybe then you could imagine that the body below you was just a rolled up carpet that was being discarded because it was too much of an eyesore for the motel regulars.

You pretended, ignoring the corpse’s vacant gaze as you patted its body, shoving any remaining bits of your humanity down as you pocketed a wallet and fully loaded gun.

Point. Shoot. Kill.

It was one of the first lessons you had learned while on your own, and one that Frank never let you forget. He was right, unfortunately, and heavy footsteps reiterated the importance of the mantra as they approached your temporary home.

There weren’t many places for you to hide, but you made it work, you had to. The bathroom was small and smelled like mildew, but you couldn’t care about the dangers of black mold when you had a target on your back. The gun felt lighter in your hand this time, and your posture felt natural as you crouched against the bathroom wall.

Time didn’t exist in moments like this. The moments where the world sounded like warm, rushing blood and high pitched screeching. Moments where you become reduced to your primal state, clenching jaw and eyes blown wide as they study the mirrored motel room. Moments where you held your breath, watching and waiting in anticipation of who would barge into your temporary sanctuary, noting the constant footsteps..

The footsteps never stopped, not even as they stepped over the limp body and pooled blood. You foolishly hoped you would have been met with the familiar darkened gaze, that he would lift you by your shoulders and tell you that you did good, but the man that barged into the room was ruthless. Cold-blooded.

His gun was already drawn, spraying the mattresses and walls with bullets and fury, sending drywall crumbling and flaking onto your head and shoulders.

Point. Shoot. Kill.

You inhaled, not even considering it could be the last time your lungs expanded to its full capacity, before glancing in the mirror a final time.

You looked like a version of yourself you had buried long ago—a version that hadn’t emerged since you had left home. It was reminiscent of something you fought to avoid, but you couldn’t run this time, not as the pang of gunshots echoed throughout the motel room.

He moved quickly, and you wondered if he was trained on the same basis: shoot first, ask later. He wasn’t the first one you had encountered, trigger-happy and determined, and you knew they always ran out of bullets quicker than they should.

Your golden opportunity sounded like a few seconds of silence followed by a huff of air leaving your lips before you reached around the corner, catching the man off guard as you unleashed three rounds towards his rigid frame.

“God damnit!” he shouted as a bullet ripped through the meat of his thigh.

His eyes were black, rolling into the sockets like a blood hungry shark, and you genuinely thought his teeth would crumble under the pressure of his clenched jaw.

The bathroom was no solace; you were cornered, backed into a cage like an animal waiting for its turn to be brought to the slaughterhouse. Surrendering wasn’t an option. It didn’t exist for people like the one hunting you—for people like Frank.

The thought of Frank coming back to your makeshift home, littered with blood and bodies, made your stomach churn. It meant you failed, that you weren’t capable of keeping up with him, and it was embarrassing. You failed him; you failed Amy, and you failed yourself once again, though that mattered little anymore.

Your golden moment was quickly interrupted by the sound of grunting and a continuous stream of popping inching towards your hiding place. The wall exploded and ceramic tile flew towards your face before you realized what was happening, and you instinctively receded towards the small spot between the toilet and cabinet.

“Come on out, honey,” he called. “Can’t hide forever!”

You could tell he was hovering outside the remnants of the doorframe, probably waiting for you to crawl out so he could pretend to be merciful by putting a bullet in your head, but his labored breathing told you everything he wasn’t. Your guess was a severed artery, and although he should be down by now, you learned to never underestimate a man with nothing left to lose and steadied your gun on the edge of the counter.

“Just tell me where the girl is and we can figure this out like adults!” “Like adults?” You called out, scanning the bathroom for anything that could help your situation. “Sure,” he huffed out. “We can play house after this. What do you say?”

The toe of his boot peeked around the corner, and your body moved before your mind could catch up.

The man let out a guttural scream and folded in half, instinctively grabbing his bleeding foot. You wasted no time yanking the cheap plastic shower curtain from its holdings before leaping towards the assailant.

He looked like a beached shark, thrashing beneath the fogging curtain, but felt more like a mechanical bull as you held onto him with your thighs, tightening your grip around the curtain.

It happened quickly. So quickly that you hadn’t registered the throbbing pain in the base of your skull as you crashed into the already crumbling drywall. You weren’t sure how he stood, how he gained enough momentum to fling you off of him, but your mind and body remained disconnected as he towered over you.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” the man coughed, failing to cover his mouth. “Where’s the girl?”

