my-lovelies-etc

[my-lovelies-etc]

Richie X Reader: A scary good time

a/n: i have not seen the exorcist so idk if it's actually scary or not 🤷‍♀️

Warnings: fluff, kissing, movie date cliches, cuteness, Richie being a little self conscious, mutual pinning, happy/cute ending, no use of y/n

Word count: 2.8K

“Whatcha doing Sunday?”

You were walking down the street, Richie by your side. The two of you had just come from The Bear. He’d offered to drive you home, but you gave him a small smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I live just a couple blocks from here. It’s like a ten-minute walk.”

“Oh. I never knew that.”

You shrugged.

“I never told you.”

Richie nodded, glancing at his watch and then up at the sky before meeting your eyes again.

“Well, it’s late. Let me at least walk you home. It’s not safe being alone at night.”

You thought about telling him that you’d been doing this same walk since you started working at The Bear earlier this year. That you’d be fine. But he was clearly trying to be a gentleman—and you wanted to soak up as much alone time with Richie as you could. So that’s how you found yourself in your current situation.

 “This Sunday?”

You nodded, not bothering to look at him as he spoke.

 “Oh, uh, I don’t know. Tiff has Eva this weekend. Frank’s taking her to the zoo or some shit.”

 “That sounds nice. I bet she’ll love it.”

 “Yeah, I think so too. But yeah—no plans for me, I guess. How about you?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. There it was. The opening you’d been waiting for. The truth was, you’d started this whole conversation just to figure out if Richie would be free this Sunday. Because you wanted to invite him to the movies. But you didn’t want it to sound like you’d been planning the conversation out for a week.

 “I was thinking of going to the movie theater.” You finally turned to look at him as you spoke.

Richie was staring at the ground as you walked. You let yourself admire his side profile for a second before continuing.

“Actually, I saw that that director you like—the…” You snapped your fingers like you were trying to remember the name. Total exaggeration. You knew it by heart by now.

“William Friedkin?”

“Yeah, him!”

You kicked a stone out of your path.

“So anyway, they’re gonna be replaying a movie of his at the theater this week. And I’ve never seen any of his stuff, so I was thinking of going. Actually—"

Richie stopped walking, and you had to stop too. You looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Hold on. You’ve never seen a William Friedkin movie?”

 You shook your head.

 “Not even The Exorcist.”

You gave him a sheepish smile and shrugged.

“Oh, well then, you have to go. The man’s a genius.”

Oh, we got a live one, boys.

 “Yeah, that was… actually what I was gonna ask you.” 

You could hear yourself starting to ramble. You were feeling more self-conscious with every word that left your mouth. But you’d made it this far, and you weren’t about to chicken out. Not when you were so close.

“I was wondering if you’d wanna come with me.”

Richie looked at you, a little surprised. You fought back the urge to shrink into yourself. Chill out. Let him answer first.

 “You wanna go to the movies this Sunday. With me?”

“Yeah, I mean—I think it could be fun.” You shrugged. “Plus, like you said, you didn’t have any plans.”

He didn’t say anything right away, and for a second you wondered if you’d come on too strong.

 “Consider it an opportunity to enlighten someone else on the joys of William… what’s his last name again?”

Okay, maybe you were laying it on a little thick. But Richie smiled at that, and it made it all worth it.

 “Friedkin,” he said, before turning his gaze back to the ground.

You walked in silence for about two minutes. It was starting to kill you. The waiting. You were just about to say something like or don’t, whatever, it was a dumb question, never mind—when Richie finally spoke.

“What time were you thinking?”

The smile that spread across your face could’ve lit up a whole restaurant.

You were so giddy that you almost passed your own building. Luckily, you realized before it was too late. It was a little awkward when you abruptly stopped and turned around, but Richie followed without question. And when you finally stood in front of your door and he gave you a slightly puzzled look, all you could say was,

“Guess I got caught up in the conversation. Didn’t even realize we were already here.”

Richie had just given you a soft smile.

He scratched the back of his neck and glanced up at your building like it was suddenly very interesting. The truth was that he was too nervous to look at you head on. And he was also trying to remember what your building looked like. In case he had to come back. Not that he was assuming, of course.

 “Well,” you said, rocking slightly on your heels, “guess I’ll see you Sunday?”

“Yeah. Sunday,” he echoed. Then he paused. “I’ll, uh—I’ll pick you up or whatever. If that’s cool.”

“Yeah. That’s cool.”

There was a silence that stretched just a few seconds too long. Richie nodded like he was trying to wrap the moment up, then gave you a little two-finger salute. “Alright. G’night.”

“Goodnight,” you said softly.

He waited until you’d closed the door behind you before he left. The whole way back to his car, he couldn’t stop overanalyzing the entire exchange. He got in, turned the engine on, and waited for it to heat up. He repeated his two-finger salute to himself, making a face like he was cringing, before whispering,

 “Get it together, man. Don’t be a fucking loser.”

You’d been ready for an hour already, anxiety causing you to overestimate how long it would take. You paced around the apartment, glancing at the clock every so often. Oh, what had you gotten yourself into? When your phone buzzed with Richie’s “On my way” text, you raced across the room to get it, moving so fast you almost felt out of breath.

You were sitting on the steps when his car pulled in. You checked your watch—punctual, another thing to add to the list of qualities Richie had. He leaned across the passenger seat to unlock the door and gave you a lopsided grin when you slid in.

 “Ready to get educated on Friedkin?” he teased, his voice a mix of nerves and something softer you couldn’t quite place.

You laughed, trying to keep it cool, but your cheeks warmed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

After you got your tickets sorted, you moved over to the snack tables. Both of you wanted popcorn, but neither thought they could manage to eat a whole bucket alone, so you opted to share one. The theater was mostly empty, which surprised you a bit. The movie was The Exorcist, and even though you’d never seen it, you knew it was pretty popular, so you had expected a bigger crowd. Not that you were complaining—you liked the idea of being alone with Richie without prying eyes.

You found your seats near the middle, a perfect spot with a good view but not too close. Richie settled beside you, and when you both reached for the popcorn at the same time, your fingers brushed lightly. You felt a jolt of warmth shoot up your arm and tried to hide the grin threatening to break free.

“Sorry,” Richie said quietly, his eyes flicking to yours with a shy smile.

“No worries,” you whispered back, your heart still fluttering.

As the lights dimmed and the previews began, you scooted just a little closer to Richie, the hum of the projector filling the silence between you. The first few minutes of the movie were slow, atmospheric, building tension, and you could feel it creeping under your skin.

Then, a sudden, eerie scene hit, and you jumped—maybe a little more than you wanted to admit. You buried your face in Richie’s neck before you could stop yourself. He stiffened for a moment, glancing down at you. When he saw you peeking out from between your hands, he couldn’t help but let his body relax, a small smile gracing his features.

When you finally came out of your hiding spot, you didn’t move away, opting to let your head settle on his shoulder for the rest of the movie. Richie wondered if you could hear how his heart was pounding. But when the movie ended and the credits rolled and you finally raised your head off his shoulder, Richie couldn’t help but wish the movie had lasted longer.

The night outside was a cold contrast to the stuffy theater room. You’d been worried that as soon as you got out, Richie would offer you a lift home and the night would be over before it had even really begun. Because sure, you’d invited him to the movies, but you didn’t really want to stop there.

Fortunately for you, Richie glanced at his car, then turned back to look at you. And to your surprise, he asked,

“I’m starving. There’s a good restaurant around the corner. You wanna grab something to eat?”

 “Yeah, sure.”

It was an Italian restaurant—because, of course, it was. This was Richie, after all. But it was a nice place, and the food was amazing. You eyed the other guests as you ate. Most of them were couples. You couldn’t help but let your mind wander. Would this be the place Richie would think of for a first date or an anniversary?

You were pulled away from your thoughts by Richie’s voice.

 “So… what’d you think?”

You smiled, glancing around the cozy restaurant, the soft lighting making everything feel warm and intimate.

 “Honestly? I really like it here. It’s cute, and the food’s amazing. Definitely a good call.”

 Richie’s cheeks flushed slightly, a small, sheepish grin tugging at his lips.  “Oh—uh, I was actually asking about the movie.”

You blinked, then laughed softly.

“Oh! Well, I liked the movie too. Scary as hell, but definitely worth it.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Glad you liked the place, though. It’s one of my favorites.”

“You’ve got good taste, Richie.” You took a sip of water. “Not that I ever doubted it, of course. I’ve seen your flower arrangements.”

Richie blinked, caught off guard by your compliment. He smiled as you took another bite of your food.

 “Sugar hates them.”

“Because they’re expensive. Not because they’re ugly.”

He pointed his fork at you, as if to say, “Touché.”

“But hey, at least I’m good at something.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like spending money on flowers?”

 “Hey,” he said, mock-defensive, “there’s an art to it.”

You laughed, the easy banter making the whole night feel even more comfortable. Silence took over the table for a small moment.

“You’re good at a lot of things, Richie—not just flowers.”

Richie sighed, placing his glass down.

“Doesn’t always feel like it.”

He gave you a half smile, causing you to frown a little. You moved your hand across the table, placing it on top of his. Richie stared at your hand.

 “Hey.”

He raised his eyes to meet yours. The expression on your face nearly took his breath away. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t shame. It was worry. Genuine worry.

Richie swallowed hard, his fingers tightening slightly around yours. He gave you a small grin—a quiet way of saying “thanks.”

You squeezed his hand gently, your heart aching for him.

 For a moment, the noise of the restaurant faded away, and it was just the two of you.

On the walk back to Richie’s car, you tried to rack your brain for ways to make this drive last a little longer. Just a bit more time with Richie. Was that too much to ask? Then you remembered an old tradition you had with your parents. Some people drove around to look at Christmas lights—it was too early for that—but one thing people might be decorating for was Halloween. You offered your idea to Richie, who was more than eager to accept.

You drove around for a while, heading toward the neighborhoods where you knew the houses were bigger—and, as a result, the decorations were more elaborate. Eventually, you made your way back toward the areas around The Bear and your building. The car hummed softly beneath you as the two of you shared smiles and quiet conversation, the night stretching gently ahead.