This wasn’t supposed to be the end. This was humiliating, and yet there you were, blinking away stars and choking on dust. You attempted to sit up straight, regaining your dignity, before your knuckles hit the familiar carbon steel.

There was only one shot, and you prayed Amy had made it out and ran as far away from you as she could—this wasn’t a place for young girls, yet you felt small enough in that moment. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be.

Point. Shoot. Kill.

He fell with a great thud, nearly landing on top of you. His mouth and eyes were still open, completely unsuspecting of his demise, and you were hypnotized by the crimson dripping from the bullet-sized hole in his forehead.

It was seamless, and you think Frank would have been proud had he walked in through the blown out door, but he doesn’t. Nobody was coming.

“He talked too much.” Her voice startled you, and you instinctively reached for the gun. “Whoa,” she warned, “it’s okay, it’s just me.” She showed her palms, emerging fully from the small closet.

“Amy,” you whispered, afraid that she was just an apparition.

“You okay?” She knew it was a stupid question the second it left her mouth, but she asked anyway—she at least meant it.

“Fine,” you huffed, pushing yourself to your feet. “We have to leave.”

“Leave? What about Frank?”

You had already limped across the room, adding the new guns and wallets to the duffel bag, and didn’t need to see the confusion on her face to know she was skeptical of your plan. “He’ll find us,” you tried to believe yourself, but you knew he would understand.

You’d had this conversation before; if anything were to happen to him, you and Amy were to find a Madani somewhere in New York. It was a 10 hour drive, but you were confident you could make it in six if you left now.

The room felt smaller with two bodies and crumbled drywall littering the floor. You could ignore the claustrophobic feel, but Amy stood frozen in place, studying the tread marked puddle of blood beneath her feet.

“Hey,” you started, “look at me. Look at me, Amy.”

She was pale, her eyes sunken into their sockets. It was impossible to make sense of how she looked so young, yet so hardened at that moment, but there wasn’t enough time to wonder. “Amy, we have to go, okay?” Her cheeks were soft beneath your palms. You tried to pull her from her trance, begging her to come back to the shitty motel room of death, but she stayed tucked away in the safest corner of her mind.

“You’re bleeding,” she muttered. “What?” “Bleeding. You’re bleeding.”

Her eyes led a trail to the soft curve of your waist. Your shirt stuck to your skin with an uncomfortable warmth, and you pretended it didn’t ache when you placed a few fingers over the gash.

You wanted to laugh at the irony, deluding yourself with a false sense of accomplishment. It was always too good to be true, and you were reminded of the cruel fact that things could always be worse as the sound of heavy footsteps pulled you from the pain. Amy ran towards the familiar hiding spot without being told, and your heart broke into smaller pieces.

It was getting old, the pointing and shooting and killing. It was getting old, and you were tired of calling the shots—you were tired of waiting for Frank to come back.

Fuck him. Fuck him for leaving you. Fuck him for leaving Amy. Fuck him for making you add two more heads to your roster.

Your arm ached as you leveled the gun, and you let out a sharp cry as your skin pulled in separate directions, the cotton of your shirt peeling from the wet wound. It was a matter of seconds before you would claim your next victim, but all you felt was the burning rage towards the man that left you in this position. It was automatic at this point; all you saw was a threat, so you acted, unloading rounds until all that remained was a busted door frame and tear stains against your grimy cheeks.

“Shit,” he whispered, not even acknowledging the body that he stepped over. “No no no, what happened?” He strung a hand behind your neck, forcing you to watch the way his eyes scanned your face. He meant well, you think, but you couldn’t look at him, especially as he thumbed through the tears that escaped your waterline. “Where’s the kid?”

God damn him. “Closet,” you choked out.

He was gone as quickly as he came, and your knees took the brute of the fall with a thud, masking the sound of the closet doors falling as Frank ripped them from the hinges. The stars in your eyes glistened, your peripheral shrinking, and you weren’t even sure if he was real. If he had actually come back, if he had actually left you on the floor, face to face with your bloody work.

“You okay, kid?” He crouched to her level, but she quickly uncurled herself, practically jumping from the small space to push past Frank and joined you on the damp carpet. “Are you okay?” she asked, her brows furrowing as she studied your face. “I’m fine," you whispered, bracing yourself against the mattress to hoist yourself to your feet. Frank hovered, like he usually did, unsure of his place between the two of you. His anger was palpable, and you made yourself as small as possible, limping towards the disheveled duffle bags. He watched you, noting the way you winced with each step. It killed him, knowing that his shit would eventually catch up to you, too, but he gulped it down, turning his attention towards Amy.

“I’m sorry,” Frank started, grabbing Amy’s shoulders before bending to her level. “I’m sorry this happened. I shouldn’t have left.” “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Seriously. It could’ve been worse.” “Yeah, you coulda been killed. I shouldn’t have left you alone.” He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Alone. The bile rose from your stomach and burned the lining of your throat at the indirect insult.

“I wasn’t alone,” Amy snapped at Frank before sinking into the mattress. “Look, this is all my fault. I was the one that ordered food, she didn’t know.” It was humiliating having Amy come to your defense like that, even though she was right. Frank’s stare burned, and your feet involuntarily took you to the destroyed bathroom to escape his attention. “What?” He spat. “I mean, really. I probably would have died but she handled them.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “It was actually kinda cool.” “There’s nothin’ cool about this,” Frank hissed. “C’est la vie, I guess.” “C’mon,” he ordered. “Pack up.” “Everything’s already ready.” She motioned towards the perfectly lined duffle bags that you had assembled.

He didn’t have much to say. He was almost relieved at the fact that you were ready to leave him. You could make it on your own, he knew that much. You were strong enough, but a part of him wished you didn’t have to be—that you didn’t have to deal with his shit.

Amy watched as he shifted his weight outside the bathroom door, his fingers flexing and clenching in anticipation.

His heart broke as he caught a glimpse of your reflection in the busted mirror, your head hanging low as you sat on the edge of the bathtub.

He was afraid of you. Afraid that you had made up your mind and had enough of him, that this was the final straw. But the worst thing, he decided, was the possibility that this, that he, was enough for you—that you would pledge your loyalty to a man like him. To a life like this.

“Time to go,” he finally knocked against the remaining wall. You were quick to listen, pretending that you hadn’t been crying, and you pushed past him. The carpet squelched beneath your stride, and you ignored it long enough to pull Amy into your chest, focusing on the sweet smell of her shampoo. She stayed there for what seemed like forever until she became cognizant of her flickering facade. “You okay?” you whispered, nodding your head as if you could somehow convince her she was. She followed suit, swallowing down any trace of emotion that threatened to spill over, but her eyes betrayed her. Frank had seen enough.

It was too much—too much of a reminder that he had failed again, that his perpetual failings would always result in the loss of a life. Your commitment to Amy’s safety was evident; it was a continuation of what you couldn’t give your sister, and he was ashamed that he brought you back to the place where he met you. “Let’s go,” he cleared his throat. You listened, as you always do, breaking your moment of respite with Amy to shove two heavy duffle bugs over your shoulder, not caring to look behind you as you head towards a bulky van. Amy watched you disappear, shuffling her feet in frustration. “You really should take it easy on her.” Frank said nothing, instead sifting through the empty pockets of corpses. “Hey,” she kicked the limp hand, forcing Frank to stop his search. “I mean it. Lighten up.” “You done?” He stood, completely towering over Amy. His jaw clenched against his will, yet she held his gaze. “Be nice.”

“Time to go.” He didn’t wait for her, so she watched her footing as she tiptoed over the broken bodies.

She lingered in the doorframe, committing the bloodbath to memory. It was fucked that she had to—that the motel room reeked of blood and guts instead nail polish remover and pizza. But that’s how these things went, and you watched from the safety of the van as she slammed the door shut on that dirty fucking room.

You pretended that her clumpy mascara was still intact as she climbed in the van's backseat. She pretended you didn’t jump at the sound of Frank slamming his door closed as he slid into his seat. He pretended that this wasn’t his karmic debt catching up to him.

A caravan of fucking liars.

“Where are we going?” Amy broke the uncomfortable silence, and you held your breath. “New York,” he said with a sigh.

New York, a Madani, and a caravan of liars.

There was a poetic moment of silence and anticipation, and then the engine roared to life.

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richie jerimovich x afab!reader | 2k | 18+ MDNI | warnings: language, smut, all that fun stuff

hello, i am amazed that i am actually posting again relatively soon, though does it count if it's a sequel? i am saying yes 👌🏻 this was super fun to write, i am truly in my richie can do what he wants to me era, and just writing down my delusional fantasies really so enjoy! also happy october (the best month) 🍂🎃🔮 love of my actual life @thecapricunt1616 is doing promptober as are many many amazing other writers, so go check that out and thank me later 🫶🏻💗🌼

🐻

A week after the worst period of your life, a higher power had decided to smile on you.