Every so often, you found yourself glancing down at Richie’s hand on the gear shift and wondering—if the two of you were something more—would his hand be resting against your thigh instead? The thought made your stomach flutter.

You let out a soft yawn just as Richie turned onto your street.

Richie pulled up in front of your building, easing the car into park. For a moment, neither of you moved.

“Well,” he said quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, “guess this is your stop.”

You smiled, unbuckling your seatbelt but not reaching for the door just yet. “Thanks for tonight.”

 “No—thank you. I had a good time. Like, really good.”

You nodded, then laughed softly under your breath. “I was kinda nervous about asking you. Thought maybe I came off weird.”

Richie turned slightly in his seat to face you. “You didn’t. I was just… surprised. In a good way.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, exactly—but it was heavy. Weighed with unspoken words. You looked down at your lap, then back up at him.

“So, um… I’ll see you at work?”

 Richie gave a little smile, but his eyes flicked to your mouth for just a second too long.

 “Yeah. I mean—unless… you wanna hang out again before that.”

 Your heart jumped. “I’d like that.”

You reached for the door handle, slowly, like giving him one last chance to say something—do something. You stepped out, and Richie followed, rounding the car to walk you to your door. The air between you felt electric now, buzzing with something unspoken. You stopped on your front step and turned to face him.

“Guess this is goodnight,” you said, your voice quieter than before.

“Yeah. Right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, then letting his hand drop. “Goodnight.”

Neither of you moved.

Your eyes met his. You didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was both of you at once—like you’d been orbiting this moment all night, and now gravity had finally pulled you in.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t perfect. It was soft and uncertain and full of that dizzy, heart-in-throat kind of tenderness. Richie’s hand brushed your cheek as he deepened the kiss just slightly, like he couldn’t help himself. When you finally pulled apart, you stayed close, foreheads nearly touching.

“Well, that was… something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him again. Richie accepted your kiss, smiling against your mouth. The smile didn’t disappear when you pulled away. You took a step back, grinning softly, your hand still holding Richie’s.

“Well, I have to go to bed.”

“Is that an invitation?”

You laughed, which only made Richie smile wider.

“Not just yet, Jerimovich.” You made your way up the stairs, pausing at the door before glancing back over your shoulder. “But I’ll think about it.”

Richie gave you the biggest grin. You offered a small wave before closing the door behind you. He stood there for a while, just staring at the door, then finally turned and made his way to the car, heart full, heading home.

 Things at work weren’t exactly different after that night…but they kind of were.

Richie still showed up loud, still made a mess, still acted like he owned the place. You still rolled your eyes when he did, still gave him shit, still worked your ass off just the same.

But now, there were glances. Small smiles passed over stainless steel counters. A brush of hands when handing over plates—things like that.

You were plating something by the pass when Richie said something low under his breath that made you laugh. Really laugh. It was nothing, probably stupid. But you leaned into his shoulder for a second, giggling like you couldn’t help it.

Carmen clocked it from the other side of the kitchen. He squinted, confused, and turned toward Tina.

 “What the fuck is going on with those two?”

Tina didn’t even look up. She just smirked, sprinkled a little parsley over a finished plate, and said, “They’re in love, Jeff.”

Carmy blinked. “Since when?”

Tina finally looked over at you and Richie, who were still laughing like the rest of the world had faded out.

Tina shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Since before either of them knew it. You’re just late.”

Carmy shook his head and muttered something under his breath as he turned back to the walk-in. But even he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

[my-lovelies-etc]

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 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.

[my-lovelies-etc]

It'll Get Done (Pt. 4)

Richie Jerimovich & F!Reader

Chapter Index

Warnings: 18+, language, smoking, bickering/arguing

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: while i'm still conjuring up ideas for s4 fics, here's another chapter of this bad boy! spoiler-free since it's set in s1 lmao

He was outside on the sidewalk in front of The Beef first thing in the morning. He hadn’t even made it inside yet, deciding to smoke a cigarette to settle his nerves before heading in. He assumed that you were already inside and he wasn’t sure what it was going to look like when he faced you again. The two of you had gone after each other countless times over the years, and usually there was a mutual agreement to brush it off, leave it behind, and carry on. It was an understanding that worked for you both.

This was the first time that he’d ever dragged your boyfriend into it, though. Sure, you two talked shit and you would argue with him about whether or not the problems you had with Trent, or the other people who came before him, were the types of problems that you stuck it out to solve, or the types of problems that made you cut your fucking losses while you still could. But those conversations happened far away from the people in question. The closest Richie had ever gotten to confronting a pnartner of yours, prior to last night, was the occasional slick joke or veiled remark in front of them. It was never something so stark, so undeniable. Which was a bit shocking in and of itself, considering who Richie was and how he operated.

There was no taking any of it back now, but he wondered what moving forward was going to look like. It would have to end up being okay eventually. As far as Richie was concerned, there was no other option. Besides, after everything that the two of you had gone through together, he wasn’t going to let something as trivial as some dude that you met on a dating app six months ago get the better of you. He had to assume that you felt the same way, even if you wouldn’t say it quite like that.

His gaze was glued to the cracks in the sidewalk as he pondered over all of it. One hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding his cigarette as he took another drag. The squeaking of someone’s brakes got him to look up, and he couldn’t stop the short laugh that he let out when he saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat. He wasn’t used to beating you to the restaurant, but sure enough you were hopping out from the passenger side of Trent’s car.

You did a quick look in both directions so that you wouldn’t get flattened by an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, but you almost wished that you would when you saw the way that Richie flicked the butt of his cigarette away and proceeded to give your boyfriend the finger before he pulled away from the curb. Richie was smiling as he did it, but even as you hustled across the street you could see that the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

There was no point in looking over your shoulder to see what Trent did in response to that. So you didn’t. You had a hard enough time making eye contact with Richie, even though you still rolled your eyes at him. The only thing that softened the blow of that were the sunglasses you had on. Putting them on had been a protective move because of the hangover that Richie had predicted, but now they served the extra purpose of somewhat hiding how hard it was to make yourself meet his gaze.

Trent’s car had already headed for the end of the block by the time you landed in front of Richie. Even though you were staring at the small gap between the toes of your sneakers and his, you couldn’t make yourself walk away from him. You hadn’t really planned out what you wanted to say to him when you saw him again, your mind not clear enough last night or even this morning for that kind of forward thinking. Part of you was waiting for Richie to turn and leave you hanging. You wouldn’t have blamed him, at least not for long, but he stayed.

After another couple seconds passed, Richie decided to be the brave one to break the silence. Pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, he tilted it towards you and asked, “Want one?”

You knew you shouldn’t. But with the way the last twenty-four hours had gone, you figured you might as well just add it to the running tally of regrettable decisions. You plucked one out, even let Richie light it for you, all without saying a word. It wasn’t until the first plume of smoke slipped past your lips that you were able to make yourself say anything.

“Can we talk about last night without yelling?” you asked, still not able to look at him even though he couldn’t see the exhaustion and hurt lingering in your eyes.

He shrugged, the frown on his face making it seem like it was a ridiculous thing to ask. “I’m quiet as a fuckin’ mouse.”

What was supposed to be a laugh came out more like a huff, but the weary smile on your face made up for it. “Alright. Don’t lie.” You took another drag, savoring it in a way you never really did before you started kicking the habit. “I’m sorry about Trent.”

Richie shook his head, both hands shoved into his pockets now. “What the fuck are you apologizing for? You didn’t do anything.”

Letting your head drop back, you fought the urge to sigh. You knew where this was going but you just had to let it play out. “I’m just saying—”

“If your,” he pointed in the direction that Trent had driven off, “petty little fuckin’ boyfriend wants to apologize to me for acting like a jagoff, he’s more than fuckin’ wel—”

“You know he’s not gonna do that.”

“So don’t do it for him!” He saw how you flinched at his uptick in volume, the sound rattling around your skull like a pinball. He didn’t say sorry, but the brief surrendering motion of his hands said it for him. When he spoke up again, his volume was tolerable for you. “Why the fuck are you apologizing for him?”

“Because I want this to be over.”

Richie knew it wasn’t over, even with your band-aid apology. He knew that you knew that too. “It’ll be over if you fuckin’ dump his ass.”

The sharpness of the look you gave him didn’t hit the same because of your shades. You tapped the ash off the end of your cigarette. “Richie.”

He wished that he hadn’t smoked his cigarette before you showed up. “I don’t need a goddamn apology. I don’t even want one. Not like it’s gonna make me like the dude.”

Your final drag off the cigarette was done more aggressively than necessary. You wished that it made you feel better than it did, but that was a lot to ask of one cigarette. Dropping the last of it to the ground, you all but stomped it with the ball of your sneaker. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ aware.”

Richie watched you as you pressed your sunglasses upwards. You only lifted them enough to be able to rub the inner corners of your eyes before letting them drop back down onto your nose again. He saw you wipe your hands on your jacket and he had a sinking feeling that you were wiping away the start of tears. You’d always hated that you were an angry crier—Richie figured it was one of those things that probably kept you from exploding. Even if he pretended to accept the apology that you were giving him on your boyfriend’s behalf, you’d know it was bullshit. And even if it wasn’t all built on the back of an elaborate façade, it wasn’t what was actually going to make you feel any better. The frustration would still linger, even if you buried it underneath a couple layers of denial.

He reached out, cupping the back of your arm with his hand to test the waters. He wouldn’t blame you for pulling away, for still being that upset. But you didn’t. You didn’t lean into him, didn’t go for a hug. That was enough to let him know how to gauge your level of frustration with him. Not enough to pull away, but too much to pull him in. That was fair, he supposed.

He traced his thumb along the sleeve of your jacket out of habit even though you couldn’t really feel it. “Gonna keep your sunglasses on inside too?”

You smiled weakly. “Might. Those lights are brutal.”

Richie chuckled. “Fuckin fluorescents.”