Usually you felt quite calm and serene when you became free from menstrual hell, but this particular month had you feeling..a certain kind of way.

It happened, now and then, but it had never been so intense.

From the moment you woke up, you felt an ache, a hunger and a desperation to have something, anything between your legs.

You thought the feeling would subside once you'd taken care of it, but it only grew stronger.

It was certainly a better feeling than being in complete agony, but it wasn't like you had someone there in your bed who could help you out.

So, you got on with your day, got ready and headed to work, trying desperately not to notice every time the train juddered a little harshly.

Heading into work, everything was the same as it always was, everyone prepping for another busy Saturday. It would be a relief to be busy, to have a hundred different things to focus on instead of the dull ache between your legs.

You changed into your uniform, listened to Richie's latest speech, trying to look just behind him rather than at him before the urge to throw yourself at him took over.

Things between you two had changed since he had taken you home a week before.

You still teased each other, laughed at his bad jokes and shared cigarettes but there was a charge in the air, some unspoken feeling that had surged to the surface.

Neither of you commented on it, and part of you didn't even want to act on it incase it made things awkward or weird, especially if things didn't work out.

Then again, another part of you wondered what the worst could be, if it was just a one time thing then you'd both have fun and just go back to being friends, or it would become something more and you'd roll with it.

When the doors opened and guests started arriving, you tried to just focus on work, which was easier said than done.

It was the little things that you never really paid much attention to before that really started to test you.

Richie's hand touching your lower back as he passed you, giving you a wink from across the room, sticking his tongue out at you when nobody was looking.

You took a deep breath when Richie came over to you and placed his hand on your back, whispering in your ear about a surprise for table 14. You could focus on the feeling of his warm breath, his soft yet firm touch, your heart racing.

It was ridiculous really, you weren't some horny inexperienced teenager who just wanted anyone to touch them. It was just your own body sending you into overdrive.

By the time the last guests left the restaurant, you felt like your body was practically purring.

In an ideal world, you would be able to just go home, spend an intimate night with your vibrator and sleep it off, but you were stuck stacking chairs on tables and trying to think dull thoughts to distract yourself.

"Everything alright over there?"

You looked up as you heard Richie's voice, meeting his eyes and nodding softly.

"All good, just tired."

He watched you for a moment longer before he nodded and went back to what he was doing, and you took the deepest breath possible.

When everyone was leaving, you were keen to just get to the train and go home, but you were surprised to feel a hand on your arm when you were walking through the parking lot.

"Hm?" You turned around and raised a brow as you saw Richie behind you.

"What's up?"

"Are you.." Richie moved his hand vaguely in your direction. "Are you alright? You seemed a little distracted tonight, like you weren't really there."

You pushed aside the urge to let out a sigh, feeling your bed slip further away. Of all the times for Richie to want to embrace his professionalism, this one was not ideal.

"You're right," You nodded, glancing around and making sure nobody else was close enough to hear you. Your train had definitely already departed, you were going to be stuck waiting anyway.

"I wasn't feeling myself tonight. I was distracted, and it won't happen again. I promise."

Richie looked at you for a minute before reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"I know. Just wanted to check in. To be totally honest for a second? You've seemed a little off all week. Did I.."

He fumbled with the pack, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips before he looked up at the sky.

"Did I make things weird?"

"Weird?" You raised a brow. "No, you..why would you have made things weird?"

"Because you know," Richie shrugged, looking back to you as he lit his cigarette. "I went to your place, I got you those.." He wiggled his fingers a little. "Feminine things."

You smiled and shook your head, wrapping your jacket around yourself.

"Not necessarily in that order."

Richie smiled a little to himself and you stepped closer, taking the cigarette from between his lips and taking a drag.

"Please never say 'feminine things' again, you old, old man," You grinned, giving the cigarette back to him. "And if you think I've been off with you then you really don't know me. You really want to know why I was so distracted tonight?"

"Do tell," Richie smiled, watching you closely. "I can't stand suspense."

"Because of you," You replied, folding your arms. "Do you have any idea how frustrated I've been since you decided to be a gentleman last week? It has taken every ounce of self control I have to not pounce on you tonight."

"Well that's the plan," You smiled, stepping closer to Richie once more, moving your hand to touch his chest.

"What do you call this then?" Richie raised a brow, gesturing between the two of you before taking a long drag on his cigarette. "That's a good one though, you got me."

"How would you feel about taking me home and really giving the neighbors something to talk about?"

And so, you found yourself on the train with Richie once again, except this time the two of you were like a pair of teenagers. His hands touching your neck, your hands clutching at his jacket, the city lights passing by as you lazily made out. Your body was practically humming, more than ready to relieve the tension you'd been feeling.

When you arrived at your apartment, Richie wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed your neck as you fished around your bag for your keys, tempted for a moment to just wake up all the neighbors.

The walk from the station to your apartment was taken up with Richie's terrible (amazing) jokes, rants about the restaurant's latest customers, another cigarette, and stopping for kisses that made the journey twice as long but just as pleasurable.

Eventually you made it inside, barely getting the door closed before Richie was making himself at home. Shoes off, jacket off, talk of having a drink.

Honestly, it was a strange relief to not just immediately jump on Richie. You got him a beer from the fridge, taking another for yourself. Both of you ended up on the couch, you half on his lap, legs tangled together. The TV was put on as background noise, the remote flung somewhere.

Someone made the first move, it was hard to remember who and how exactly. You just went from making out on the couch to making out in your bedroom, to Richie snooping through your things playfully and hollering when he found a pair of beige grandma panties in your underwear drawer.

You talked for at least an hour, maybe two. Rehashing old stories, telling some new ones, filling in little blanks in each other's profiles. By the time your beer was half empty you were fully in Richie's lap, his arm around your waist as you gently stroked his neck.

Your insistence that they were 'comfortable' fell on deaf ears, so you were forced to try and wrestle them away from Richie's grasp.

The battle was forgotten when you ended up on your bed laying on your back, Richie's hands holding your own above your head. You tugged gently at each other's clothes, the feeling of taking things slowly was exhilarating, as desperate as your body felt, you enjoyed the build up immensely.

It wasn't at all like you imagined, which proved to be a blessing. It wasn't a totally smooth production, you laughed as you couldn't undo the button on Richie's shirt collar, struggling with it as he kissed your neck, distracting you. You accidentally kicked his shin when you were trying to fling your panties off your ankles, the two of you ending up in a heap of laughter, exploring each other all the while. It felt natural and fun, like there was no pressure to be some perfect goddess who would just lay there looking radiant.

You weren't really surprised to learn that Richie was very skilled with his tongue, after all it got enough practice. You were leaning against the headboard, your leg draped over Richie’s shoulder as he made you see stars. His large hands gripped your thighs as he devoured you, every flick of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge.

When you were finally granted the release you had been craving, you barely had time to catch your breath before Richie was pulling you on top of him, your thighs straddling his waist. Deciding not to waste any time, you lined yourself up with his throbbing length, pausing only when you felt Richie's hand on your arm, a concerned look on his face. Well, about 40% concern and 60% raging desire.

There was a brief discussion about condoms, and while you knew you had one or two in your nightstand drawer you decided not to waste time rooting around for them and assured Richie you were okay with going without them.

At one point you met Richie's eyes and felt your heart race a little quicker, not wanting to think too much about it. You stuck your tongue out at him as he smiled at you, laughing when he made a face back at you.

Very quickly after the discussion, you pulled Richie in for a kiss as you sank down onto him, your breath catching at the feeling. It felt like you were floating above your own body and looking down at the two of you intertwined. You moved slowly at first, getting used to the feeling, your arms wrapped around Richie's neck as he held your waist.

He told you to get on your back in a half serious tone, giving your ass a smack and you felt a new surge of desire rise in you.

You were sure at one point your eyes fully rolled back into your head, the moans coming your mouth getting louder as Richie kissed down your neck, your chest, his movements alternating between relentless and agonising teasing.

You pulled him down on top of you as you moved onto your back, wrapping your legs around his waist and closing your eyes as he held back any restraint and truly fucked you without hesitation.

He didn't stop even when you clenched tightly around him, moaning out your release. He followed soon after, filling you with white hot release and burying his head in your neck.

"It was never that professional anyway," Richie murmured, moving to meet your eyes and letting out a sigh as his gaze flicked down.

"Well I think our professional relationship is now ruined," You teased, resting your hand on your forehead and taking a deep breath.

"Sorry about that. Got carried away."

"I liked it," You shrugged, glancing down. "Though I shouldn't encourage you or you'll be dragging me into the bathroom at work every 5 minutes."