You paused, letting out a deep sigh. There was more to say, probably, but you were already later than you liked to be and this mess wasn’t one that was going to be cleaned up within the next few minutes. The two of you would just have to let it lie for now.

“You been inside yet?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Was out here havin’ a smoke trying to gear up for heading in and seeing you.” He chuckled before making a big show of checking the time on the watch that he wasn’t wearing. “Someone was runnin’ late this morning.”

“Late for being early,” you tried, half-heartedly, to joke.

“Boy Wonder sleep through his alarm?”

“He’s just not the same brand of early bird that I am.”

“I would’a come through and—”

“No fucking way,” you cut him off with a laugh.

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That’s part of the problem.” You maneuvered your arm out of his hold as you went to put your hand on his back. Giving him a light shove, you forced him to stumble a few steps closer to the front door of the restaurant. “C’mon. I’m late, and I’m assuming there’s some kind of shit you need to be taking care of.”

He pulled the door open, holding it and gesturing for you to walk inside first. “Just another day of babysitting.”

You laughed as the door clattered shut behind you both. “Carmy probably says the same thing about you.”

As if on cue, Carmy emerged from the kitchen into the space behind the counter. The day had barely started and he already looked like he’d worked up a sweat—you wondered if the kid even went home at all. He was carrying a tote full of napkins and silverware, but he still stopped and looked at you both.

“What do I say about Richie?” he asked, sounding a little out of breath. The simple question prompted you two to answer in unison.

“Nothing.”

“That you have to babysit him.”

The disparity in your replies got a quick smile out of him. “Right.” He looked at you. “Prep, chef?”

You nodded. “Yup. On it.”

He nodded in return. “Good. Thank you.”

Carmy continued on into the dining area. Once he was out from behind the counter, you and Richie slipped on back into the kitchen. You were heading for your locker, and were expecting Richie to veer off and head towards the office. However as you were pulling the locker door open, Richie materialized on the other side and leaned against the locker right next to yours. For a moment you had flashbacks to high school and then swiftly repressed them.

Your bag got tossed in first, followed by your jacket. Your sunglasses were the last thing to come off because you knew that was going to hurt the most. The aspirin you’d taken as soon as you woke up were only going to offer a limited defense against the harsh lighting in the kitchen. You squinted your eyes in preparation, but an annoyed groan still slipped out of you when you finally removed your shades.

Richie couldn’t help but to laugh at your sound of exasperation. He didn’t say anything until you turned to face him while you were tying your apron into place. His eyes spoke volumes before he even opened his mouth, though, bugging out of his head for a moment. “Jesus.”

You laughed, shutting your locker with extra force to show your annoyance and then immediately regretting it as the clanging echoed the small pocket of the restaurant that you were in. “Thanks.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized as he laughed. His hand was on your shoulder and neither of you even realized it. “I will go and get you a coffee.”

“Richie, don’t—”

“Not a peace offering. I’m still fully committed to the war I’m waging on Thumbelina, alright?”

“Ri—”

“It’s a life-saving measure for you at this point.”

It wasn’t a peace offering. And even if it was, it wouldn’t have been an effective one. When you felt less hungover, you’d be able to commit more fully to your frustration. As it stood right now, though, coffee didn’t sound too bad. You hadn’t had time to stop and get some on the way in the way you usually did. Plus, Richie always got coffee from the really good spot a few blocks over. You might as well take the small win given how everything had gone.

Letting out a sigh, you gave in with a nod. There was no other outcome, really. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” He was already backpedaling towards the door. “Don’t, you know, don’t die while I’m gone.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The kitchen door swung open from the other side, Carmy coming back into the kitchen. He looked as confused as ever as Richie skipped almost backwards right by him. “Rich—hey—yo, cousin!”

“Can’t!” Richie yelled back, voice getting farther and farther away. “Gotta take care of somethin’!”

Carmy started to call after him, “I—” and immediately stopped himself. Letting out a deep sigh, he looked over to you. “You know what the fuck that was about?”

You shrugged as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You really wanna know?”

That small, quick smile flew across his face again, leaving as soon as it arrived. “No, I don’t.”

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[my-lovelies-etc]

It'll Get Done (Pt. 3)

Richie Jerimovich & F!Reader

Chapter Index

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, angst/arguing

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: haven't touched this fic in eons but I'm still thinking about them all the time.

In Richie’s defense, he tried to stop you after your third. He saw the way that you were eyeing your glass, seeing how low it was starting to get. He tried to keep you distracted, get you talking about something so that he could close out the tab without you realizing what was going on.

He was not successful.

That was why he was currently driving you back to your apartment building and promising that he would come and pick you up in the morning. It wasn’t that far out of his way, really. Plus it was safer than putting you in some fucking Uber, and this way he could walk you to your door. You would be fine if he left you to get up to your apartment on your own, but he wasn’t going to just leave you to fend for yourself like that. The times when he would have to bring you home even when you were sober, when your car was in the shop or some other bullshit popped up and you needed a lift to and from work, he’d always walk you up. That definitely wasn’t going to change now.

Halfway to your apartment you peeled your forehead off the window of Richie’s car and turned to look at him. “Carmy’s gonna yell tomorrow.”

Richie smiled, trying to cover it with one hand while the other stayed on the wheel. “Yeah, probably.”

“You’re gonna yell tomorrow.”

He finally let himself laugh. “Yeah, babe. For sure.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, leaning back dramatically in the passenger seat. “I hate it when you guys yell.”

“You only hate it when you’re hungover.” He glanced over at you with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Which you are definitely going to be tomorrow.”

You laughed. “Fuck you.”

Richie was laughing and shaking his head as you leaned back over, letting your forehead press back against the glass. There were plenty of other jokes and things that he could say, but he would save the yelling and the banter for when he picked you up in the morning and really didn’t want to hear it. It was always more fun that way. He made sure to keep the radio low for the remainder of the drive to your place.

“C’mon, then,” he said, coming around to the passenger side of his car to open the door for you and get you out. He held his hand out for you to take. “Let’s get you stumblin’ up those stairs, Cinderella, before you turn back into a pumpkin.”

You looked over at him, a smile on your face despite the way you asked, “Did you even watch Cinderella?”

He shrugged. “Had it on in the background when Eva was a baby, like, once. Why?”

You let him hold open the door to the apartment building. “Cinderella isn’t the one that changes into a pumpkin at midnight.”

“That her evil sister or something?”

You laughed as you took very calculated steps up the stairs. “The carriage!”

“Ah, right. So when you get back to the restaurant in the morning your car’s gonna be a fuckin’ pumpkin?”

“That’d be horrible.”

“And fuckin’ hysterical.”

You laughed as you dug your keys out. “And fuckin’ hysterical, yeah.” It took you a few extra seconds but you found your apartment key on your keyring. Once you fit it into the lock on your door, you turned and looked over at Richie. “Thank you.”

“No—”

“And sorry.”

He shook his head. “Fuck it. Next two rounds on you and we’ll call it even.”

You chuckled as you pushed the door open and got your key back out. “That’s fair. I don’t—”

Whatever the rest of your sentence was about to be got lost in transit as your boyfriend came out from the other end of your apartment. “What the fu—” he stopped when he saw you in the doorway, Richie standing behind you. “You gotta be kidding me.”

You weren’t sober enough to hold in the deep sigh that was building inside you. “Can we do this tomorrow? I’m tired. I wanna go to bed.”

Richie was looking at your boyfriend as he gestured to you. “Yeah, Trenton. Let the girl get her beauty sleep.”

He scoffed. “I don’t need to hear anything from you, Richie. What the fuck are you even doing here?”

You interjected back into the conversation. “What the fuck do you think he’s doing here? He drove me home!”

Richie couldn’t help but to laugh at your sudden uptick in volume. He put his hand on your shoulder like a warning. Whether he was warning you or your boyfriend he wasn’t really sure. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” both you and Trent spoke up at the same time, clearly for very different reasons.

The chuckle that Richie let out was devoid of any real humor. “Match made in heaven right here. I see it now.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, expression sobered unlike the rest of you. “Richie…”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Trent shifted his gaze from you to Richie even though it still sounded like his words were aimed at you. “Let him say what he has to say.”

Richie shook his head, hand gently squeezing your shoulder. There were a million things that he could’ve said in that moment, and they all would’ve been different brands of brutal. The only thing giving him pause about it was the fact that he didn’t want your boyfriend to be able to walk away from the conversation knowing that he’d goaded Richie into taking the bait. Richie still had his pride, after all.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning?” he asked you instead.

You nodded, not looking sad per se, just tired in every possible way. A little apologetic, too. “Alright. Thank you.”

It felt weird leaving you without giving you any real sort of goodbye, but it clearly was no longer the right time or place for that. Instead, he just turned on his heel and headed back the way the two of you had come in. He was hardly a stride away when he heard your boyfriend already starting to pick an argument about it all. Something about the pitch of the guy’s voice had Richie slamming the brakes and turning back around.

His palm slapped against your apartment door right before it shut. The sound made you flinch, your eyes wide as you turned around to see who it was, not that it would be anyone else given the circumstances. Your expression shifted from shock to something almost resembling fear, not knowing what was coming next.

“You know what? No,” Richie said, shaking his head as he wedged himself back in your doorway again. “No fuckin’ way.”

You pulled in a deep breath, ready to try and deescalate the situation, try and get him to leave. But even as you tried to formulate a sentence that would kick off a conversation like that, you knew it was going to be futile. It’d felt far too easy to get him to leave just before, and now you knew why. He wasn’t going to leave until he said his piece—you could see that much in his eyes and the tension trapped in his shoulders.

He wasn’t even looking at you now, his eyes locked in on Trent instead. “You know how long I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to look down into your beady little fuckin’ eyes and tell you to go fuck yourself?”

You trapped your laugh just before it slipped out of you, the sound getting caught in your mouth somewhere between a chuckle and a cough. If Richie noticed, he certainly didn’t let on, but you saw the way that your boyfriend cut his eyes at you before reverting his attention back to Richie again.