"5 minutes?" Richie raised a brow, looking up at you. "That's generous."

"I'm a saint, what can I say," You grinned, leaning in to give Richie a kiss. "Patron saint of old men."

"Brat," Richie muttered, grinning as he kissed you back.

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fic

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sad-girl-autumn-version

1 year ago

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sad-girl-autumn-version

1 month ago

Winner Takes All

(Richie Jerimovich x F!Reader)

CW: Slight angst; idiots falling in love; drunken near-encounters but nothing explicit; vulgar language because let us be honest - it's Richie.

Word Count: 2730

AN: This was requested by the lovely @winchestershiresauce for the April Showers event!

Maybe Richie wouldn’t have said anything if you had just shut your mouth.

Maybe he would have gritted his teeth, manned the register, and dealt with the customers while you chattered away with Tina and Marcus in the back of the house. Out front, in the bustle of the lunch hour, he could have ignored you, let your voice fade into the background.

But you don’t shut the fuck up.

You’re talking a mile a minute because you’ve met a new guy. Some fancy asshole who works at the Merc, and Richie starts to get a headache as you talk this guy up.

“He sells weather derivatives!” he hears you say. There’s a clatter of pots, a whosh of flames lighting on the stove.

“What’s that mean?” Marcus’s voice, now.

“It has something to do with insurance and risk,” you explain, and Richie can’t help but half-listen, judging how fucking stupid it sounds. This new guy of yours deals in weather, and he makes a shit-ton of money doing it: a condo with a lakeside view, a fancy car in the garage…

“He sounds like an asshole,” Richie scoffs from the pass-through window.

“You’d know.” The retort is paired with you narrowing your eyes at him.

“He sounds…nice,” Tina tells you, but she pauses enough on the nice, glances at Richie long enough for him to know that she’s thinking the exact same thing he is, deep down.

This guy is going to break your heart. Just like the last one, the tenure-track professor at Loyola. And the one before, the electrician. And all the others before—the bartender, the dermatologist, the trust fund laze, the NGO founder. At some point, Mr. Weather Asshole is going to hurt you terribly, and you’ll come into the Beef in pieces that they’ll have to put back together.

Maybe Richie wouldn’t have said anything, but he fucking hates that he can see your future and you cannot.

“It’s never gonna work out,” he says. “Guy’s gonna break up with you.”

You glare at him again. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Bet you he will. It always happens, and you’re too stupid to see it.”

“Bet you he won’t.” You pause, stir the sauce you have simmering on the stove. “He’s different than the others.”

Richie sighs because he also knows that Mr. Weather Asshole isn’t different. He’s probably exactly the same as the others, a user who will cut loose the moment he’s done having fun with you. It happens every time, and you have some goddamned amnesia about your own terrible love life—

“I wanna take that bet,” he tells you. He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, stares at you. “Easy win for me.”

You turn and face him, mirror his body language by crossing your arms too. “Alright. What are we betting? Fifty? A hundred?”

Richie could take your money. He knows it’s a sure thing. Some mean part of him, though, wants to make it hurt. He wants some awareness to finally sink into your thick skull. He wants you to be more careful, to guard your heart closer, to stop leaving yourself open to such hurt from such awful men.

“Make it interesting. Mr. Weather Asshole dumps you within the month, I get your Def Leppard shirt.”

Your eyes narrow to slits. “Which one?”

“You know which one.”

The angry set of your frown tells him you know exactly which one he means. He has no idea how it came into your possession, but you have a cherry vintage concert t-shirt from Def Leppard’s 1983 Pyromania tour. Richie isn’t that big a guy, not much bigger than you, really, and the one time he saw you wear it, it was just a shade too big.

It will fit him perfectly.

He watches the little twitch in your jaw—you’re clenching it, your teeth grinding. “Fine. What do I get?”

“What do you want?”

Your face opens up, softens. You smile and say, “okay, I want your Bruce album.”

“Which one?”

“You know which one,” you reply, mimicking his voice, which makes Tina snort and shake her head.

Richie has a rare vinyl of the Japanese pressing of Bruce Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love.” He can’t even remember how you found out about it, but you’ve pestered him in the past about how much it would cost you for him to part with it—

It’s a sure thing. There’s no way Richie is going to lose this bet, so he nods. He uncrosses his arms and holds his hand out to shake.