Richie continued on. “I don’t know what she fuckin’ sees in you, honestly. I’ve never seen you show up or do anything to suggest that maybe, oh, I dunno, that you give a shit about her. Like, fuck, why am I the one driving her home if your ass has been here the whole fuckin’ time? In her fuckin’ apartment?”

Trent’s jaw looked clenched tight enough to fracture. “It’s not like she fucking called—”

“And why do you think that is?!” Richie cut him off, hands now gesturing as wildly as ever. “Why would she ever think that you wouldn’t show up for her and that I’d be the one cleaning up the fuckin’ mess you made?”

Suddenly a weight felt like it dropped into your stomach as those words wove their way through your skull. You spoke up, voice not nearly as boisterous as Richie’s, but also not teeming with rage the way that Trent’s was. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Richie finally looked at you again. “No, I’m not—”

“You made your point, Richie.”

He saw it then, the little flicker of pain in your eyes. It didn’t squander all of his anger but it shrunk a few sizes in that moment. “Hey, I’m—”

“You should go,” you said with a small nod. “I’ll see you in—”

“No,” Trent interjected, “she won’t.” He saw the confusion on your face when you looked at him and offered up, through nearly gritted teeth. “I’ll drop you off tomorrow.”

Collapsing down in the driver’s seat, Richie was half waiting to just disappear into the beat-up upholstery. The back of his head was pressed into the rest behind him as he sunk back. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he fished out his keys. The only thing left to do was throw them in the ignition and make his way home, but he still found himself hesitating.

He couldn’t go back up again. There would be no getting past the doorway, and that was assuming that either you or your boyfriend would even answer it. He wasn’t even sure what else there was for him to say or do at that point that he hadn’t already tried to. Digging every hole he landed himself in just a little deeper was a strong suit of his, a habit that was hard to break.

With more effort than it should’ve taken, he turned on the car. The radio was off the entire ride home, the car filled only with the sounds of Richie grumbling to himself under his breath. Half of it was him talking to himself, the other half was him saying all the other things he wanted to shout at your boyfriend. None of it made him feel any better, but at least it helped pass the time. Before he knew it, he was parking outside his apartment building.

Before he got out of the car, he checked his phone. There was no missed texts or calls from you, and really he wasn’t sure why he’d been expecting to see one. For all he knew you were still locked in an argument with your boyfriend about whatever had pissed you off in the first place, now compounded with all the issues and dust that Richie had kicked up during his brief appearance at your doorway.

Just as he was getting into bed and about to put his phone to charge, he sent you a quick text. “Call in the morning if you need a ride”. Maybe he should’ve put an apology in there somewhere, but he wasn’t a good liar when it came to you and he sure as hell wasn’t sorry so he didn’t bother. Whether you read it or not before he passed out, he’d never know. But his phone didn’t go off before he went to sleep, and it was silent the entire next morning while he was getting ready to go to the restaurant.

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[my-lovelies-etc]

It'll Get Done (Pt. 2)

Richie Jerimovich & F!Reader

Carmy Berzatto & F!Reader

Chapter Index

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, canon-typical vibes

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: My writer's block has been brutal lately because of lift things, which is deeply unfortunate because I wanted to NaNo this month. But! I did write this for these guys. I just want to put them in rooms and let them talk to each other forever.

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Richie didn’t make it back before the end of the day. You only noticed because the kitchen was a little quieter. Not quiet, of course, but quieter. There was one less person that Carmy was yelling at and arguing with. It was amazing how much it cut down on the noise level.

Every now and then as Carmy raced back and forth between the front and the back of the house, you could feel him lingering behind you. The kid exuded stress in a way that you didn’t know was possible. You understood why, because most people if they were thrown into his position would’ve jumped off the sinking ship rather than trying to scoop the water out with a soup ladle, but sometimes you still felt like you should strap him to the chair in the office and force-feed him some of Richie’s Xanax.

You empathized with him. Or you empathized with him at least more than Richie did, which was a low bar these days. But despite the compassion you were dredging up to give him, there were still plenty of times when you felt him standing behind him and all you wanted to do was spin back around to him and ask him what his fucking deal was. It was easier to refrain from doing that on days when Richie was there because he would say it for you.

Carmy came all but skidding back through the kitchen towards the register, going back and forth between muttering and shouting, “Behind,” as he made his way through.

“Calm down, Jeff,” Tina said with a laugh as she went to take her pot off the stove.

You felt your jaw clench on Carmy’s behalf. Tina was knowledgeable about a lot of things and one of those things was, most definitely, how to get under Carmy’s skin. It wasn’t a difficult code to crack but there were so few people in the world who could do it with such expert precision. Her and Richie were two peas in a pod that way.

“It’d be easier for me to calm down, Tina,” Carmy snapped as he kept walking, “if we were able to pay our goddamn vendors!”

She was shaking her head at him—you caught it out of the corner of your eye. But you also noticed that she didn’t say anything more about it. Content to go back and lie in wait for something else to pop up that she could nettle him about. The end of the day might’ve been approaching quickly but you had the feeling in the pit of your stomach that she would be able to find something else before she clocked out without having to work too hard.

When Carmy came back into the kitchen a little while later, he was walking at a much slower pace than he had been before. You were sure that some of that had to do with the fact that the last of the customers had left, and presumably whatever vendor that had showed up looking for money had also left.

He looked on as everyone slowly but surely worked through their cleanup processes. He wasn’t looking at you, but you still asked him, “All good?”

His head snapped in your direction. “What?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of you. It wasn’t funny per se, but if you didn’t laugh about it you’d end up crying. “What can I help you with, Carmen?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. N-nothing. No one can help me with,” he let out a huff, raking his hands through his hair, “fuckin’ anything.”

“Little dramatic,” you replied honestly, sarcastic but kind, “but alright.”

It got a weak chuckle out of him. “You know what the fuck was going on in Mikey’s head with all that shit?” he asked as he gestured to the office.

You didn’t have to turn and look where he was pointing to know how bad the mess was. You’d seen it while Mikey was making the mess. You’d been seeing it as Carmy made almost no headway in cleaning any of it up. You didn’t blame him for that. If you’d been in his position, you wouldn’t have any idea where to start either.

“Thank fuckin’ god no,” you finally answered him.

He pressed his lips into a thin line for a second as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah that seems to be…yeah.”

“You should—”

“You can head out, Chef,” Carmy cut you off, and you didn’t know if he even realized that he’d done it. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”

You shook your head. “I can clean up my shit.”

He motioned for you to leave. “It’s fine. I got it.”

“Carm…”

“Seriously,” he reiterated. “Go.”

You looked at him for a moment, and that’s when you could see it in his eyes, the silent plea to just let him have some time to himself. You knew that feeling—it was the whole reason you’d shown up as early as you had that morning in the first place anyway. You knew better than to tell him that he should leave. He wasn’t going to and all it was going to do was turn into an argument. You didn’t need another one of those.

“Fine,” you said with a nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You ditched your apron and switched back into your casual shoes, stuffing everything else into your locker while you grabbed your bag and your jacket. Neither you nor Carmy spared each other another goodbye, or any other words in general as you headed out.

There was no point in getting your car keys out of your bag, not when the bar you went to with Richie all the time was within walking distance. The couple blocks felt way longer when it was cold out, but it wasn’t that bad yet.

The bartender recognized you when you walked in, giving you a smile and a nod as he moved to start pulling your drink together before you even sat down. He waited for you to get situated before asking, “Flying solo tonight?”

You laughed as you pulled your phone out of your bag. “That’s an excellent question. Let me call—” The rest of the sentence died on your tongue when the door to the bar flung open and Richie strode through. You instantly let it drop right back into your bag, eyes fixed on Richie even though you were talking to the bartender. “I’m not flying solo tonight, no.”

“Can’t believe you came over here without me!” Richie said as he walked over to you.

“Yeah, well,” you looked up at him from the stool you were sitting on as he clapped his hands down on your shoulders, “least I ordered you a drink.”

He laughed, leaning more onto you. His tone shifted completely as he spoke. “Have I ever told you that I love you?”

You rolled your eyes. “You can always tell me again.”

He kissed the side of your head. “I love you.”

“Damn right,” you said with a nod as Richie plopped down on the seat next to you. You waited until he was comfortable in his seat, leaning forward with his arms braced against the edge of the bar with his breathing evened out, before you tried to have anything resembling a real conversation. “Where the hell did you go all day?”

“What do you mean?”

“You expect me to believe that it was guys and places all day?” You were only bringing it up because, much to Carmy’s dismay, Richie usually was at the restaurant all day every day the place was open. He’d pop in and out briefly for whatever errands he assigned himself, but other than that he was present and accounted for. Being gone all day was noticeable, at least to you if no one else.

It was written all over his face that he was thinking about not elaborating. You saw the shifts in his expression as he tried to come up with a joke, or a lie, or anything besides getting into the reality of it all. But then when he looked you in the eyes again, all he could do was be honest with you. “Tiff called. Had to go pick Eva up from school.”

You nodded. “Got it.” You paused. “Wanna talk about it or—”

“No, no,” he laughed, shifting back into his usual demeanor. “We’re not doing that. You don’t get to do that.”

You let out a confused laugh. “I don’t get to do what?”

“You don’t get to try and use Eva to get out of telling me what the fuck your dumbass boyfriend did!” He paused as the bartender set both your drinks down, taking a moment to thank him before shifting his attention right back to you. “You first.”

You huffed, wishing that you could get out of it again. Even with things that were much lower-stakes, there was only so long that you could dodge Richie and his endless line of questions. You took a long sip of your drink as you tried to figure out what you wanted to say, how you wanted to try and say it. There was no way that you could tell the story that would end with him being anything but pissed off about the entire situation. You couldn’t blame him for that, either. After all, you were still pretty pissed off about it yourself.

“It’s nothing new,” you said, a cop-out you knew that he wasn’t going to accept.

He shook his head, looking down at the glass in his hands before looking at you again. “Tell me the old news, then.”

“I’m done being angry about it, Richie.”

“I’m not,” he replied with no hesitation.

It got you to laugh, at least. “That’s because you’re never done being angry about anything.”

He waited for you to look at him. “You’re really not gonna tell me what he did?” He paused, and when you didn’t say anything, he added on, “That bad?”

You shook your head, drumming your fingers on the outside of your glass. “That pointless.”

“Ah,” he waved you off with that same smirk you’d seen from him so often over the years, “another drink or two and I won’t be able to get you to stop talking shit about him.” He missed the look on your face as he looked back down at his drink and shook his head. “Fuckin’ jagoff.”

You chuckled, nodding. “Yeah—that we can agree on at least.”

“Speaking of which,” he gestured towards the door of the bar, “how was the fuckin’ executive toddler chef the rest of the day?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “An absolute gem once you walked out the door.”

For a split second you could see it on his face that he almost believed you. Then he smartened up and gave you a playful bump against your shoulder with his own. “Fuck you.”

[my-lovelies-etc]

It'll Get Done

Richie Jerimovich & F!Reader

Chapter Index

Warnings: 18+, language, the lightest sprinkle of angst, takes place during s1

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Yes. I am neglecting all of my other ficly responsibilities because I got hit with this nugget of an idea at 6am today. Yes, I am already planning more for the two of them. No, I don't know the details of what that's going to entail. But feel free to enjoy this in the meantime 😂

The Bear Taglist: @garbinge @withmyteeth @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @narcolini @justreblogginfics (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

You were the only one at the restaurant. You had your headphones in, the bare minimum number of lights on—just enough so that you were able to see what you were doing and not accidentally chop off the tips of your fingers. You had no good reason to be there, to be prepping, but you’d slept like shit the night before and you were sick of laying on your mattress staring up at the ceiling of your apartment. So here you were, apron on, headphones in, trying to play your music loud enough to drown out the thoughts in your head.

Other people started to trickle in. If they were talking to you, you didn’t hear them. Clearly no one had anything pressing to talk to you about since none of them stopped to explicitly try to get your attention. You were in the zone, and by this point you all had fallen into a flow with one another. You could all practically move through that kitchen with your eyes closed. You clocked everyone out of the corner of your eye. They’d reach over and around you as needed, and you just stayed in your lane.

You were halfway through carefully picking up the celery you’d finished chopping to put it in its own Tupperware when someone reached and placed their hand over the top of the container to thwart your efforts. You huffed out a deep sigh, not needing to turn and look to know who it was. His voice was hardly breaking through the music blaring from your headphones, and that’s how you knew your music must’ve been loud.

With his other hand, Richie reached and plucked one of the headphones out of your ear. “Yo! You hear me now?!”

“Move your hand before I slice it off, Richie,” you snapped, sounding more exasperated than actually angry.

“What’s got you so pissed off today?”

“Some asshole I work with won’t let me finish my fucking prep,” you replied back with no hesitation.

“Prep?” Richie scoffed, finally moving his hand so you could continue with what you were doing. “Looks more like a massacre.” He loomed in a little closer. “Hey, listen babe, the produce guy is gonna stop sellin’ to us if he sees how you’re treating his celery every time your boyfriend pisses you off. Which is a lot lately.”

You rolled your eyes but no matter how much you wanted to shrug it off like it didn’t bother you, you could still feel the tightness in your jaw as it involuntarily clenched at the mere mention of your boyfriend.

“C’mon, tell me,” Richie chided, leaning against the counter like other chefs weren’t going to need the space. “What’d he do this time?”

You didn’t want to get into it. You didn’t want to get into it at work. You didn’t want to get into it at work with Richie of all people. That was half the reason you showed up to the restaurant at the ass-crack of dawn. Shaking your head, you tried to stay as neutral as possible as you said, “Nothing, Richie.”

“That’s always his fuckin’ issue though, right? Never does shit. Never comes by the restaurant, never fuckin’ takes you—”

“I’m not getting into this right now, alright? I got,” you gestured to the counterspace on the other side of you that was occupied by the rest of your prep, “shit to do.”

“I think you’ve murdered enough vegetables for now.”

“Rich—”

“Cousin!” Carmy interjected, annoyance dripping from his voice. “Leave her alone. She’s right—we got shit to do.”

Richie waved him off. “Then keep doin’ your shit.” He motioned back and forth between himself and you. “We’re trying to have a conversation here. Work out some big life problems.”

Carmy weaved his way by you, calling out a half-hearted behind before saying, “No offense, but I don’t really give a shit about your breakup right now, or whatever else it is. We open in—”

“She knows when we fucking open,” Richie said with a laugh. “She worked here before you did, you fu—”

“Enough!” you cut them both short. You looked over at Carmy. “I always get my shit done. It’ll get done.”

Two seconds of tense silence passed among the three of you before Carmy finally stepped away. He didn’t say anything else, and much to your surprise Richie didn’t call out anything after him trying to drag out the argument. You were almost wondering if he was just going to leave you alone too, but you knew better.

“So,” Richie finally turned back to you once Carmy had disappeared into the office, “what’d Thomas the Tank Engine do this time?”

You laughed despite your annoyance with your boyfriend, despite your annoyance with Richie. “His name isn’t—”

“I’m not calling that jagoff by his name. It’s not even a real—”

“It’s a real name,” you argued as you got back into your prep, although you weren’t quite sure why this was the hill you were choosing to die on with Richie. You were pissed off with your boyfriend, after all. Thomas the Tank Engine was much nicer than some of the things you’d been calling him in your head over the last twelve hours.

“It’s not.”

“Trent is a real—”

“Who the hell names their kid Trent? It’s like his parents knew he was gonna be an asshole. Hell, the second you told me his name a few months ago I knew—”

“You think every guy I date is an asshole!”

“And I’ve never been wrong!” Even though you were both yelling at each other, you were still laughing too. You were shaking your head, being marginally nicer to the carrots you were chopping as Richie watched you work. “What happened? Do I gotta go and beat Tiny Tim’s ass?”

Your head dropped back as you laughed. “You’re awful.” Taking a breath, you shook your head at him. “But no. You do not have to go and beat his ass.”

“You finally break up with him?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t I gotta go beat his ass?”

You were smiling as you shook your head, packing up the next leg of your prep. “Because despite what you might think, that’s actually not the right response every time something doesn’t go according to plan. No matter how many times you and Carmy try to resolve something with a goddamn wrestling match.”

“Which I always win, by the way,” Richie commented with a grin that was far too smug for his own good.

“That’s no great feat—neither of you can fight for shit.”

He stepped back, looking as offended as ever. “Hey, I—”

“I love you,” you shook your head as you cleared your station, “but you can’t fight. You can fight better than Carmy, but you still can’t fight.” You chuckled. “It’s a good thing you have a gun.”

He wanted to look genuinely annoyed but he started laughing instead. “Fuck you.” Leaning in, he pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head before finally deciding to move on to the next person and let you get back to your job. “Tell Tinkerbell if he ever shows up here, his ass is grass though, alright?”

You laughed and nodded. “I’ll be sure to relay the message.”

Richie was either satisfied with your response, or someone new in the kitchen caught more of his attention because he turned and walked away. You couldn’t stop laughing and shaking your head at him as he started in on Marcus next on the other side of the kitchen. Reaching up, you carefully pulled the other headphone out of your ear, letting them drape over your shoulders for the time being. Nothing had really changed but suddenly listening to the chaos and shouting and laughter in the kitchen seemed preferable to the blaring music that had been rattling around your head all morning.

Your prep was done, your station cleaned, phone and headphones tucked back away in your locker where you usually kept them, when Carmy called out, “Five minutes to open, Chefs!”

In almost-unison, everyone called back, “Yes, Chef!”

Except for Richie, who called back something perfectly nonsensical that got lost in the midst of all the rest. You had no idea if Carmy had actually heard the words or if his call-back of, “Richie, you can still go fuck yourself,” was just routine now.

It was dangerously close to the end of the five-minute mark when Richie came bounding back through the kitchen, shrugging on his jacket as he went. He clapped you on the shoulder as he slipped by you. “Keep being nice to those vegetables while I’m gone, Chef.”

You couldn’t hide your confusion at the fact that he was leaving just as the place was about to open. “Where are you going?”

“Gotta go talk to a buddy about this thing,” he said, gesturing with his thumb back over his shoulder.

“Sounds really important, yeah,” you replied sarcastically.

He was walking backwards out of the kitchen as he said, “Drinks on me tonight after work.”

You sighed, head dropping so that you were looking down at the floor. “Richie—”

“Then you can give me the whole low-down on whatever the fuck Tom and Jerry did yesterday.”

You laughed, knowing that you weren’t going to get out of it. Finally, you gave in with a nod. “Alright, yeah, okay. Long as you don’t get lost on your way back from the place after you do the thing,” you motioned vaguely towards the door with the knife in your hand.

Richie chuckled, a genuine smile passing over his face. “See? You’re finally getting it. Only took how long?” Then he disappeared through the door, gone and out of earshot before you could fire back at him.

[my-lovelies-etc]

Casual

Richie Jerimovich x reader

“Knee deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”

Warnings: Smut? Idiots in love. Angst & language.

Wc: 1694

Summary: You and Richie start as a no-strings hookup—just a way to take the edge off after long shifts. But it turns into more: quiet moments, shared vulnerability, and feelings neither of you meant to catch. Richie, weighed down by his past and fear, keeps pulling away. You finally draw the line—it’s either all of you or none.

It’s supposed to be easy. That’s how it started.

Late nights after service. Shared cigarettes on the fire escape. Clothes on the floor. No strings, no mess. A way to take the edge off, like a drink at the end of a brutal shift — warm and reckless, burned down to the filter.

You weren’t supposed to memorize the way his fingers curled when he laughed. You weren’t supposed to notice how he always left the stove light on, or that he carried a photo of his daughter Eva in the back of his wallet, worn from being thumbed too often.

This was supposed to be about relief. Release. A transaction made in sighs and sweat. A salve for all the broken, unspoken parts.

But when Richie knocks on your door tonight, it’s different.