It’s your hand in his, your eyes crinkled as you smile at him…it makes him feel sad all of a sudden. You’re going to be hurt; he can see it as clearly as anything, and you can’t see it at all.

-----

Two weeks, nearly. Twelve days, to be exact: you march into the Beef, and Richie barely has enough time to realize it’s your day off before you toss a plastic grocery bag down on the counter in front of him.

“Here,” you spit out. You’re already turning on your heel and leaving, and you add over your shoulder as you wrench open the door, “I don’t want to hear a word about it, asshole.”

He doesn’t need to, but he opens the bag anyway. Inside is the concert t-shirt, neatly folded. The spoils from him winning the bet that hinged on your broken heart.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters.

-----

Richie knows where to find you that evening. He helps Carmy close up, and then he makes his way to Kelly’s.

The dive bar is below street level, dark and musty. The beer is cheap, and the jukebox is stocked with a very specific slice of alternative rock beloved by Kelly’s owner. The vibe is grimy but safe, the perfect place for someone like you to drink away her sorrows and stumble out without too much risk.

Still…Richie likes to keep an eye on you. Just to be safe.

Kelly’s is too small for him to hide from you, and he doesn’t bother to try. He finds you belly up at the bar, slouched, and he takes the empty stool beside yours.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye before you turn back to your drink.

“Come to gloat? You ask.

“Nah.”

“Say ‘I told you so’?”

Richie shakes his head. “I’m not a complete asshole.”

You sigh. “What, then?”

He holds up a hand to flag down the bartender, and he orders another for you and one for himself. Then he turns in his stool at looks at you.

“Wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he replies, and he hopes it rings earnest to your ears because it’s the truth. He’s not a complete asshole but he is at least partially so, and he struggles with his delivery almost every time he tries to be nice to you…but he cares, and he wants to make sure you know it.

Whether you believe him or not, you don’t say. You only tip him a nod in thanks for the drink, and the two of you fall into an evening together of mostly silent companionship and more than a little drinking.

-----

He wakes up fast and rough because he thinks he’s about to puke.

He sits up quick, manages to calm his roiling, sour stomach with deep breaths through his nose. Once the danger of vomiting has passed, he looks around at the strange room.

It’s not his room: not the one in his apartment, and not the one he shared with Tiff when they were still married. It’s a softer space; the sheets underneath him are silkier, nicer than his own. The room smells different too, warm and spicy like something baked with cinnamon, and it takes his hungover brain a beat to realize where he knows that smell…

…it’s your smell. It bothers him every time he has to work with you at the Beef; it seems to seep into his clothes under the smell of the sandwiches and fry grease. He glances down at the figure stretched out in the bed beside him and sees you. You’re fast asleep, your face smushed into your pillow, lips parted as you breathe deep and even.

It takes his hungover brain two beats to realize that he’s naked. No, scratch that—he’s in his boxers only, he’s shirtless, and when he studies you closer, he sees part of the reason why: you’re in his t-shirt, the one with the typo that reads “The Berf.”

Richie scrubs a shaky hand over his stubbled face. The evening comes back to him a little at a time. The drinks that flowed too easily, the realization that you live only a few blocks from him. The stumbling out together at last call, his arm around your waist as much to steady himself as to steady you. Him walking you home, the booze hitting you hard and making you turn pathetic.

Him turning to give you hell and seeing the pitiful way your lower lip trembled as your eyes filled with tears over Mr. Weather Asshole. Richie getting pissed at that, wanting to say something meaningful that would lance through your alcohol-fog to make you understand that Mr. Weather Asshole wasn’t someone worth crying over—

Him failing to find the words and kissing you instead. You kissing him back. You kissing him back with an eagerness that surprised him, and he remembers going upstairs to your apartment with you.

He remembers each of you stripping down to nearly nothing before it occurred to him that you weren’t in any shape to make any decisions, and he wasn’t much better off. He remembers stopping you, taking your hands in his, slurring his words as he told you it was a bad idea. He remembers you tearing up at that, misunderstanding him, feeling the rejection too personally.

Maybe in some respects the alcohol was a boon, because Richie Bad News always fucks it up. Richie Bad News always says all the wrong things. Richie Bad News always manages to mistranslate the feelings in his heart with his stupid fucking mouth.

But Drunk Richie? Drunk-but-Noble Richie who was able to gently turn down the opportunity to fuck you because you were too wasted to make good decisions? That guy seemed to get it right.