He doesn't wait for you to speak. Just kisses you like he's starving, like he can't remember where his body ends and yours begins. The door clicks shut behind him, forgotten, as his hands slide into your hair, tug you closer. His mouth is hot and greedy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you let him take, take and take.

You taste him — salt, heat, and something underneath. A sharp edge, like regret.

"You're late," you breathe against his mouth, but you're already backing toward the kitchen, pulling him in with you.

"Shut up," he murmurs, voice rough, words bitten against your jaw. "Traffic."

You laugh, low in your throat, but it dies when he lifts you onto the counter and spreads your legs like he owns the space between them. Your back hits the cold tile, and a gasp leaves you as his hands slide beneath your shirt.

His hoodie rides up as you tug at it, fingers dragging along bare skin. He’s so warm, and you’re already wet — because this is what you do. What you always do. Even if it’s slowly killing you.

You notice the way he sighs when you touch his back — like he's been holding tension since the moment you last left — and something twists low in your stomach.

"You always this tense?" you murmur, scraping your nails lightly down his spine.

He shudders. "Only when I haven't seen you for a few days."

His words land heavier than they should. He kisses you harder, hands under your shirt, mouth on your neck, and when he slides his hand beneath your waistband, finding you with practiced ease, your whole body jerks.

"I missed you," he says, barely a whisper.

You freeze — just a second. But it’s enough for him to notice.

He pulls back. His eyes flick up to yours, and suddenly it’s not just heat. Not just habit. It’s that thing again. That fucking ache.

Richie slowly exhales through his nose, drags a hand over his mouth. “Forget I said that.”

"Why?" you ask, your breath still shaky. "Because it makes this real?"

He steps back like you slapped him. His jaw clenches. “Because it’s not supposed to be.”

"But it is," you say, sliding off the counter, tugging down your shirt. "We fuck like we're in love. We talk like we're more. And then you leave before the sun’s up so you don’t have to look at me in daylight."

He won’t look at you now either. He just shakes his head. “You knew what this was.”

“And I know what it is now.”

The air tightens between you, thick and heavy like storm clouds on the verge of bursting. His silence is loud. Punishing.

You take a step closer. “Why do you keep doing this? Acting like I’m the one who can’t handle it, when you’re the one who’s scared shitless?”

He scoffs, but it sounds like it hurts. “I’m not scared.”

“Bullshit.”

He finally looks at you. And it knocks the breath from your lungs. Not because he’s angry — but because he’s not. He’s just tired. Bone-deep and soul-worn.

“I’ve got a daughter,” he says. “A failed marriage. A fucking restaurant that’s barely surviving and a past that still clings like tar. You think any of that screams relationship material?”

You swallow. “I think it screams human. And I happen to love you, Richie.”

You say it so simply. No big confession. No theatrics. Just truth.

He flinches. Physically recoils. Like love is a wound.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice quiet. Almost pleading.

“I do. I have. Every fucking time I let you back in my bed like it didn’t matter. Every time I made you breakfast just so I could watch you leave.”

“I’m not what you want,” he says. “I’m not even close.”

“Why do you keep deciding that for me?” you snap, voice sharper than you mean it to be. “Why do you think you get to decide what I want, what I need?”

Richie turns. Runs both hands through his hair like he’s trying to physically escape the weight of this.

“Because I know what happens,” he says. “You’re here now, yeah — you think I’m good in bed, I make you laugh, whatever — but eventually you’re gonna realize I’m just... background noise. A distraction. I’ve got a fucking hole in me I keep trying to fill with people who don’t stick around.”

Your throat tightens at his words.

“I’m not people,” you say, exasperated. “I’m me. And I’ve stayed.”

He goes quiet. His breathing’s uneven, but his jaw’s still locked — like he’s fighting the urge to believe you.

And then he moves.

He grabs your face and kisses you hard. It’s messy, full of guilt and fire, but there’s nothing casual about it. Nothing pretend.

You yank his hoodie off, then his shirt, and he pulls your leggings down like he’s desperate to be forgiven through skin.

The sex is a little rougher this time. Less polite. He lifts you against the wall, mouth on your throat, your hands clutching his shoulders like he might disappear mid-thrust.

“You shouldn’t love me,” he breathes into your skin. “I’m not built for it.”

You wrap your legs tighter around him. “I don’t care.”

He fucks you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s trying to make it true. Every push is more frantic, more raw — like if he goes deep enough, maybe he can bury the parts of himself he hates.

When you come, it’s with your mouth on his shoulder, muffling a sob. Not because it hurts — but because you’ve never felt this close to him, and you know he’s still going to leave.

He finishes with a curse, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like it’s killing him to stay.

And then, of course, he does what he always does.

He starts to pull away.

You catch his wrist. “Don’t go.”

He freezes.

“I can’t keep doing this if it’s only ever gonna be halfway,” you whisper. “You get all of me. Or none of me.”

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are glassy, lips parted like he wants to say something — anything — but the words won’t come.

You step back. You give him space, which he takes.

He dresses slowly and doesn’t kiss you goodbye.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It’s two weeks before you hear from him again.

You don’t answer the first time he calls. Or the second. Or the third. The silence is much safer than another maybe. Safer than hope.

You try to stay busy. Work longer hours. Pick up extra shifts. Delete the photos from your phone and try not to think about how he always left his toothbrush crooked in your holder.

But he’s everywhere.

In the way you cook pasta, too much garlic. In the playlist that plays on shuffle, his favorite song always slipping in when you least expect it. In the quiet.

You think about the way he touches you — not just with his hands, but with the parts of himself he’s always trying to hide. The way his body curls toward yours in sleep, like instinct. Like safety.

You think about how you never felt like just a hookup, not really. Even when he left, there was something in the way he looked back at the door before it shut. Something like longing. Or regret.

He’s at your front door again.

In just a black t-shirt and a look that doesn’t know how to hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice raw. “I thought pushing you away was the kindest thing I could do. But it’s not. It’s fucking cruel and you don’t deserve that.”

You let him in, but you don’t let him touch you.

“Why now?” you ask, crossing your arms.

He shifts, running a hand over his face. It looks like he hasn’t slept much.

“Because I tried to forget what it felt like to wake up next to you. And I can’t. Because you’re not noise. You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing that ever made it quiet in here.” He presses his hand to his chest.

And for the first time, you believe him.

You close the space between you. Take his face in your hands. “So what now?”

“Now,” he says, voice trembling, “I let it be real.”

This time, when he kisses you, it’s slow. Intentional. His hands shake a little when they touch your skin, like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You lead him to bed and let him take his time.

He moves inside you like he’s not trying to get off — like he’s just trying to stay. And when you come undone beneath him, his mouth is on your shoulder, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You say his name like it’s holy. He says yours like it’s his.

Afterward, when he’s breathing heavy against your chest, he murmurs something barely audible.

“What?” you ask.

“I love you.”

You smile into the dark. “You’re late.”

He laughs — quiet and wrecked — and kisses your ribs.

In the morning, he’s still there.

No excuses.

Just coffee in one hand, your mug in the other. He sets it down beside you and presses a small kiss to your temple.

“You look like mine,” he says quietly.

You take a small sip and smile.

“That’s because I am.”

[my-lovelies-etc]

Richard Jerimovich X F!Reader: Plus one

a/n: you go to the weeding with Richie instead of Syd, that's basically it

Warnings: none this is just fluff, might contain the bear season 4 spoilers but nothing mega, no use of y/n

Word count: 1.6K

Richie has been in a funk lately. You could tell right away—something about the way he was behaving felt off. You hadn’t known him for long, but you could already tell when he was getting in his head. His speeches before service had become more and more chaotic, and he seemed to be beating himself up about things a lot more than usual.

You’d been working at Ever when he staged there, and after the restaurant closed, he brought you to work at the Bear. It was okay—you were managing to get the hang of it, and things seemed to be going well. But you could tell Richie had something on his chest. You could tell he needed to talk to someone about it, but either no one had listened, or he hadn’t reached out.

So you made it your mission to get him to talk.

Then one night, after close, you found him still sitting at one of the tables in the dining room. The lights were half down, the room quiet in that way it only got when everyone else had finally cleared out. He was staring at nothing, an open book laying on the table collecting dust.  

You walked over, stood across from him for a second without saying anything. Then you sat down.

“You okay?”

He blinked, like he hadn’t even realized you were there. Looked at you, then away again.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

You didn’t respond right away.

He sighed. “I mean, yeah, I’m just—” He waved a hand in the air, like that would explain it. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. 

“My ex is getting married in a couple weeks. And she wants me to go to the wedding and I just… I don't know.”

You leaned back a little, watching him closely. “You don’t want to go?”

“No, but also, yeah—I feel like I should be there, you know? He’s not a bad guy, and me and my ex were on good terms, but I guess I just feel—”

“Weird?”

“Yeah.”

“I think that’s expected, considering the situation.”

Richie sighed. 

“We’re the only family she’s got. Things aren’t good with her folks, and everyone else is gonna—” You placed a hand on his.

“Richie. Breathe.”

He stared at you, then did as you asked, taking a deep breath in.

“Good. Now tell me what you really feel.”

You could always read him like an open book. It was kind of scary, really.

Richie sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to massage away the knot of tension tangled there.

 “It’s just… I keep thinking about what people will say, or how it’ll look. Like, am I the pathetic guy who showed up to his ex’s wedding alone, looking like he lost a fight with the world?”

You smiled softly, trying to ease the heaviness in the room. 

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just the guy who’s brave enough to show up despite all that. It’s not about what people think—it’s about what you want.”

He gave you a small nod, as if he knew your words were true.

 “And you don’t have to go alone.”

Richie’s eyes widened at that.

 “I could come with you, if you wanted me to.”

 “You’d do that?”

 You gave him a smile, the one that always managed to knock the breath from his chest.

 “If you think it would help, of course I would.”

Richie grabbed your hand, wrapping his own around it.

“You’re an angel you know that?”

You looked down at the table, trying to hide what his words did to you. You lifted your eyes back to his, letting the quiet between you stretch for a moment.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Maybe having you there would make it less hard.”

You smiled again, a little brighter this time. “Then it’s a plan. We’ll go together. And hey, if it gets too much, we’ll bail and get pizza somewhere.”

Richie laughed quietly, the first real sound of lightness you’d heard from him in days.

You squeezed his hand once more. “We’ll figure it out, Richie. One step at a time.”

Richard Jerimovich was having a panic attack in an alleyway. That was happening. He would have never expected it, but it was happening all the same.

“Fuck!”

The yell made you jump in your spot. You were wearing your best dress and heels, patiently waiting for Richie to get everything out of his system. He’d been pacing for a while now. You were starting to get worried. It was only when you noticed he was having a hard time breathing that you intervened.

“Richie, hey, look at me,” you said gently, stepping closer. “Breathe with me, okay? In… and out.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting around the narrow alley, chest rising and falling unevenly. You pressed a hand to his chest causing his attention to snap to your face. You released a breath through your mouth and he copied the action.

“Focus on my voice. You’re not alone,” you whispered.

“Shit,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I didn’t think— I mean, this doesn’t usually happen to me.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes it just hits when you least expect it,” you said softly. “Do you want to talk about what’s going on?”

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. 

“It’s the wedding. I’m scared of showing up and feeling… invisible. Like I don’t belong anywhere.”

You squeezed his arm. “You do belong. And you don’t have to do this alone. I’m here. Keep breathing with me.”

And so he did. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel your hand on his chest and arm. To feel your breath against his face as you exhaled. He let himself breathe in the scent of your perfume and listened to the birds singing above. After a while, his breathing calmed, and he opened his eyes. His gaze found yours immediately. He just stared for a moment, taking in the color of your eyes.

“Think you’re ready to go in now?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

You looped your arm through his as the two of you made your way inside.

Richie had warned you that things might get a bit… odd. That was just the way his family worked, and he didn’t want it to startle you.

You had merely looked at him and laughed.

“Richie, I work at the restaurant. I know what it’s like. I’ll be okay. Do what you have to do.”

He still felt bad about leaving you alone, but there had been a crisis he needed to resolve. Once he’d taken care of it, he seemed to stand taller—like ten pounds had fallen off his shoulders. He felt like he belonged. Like he could do anything.

So when he found you sitting with Syd, chatting comfortably, he didn’t hesitate.

“Excuse me, ragazzi, sorry to interrupt.”

“You’re not, Richie,” Syd said with a sly smile, looking over at you. “Actually, we were just talking about you.”

You shot her a glare, but she just sipped her drink innocently.

“Is that so?” Richie raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s convenient, because I actually came over here to see if you’d want to dance.”

He extended his hand. You stared at it for a second before looking up at his face. He was grinning—wide, warm, unguarded—and it tugged something loose in your chest.

“I’d love to,” you said softly, placing your hand in his.

He led you out onto the floor, fingers laced with yours, the two of you swaying awkwardly for a moment before falling into a comfortable rhythm.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes flicking over your dress.

You laughed. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“Nah. Just impressed.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy with something else. Something growing.

“Thanks for being here,” he added quietly.

“I have to admit I did have ulterior motives.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

You smiled, moving to cup his face with one hand.

“Spending a whole day with you, outside of the restaurant? What girl would give up a chance like that up?”

Richie thought his heart had actually stopped in his chest. It wasn’t just the words. It was your hand on his cheek. It was his arms around your waist. It was the wedding ambiance, the low hum of music in the background, and the way the light caught in your hair and made you look like an angel.

It was you. Just… you. Existing. And letting him exist right there with you.

He whispered your name, barely audible.

“Yeah, Richie?”

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

You gave him the biggest grin he’d ever seen.

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

He didn’t wait another second. His hand slid gently to the side of your neck, the other still resting at your waist, and he leaned in. The kiss was soft—tentative at first—like he was still making sure this was real. But when you leaned into it, kissed him back with the same quiet certainty, everything else fell away.

The noise, the lights, the crowd—it all blurred.

All he could feel was you.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“Well,” you said softly, “I think that just confirmed this was the best wedding date I’ve ever had.”

Richie laughed, a little breathless. “I’m not even gonna try to act cool about this.”

“You don’t have to.” You smiled again, thumb brushing his jaw. “I like you exactly as you are.”

And God, if he hadn’t already fallen for you, that would’ve been the moment.

[my-lovelies-etc]

hi I have a Scott miller x artist reader request

she enjoys sketching him and likes to chat with him but he’s super cold to her sometimes and blows her off even tho he likes her he’s just oblivious to her feelings and after Javi and Tyler point out how much she likes him he confesses his feelings to her

Heyyyyyy. So sorry I fell off the face of the earth. Really hope this still finds you and you enjoy!

Silly Drawings

Scott Miller x Reader

Artist reader goes down a more “responsible” path and is an intern with StormPAR.

CW: mentions of alcohol, mostly fluff, disgruntled Scott

"Is this all the data from this morning?"

"Yea," you casually tossed over shoulder-

"WAIT!"

Scott's eyes bulged as if you grew an extra head as you lunged at him, hands going to the small book on the bottom of the stack.

"Not- not this one," you clutched the sketchbook close to your chest. Scott followed your fingers as they tightened around the red canvas bound booked. It wasn't larger than 5"x5", frayed at the edges from years of use or maybe just from being carelessly tossed from van to van. Graphite dust smeared across the cover.

He didn't have to speak for you to know what he was saying.

What the fuck?

You responded with a sheepish smile and gestured towards the rest of the papers.

"It's good- the data. This morning gave us good data." Your throat resisted as you swallowed nervously.

Scott stared for another moment, his eyes flicking from yours to the book, back to yours. Then, with a curt nod, he was off.

"Goodnight!"

Your face contorted into a pained wince as you leaned against the van. The sketchbook made a dull thud against your forehead. Find a way to directly tell your brain that you needed to be more careful where you left it.

——

"Yo! Mr. Scott. Have you seen our favorite StormPAR intern?" Boone skidded to a halt in front of Scott just as he was about to enter his motel room. Tyler was following not far behind.

He didn't need to confirm your name to know who they were referring to. All the times he had seen you chatting with one of them over breakfast. Waving when you crossed paths on the road. The frequent interactions often made his skin bristle.

"Yea," he huffed. "She's-"

No longer by the van.

Tyler bit his tongue watching Scott's eyes now scanning the crowded motel parking lot with the subtlest pout. He knew that look. The edge that crawled up someone's spine when the safety of the person they cared about was now unconfirmed. It was instinctual, protective, not possessive.

It was sappy.

It was funny as hell to Tyler.

"Aw, damn," Boone pouted as he clocked Scott's face now, too. "We were supposed to go over mockups for our next t-shirt."

That made Scott look back down. Why were you doing merchandising with another team? Why were you doing merchandising?

Tyler stepped forward before his questions could be answered.

"Hey, let me ask you something."

Scott waited with a blank face.

"How long have you known her?"

"She started interning this spring," Scott replied with a quirked eyebrow. This was common knowledge. You were graduating with a Bachelor of Science. You had taken a few years off after high school. This was your first job on the field, gaining more experience before applying elsewhere. Despite the lack of experience, you were a good addition to the team. You were diligent, capable, beautiful—

Common knowledge.

"Really? You just seem like you've known each other for longer. You ever..." Tyler's voice trailed off and Scott's jaw ticked. Tyler's hands immediately went up in innocence, his charming laugh echoing. Even he couldn’t help but be rattled by the cold chill that erupted from Scott's stormy gaze.

"Didn't mean nothing by it. You just fit well together is what I’m saying. She’s clearly likes you.”

Something else brewed underneath the stormy gaze. Scott’s grasp tightened around his papers before adjusting his hat.

“That’s not- She’s- No.”

Tyler’s eyebrows shot up. A bark of a laugh exploded from a few feet away. Javi stood by a cooler, blatantly eavesdropping as he opened a beer.

“Relax, man,” he called over.

“She’s just doing her job,” Scott justified lowly.

“Yea, I don’t think the way she looks at you is a part of her job,” Javi retorted. “She doesn’t look at me like that.”

Scott simply shook his head. “I’m going to bed. And you should, too.”

The conversation ended with the slam of his motel door.

——

Your heart lurched the next morning at the knock of the side of the truck. Then lurched again when your eyes met blue ones. You had your feet up on the dash, doors open, and sketchbook in your lap.

“Scott-“ you gasped.

“Morn-“ his voice caught when he glanced down at your lap. A very realistic drawing of very familiar eyes caught his attention first. Then the nose. The same jawline he saw in the mirror this morning peaked through your fingers as you tried to casually hide the image.

“Is that me?”

You looked down at your trembling fingers. With a shaky laugh, you moved them to reveal more. No use in hiding it now.

“Um, yea. It is. Scott-“ He was pulling the book gently from your lap. “Scott.”

He cradled the book in his large hand, more delicately than you had ever seen him. He flicked through the previous pages. Other members of the team. Renderings of coffee cups and barns. Him. More him.

“You did these?” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t want a scared animal to run off.

“Yea,” you whispered. You barely heard it over the blood rushing in your ears. “You’re kind of beautiful, you know that?”

There was a lull of silence between you. His eyes met yours and you excepted to see annoyance, rejection. But instead it was a softness, clouded slightly by the calculations whirring through his head. Calm slowly started to ease back into your body. He tilted his head down, breaking your gaze, before he spoke again.

“What are you doing here?”

“Look, Scott, I’m sorry. I won’t waste anymore time with my silly drawings-“

“No.”

You blinked at him. He was looking at you again. He had the same look of stubbornness he usually did when something wasn’t right and he knew it.

“You do good work here. That’s undeniable. But this…"

He shook his head as if the words failed. Scott, so intelligent, so articulate, could not find the words to describe the sketch he held in his hand.

“What are you doing here? Why be out here chasing tornados when you should be clearly doing something else?”

“I tried,” you shrugged. “I wasn’t good enough.”