He remembers telling you that you shouldn’t cry over him or Mr. Weather Asshole or any other loser who manages to disappoint and hurt you. He remembers telling you what a catch you are, how lucky a guy would be to snag you. He remembers telling you to be choosier, to be more wary of men, to trust them a little less and yourself a little more.

Mostly, he remembers telling you that you have the biggest heart of anyone he knows, and then he remembers saying he wishes you’d guard it closer.

He remembers how you looked at him then, how you seemed to see him through the alcohol haze. You seemed to figure him out in that moment, seemed to piece together all your time together at the Beef, all the frustration he had with his own terrible love life that he vented over Family meals as you listened. You seemed to understand his own hurt, how he came in each day after his own awful dates the night before, how he looked at you on the sly as if he were measuring you against those women while he also measured himself against all those terrible men you dated.

Most of all, he remembers how you reached up and laid a gentle palm against the side of his face, and how he nuzzled into your touch. You had looked him dead in the eyes, murmured his full name like you wanted him to know you really saw him.

“Richard Jerimovich,” you had said. “You might be an asshole, but you’re a good man.”

He remembers how you turned shy then, how you dropped your hand and your gaze, like you were suddenly aware that you were basically naked in front of him. At your words—that he maybe he wasn’t Richie Bad News but just an asshole and a good man both—he felt surer of himself. More certain. He had bent down and snagged his discarded t-shirt, and he had helped you pull it over your head.

“C’mon,” he told you. “Let’s go to sleep.”

And that was all the two of you did. Drunk as you each were, he had kept it as above-board as he could, and you had fallen asleep snuggled against him.

-----

Now he’s awake and nauseous. It’s still dark outside. A quick glance at his phone says that it’s only three in the morning, hours from dawn. He hears what he thinks is a delivery truck rumbling past your building, but the sound is paired with a flash of blue-white lightning, and he realizes that there’s a storm rolling in.

He climbs out of your bed carefully, and he makes his way to your kitchen. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher in your refrigerator, and he drains it in one go. He feels his stomach calm.

Richie stands at your kitchen sink for long moments: it’s dark outside the window there, but each bolt of lightning illuminates the view—the brick wall of the building next door, the street below. It looks lonely outside; the sky spits rain in fits and starts.

He could leave. Maybe he should leave now, while you’re still asleep. He has no idea how you’ll wake up: what if you’re angry at him, or embarrassed? What if you wake up and remember him gently rejecting you and misunderstand it? Because he’d happily, gratefully take you to bed under any other circumstances, but not as your rebound and not with you as drunk as you’d been…but you may not realize that.

He probably should leave, but it looks miserable outside. The storm makes him want to return to your warm bed, so that’s what he does.

You’re still asleep. He stands over you and looks his fill for a moment. The flashes of lightning gild your face in its stark white light, but he thinks you look adorable. Even with your makeup from last night smeared under your eyes and lines from your pillow etched across your cheek, Richie thinks you might be the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

He crawls back under the covers and rejoins you. He tries to be careful about it, but the shifting of the mattress makes you stir. You grumble beside him, and a moment later you open your eyes and fix him with a bleary look.

“Richie? What—”

“It’s fine.” He whispers in reply. “Still too early to get up.”

“Mmm.”

“Go back to sleep.”

You hum again, and maybe you aren’t completely sober yet or completely awake—but he’s glad he decided to stay, because you bridge the slight distance between you and snuggle up against him again. You press your head against his shoulder, gently headbutting him until he huffs out a laugh and lifts his arm for you to cuddle in close. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, and you nuzzle against his bare chest before you settle.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall back asleep despite the storm picking up in intensity outside. Richie doesn’t fall back asleep at all, but he’s comfortable, relaxed. The rain lashes at the window of your bedroom, and thunder rumbles in the distance, but he feels cozy.

More than that, he feels hopeful. He’s had such a shitty run of it. The loss of Mikey, the loss of his marriage. His ex-wife may consider him Richie Bad News, but he’s been the on the receiving end of plenty of shit too. He’s at the lowest he’s ever been in his life, but for the first time since everything went to hell, he finally feels a bit of hope.

It started with a bet that he won, and now he’s in your bed with you snoring lightly in his arms while you wear his stupid fucking “Berf” t-shirt.

What comes next? He has no idea, but he finally has hope that it might be something good.

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fic out of the park every god damn time richard jerimovich when i catch you!!!

95 notes View Post

sad-girl-autumn-version

2 months ago