“That is not-“ your eyes widened slightly at the growl in his voice. He restarted with a deep breath. He shook his head again, chuckling at an unspoken joke before handing the sketchbook back to you finally.

“I’m not going to pretend I know shit about art. But if I know anything it’s that you’re good enough.”

You’re perfect.

There was another comfortable lull as your ears went red at the intensity of his gaze. His tongue flicked over lips in a nervous tick. Before you could register what was happening, his lips found your cheek. Gone quickly but the tingle on your skin remained. His large frame filled the truck’s doorway as he leaned over you.

“Ride with me today?” He asked.

“Sure. I’d like that,” you responded with a coy smile. The corner of his own mouth ticked upward in a lopsided grin. He leaned away with a short nod and he was gone.

[my-lovelies-etc]

Chasing the feeling . . .⟡ ݁₊ ˚⊹ ᰔ

Scott Miller x fem!reader

wc: 4.31k

warning: Fluff, 18+,Smut, Plot with some porn

Summary: Mr. MIT meets his match when a new teammate joins Stormpar. (Y/N) (L/N), a young genius fresh out of Caltech, has had a passion for the science of weather since childhood. Till the age of twelve, she would stay every summer with her grandparents in Oklahoma.

When her school realized she belonged in advanced courses, her parents threw her into every opportunity possible. They claimed she was too good for normalcy and "blessed with a gift that shouldn't waste it on running around the fields." Shortly after her grandparents passed, but not before leaving the deed of their house to her. The resentment built up over the years combined with her grief finally bubbled over. She swiftly finished her double Major in engineering and meteorology, left California and didn't bother to look back.

You're phone buzzed repeatedly with the mass amounts of texts and calls from your parents. It was evident their concern was wanning by the tone of their texts. From "Come home honey, focus on your career we just want what's best for you." to downright threats, "You owe us your life, come back NOW." Emphasis on the NOW. It was the whole reason you were leaving. They couldn't help themselves by trying to live out their dreams through you. But this was your life not theirs. Your parents were going to have to learn the hard way. "The plane with be ready for take off momentarily. I ask all passengers to fasten their seat belts, secure your bags under the seat in front of you, and please turn all devices on airplace mode. Thank you." With a huff you turned silenced your phone and tucked it into the seat pocket in front of you. It would be a long flight, but you were ready for this new adventure. Fortunately after graduating an old friend reached out about a job working with him at Stormpar.

It wasn't a glorious position, nor did it pay enough for someone with your resume, but it was perfect for what you needed. Time away from your parents with a steady income and a way to come back to the only place that felt like home.

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the growing headache forming, and let the vibrations of the plane soothe you to sleep.

Javi had texted you he was already at the entrance of the terminal waiting for you. Not wasting any time, you grabbed your bags and jogged to the exit. There he was in all his glory, holding up a handmade sign with your last name on it. Pasted half-hazardly were silly pictures of you from childhood. There was you and Javi with your arms slung around him in front of a cake with 8 candles on it. Next to it was a picture of you and your grandparents in the kitchen making lemonade. Right beside that was the makeshift lemonade stand you had together. It wasn't successful only making a few dollars, but you remember the excitement of buying ice ceam with the only money you've ever made.

You ran to him, grabbed the sign, and threw your arms around him. It had been years since you saw Javi. No longer was the lanky kid with long curly hair. Before you stood a well-kept corporate man whom you no longer recognized. You missed him regardless. There was a time when you would have considered him your best friend.

"Hi Javi." You beamed. He matched your smile and patted your head. "Nice seeing you again (Y/N)." He wasn't sure if you were going to accept or not, but was overjoyed when you did. It was the perfect chance to reconnect with an old friend. He knew something had happened that made you go back to Cali, but didn't know what exactly. Next think he knew your LinkedIn said Caltech grad with multiple degrees, club president of 5 orgs, and 2 internships completed.

He helped you load your suitcase into the trunk before holding the passenger door open. "I hope you're ready for the season (Y/N) it's going to be fun but a lot of work." He informed you. "I got a great team out here, these guys are the real deal."

You smiled with excitement and looked at your surroundings. No more were the congested roads heavily populated with tourist, palm trees, and cars. Your vision filled with grass fields and old towns. It was a nice change of scenery. You arrived at a small, shoddy red red-painted motel and cringed at the sight. Not wanting to be ungrateful for this opportunity you chose to suck it up, keeping a tight smile on your face. Javi helped you carry your bags to your room and handed you your keycard. "Here's your card, don't lose it. Its the only one you get." He laughed as you took the card from his hands. "And tomorrow we're heading out at 8, so be ready by 7! Get some sleep, we've got a long day ahead of us." He shouted while backing away to his room. Although he looked like a new man, he was the same old Javi you knew as a kid. Waking up early was never troublesome for you. You ran like clockwork, jogging at 5 in the morning, reading/studying until 7, and then finally getting ready for the day. After your run you felt a pair of eyes on you. Looking up to the 3rd floor of the motel your eyes met a man looking through his window. Usually, it would have creeped you out, but this man was handsome. Despite being far away, you could tell he was tall and built. He wore prossessional attire and you sure were a sucker for a man in uniform. Back in your room you fulfilled the rest of your routine, shower, skincare, and then braiding your hair in a singular french that ran down the side of your neck.

Stormpar provided you with a uniform top that buttoned all the way up. The shirt felt too small around the chest and was too long on your torso. Annoyed you tucked the lower half into your fitted shorts. There was nothing to do about the way the fabric stretched over your chest. A safety pin would have to do for now. You slide on your boots and grabbed a windbreaker from the closet before heading to the diner, your long braid swaying with each step. "(Y/N)! you're here, come meet the team." Javi waved. You took in each person, memorizing their face and name. "You'll never work with a more talented team. Look, we got PhDs from NASA, FEMA, NOAA, NWS." He patted his teammate's shoulder. "Wow you've got the whole alphabet!" "Only the best, and this is Scott. He went to MIT instead of Muskogee State, but he makes up for it with his beautiful, amazing personality." Javi patted the taller man on his shoulder. When you made eye contact with the sarcastic smile, you instantly recognized him as the man from the window.

"Well if it isn't the peep I saw on my run." You jested. Scott's smile immediately turned into a frown as Javi's mouth dropped. "I was just looking to see the crazy making all that racket at 5am." He argued. You smiled and patted his arm gently. "Just trying to keep in shape." You tilted your head innocently. "And MIT is nice, it was my safe school. I'll see you guys outside." You grabbed your coffee before he could argue and left the two standing shocked. Scott tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach at your teasing and touch. He scoffed and turned to Javi, "Real nice one YOU picked out."

You stirred your coffee looking at the horizon as the rest of the team joined you. Javi spoke up first, "I was thinking you ride with Scott. He's positioned in the back of the tornado, it's less risky for your first ride." You nodded, the nerves simmering in your stomach. Scott smirked at you as he passed you to the truck. He was definitely going to try to get under your skin after that introduction. He didn't need a distraction like you on the team; you probably weren't even going to be that helpful. His thoughts were interrupted as you hopped in the truck. He couldn't help his eyes darting to your chest as it bounced at the movement, a slip of blue lace peaking through the gaps of the buttons. He gulped and turned his eyes back to the horizon. You strapped yourself in and beamed at your partner. "Let's go Scotty! We got some rubber to burn." He snapped to you with a fierce gaze, "Don't call me Scotty." He warned. It only made you smile more. "Okay, Sugar lips lets get going." He rolled his eyes and stepped on the gas. Your eyes widened as you saw the tornado take shape in front of you. Grabbing your camera out of the back, you opened the window and leaned out to take some photos. | "Get back in here, it's dangerous!" Scott yelled, but you couldn't care less. The thrill felt amazing. This is what you had been waiting for. You felt your seatbelt yank you back in as you turned to look at the culprit. A surge of adrenaline passed through your skin as you eyes met his burning gaze. "Do as I tell you." He commanded. You giggled before moving your lips right by his ear. "Make me." you whispered and threw your back against the seat, taking in the view once more. Scott's hand tightened on the wheel before letting out a scoff. Of course, you were a reckless one, with those short shorts and sarcastic attitude. He wondered how long he could last with someone like you on the team. The two of you got into position before running to the back of the van to set the radar in place. Scott pulled up his mic, "Scarecrow in position."

A few moments passed before Javi's voice came staticky through the headset. "The tornado ran off course, I wasn't able to get the data." Scott threw his earbuds on the dash and ran a hand over his face. "Hey, don't worr,y we'll get it next time." He smacked his fist over the wheel, scaring you in the process. "No, it needs to be...." He took a deep breath and sat in silence. Sensing he needed some time you didn't push it any further. When you pulled into the parking lot, Scott immediately got out leaving you to wonder what his deal was. This was the first run of the season; there would be more chances. Javi jogged up to you as you stepped out of the van. "Hey (Y/N) how was your first storm chase?" Despite his smile, you could tell he was disappointed in himself for not getting the data. "It was exciting, thrilling, definitely better than working in the labs all day long." Javi was happy that his friend was enjoying herself. It was a nice change of attitude from the stress of Stormpar and the guilt of losing his friends long ago.

You didn’t mean for it to happen. You just couldn’t sleep. A bad habit developed from your days of overworking and overstudying. You were always going to be younger than your classmates, which meant you had to work twice as hard to earn their respect and trust. People looked down at you not just for your age but also for your gender. It was a necessity for you to be able to prove yourself.

Developing insomnia was a consequence of your actions. And now here you were watching Scott get verbally abused by the owner of Stormpar. It was triggering, reminding you of how your parents would lecture you about needing to be better because of your “gift”. You felt guilty. Sure Scott was an ass at times but he didn't deserve to be ridiculed so loudly like that. You watched as Scott bowed his head at every comment. It made your heart heavy.

Scott glanced behind Riggs’ shoulder to see your form under the dim lamplight. He could see your eyes welling with tears and hands held to your chest. Why were you so upset, and what were you doing out so late? It wasn’t until you ran down the steps in his direction that he realized that you were upset watching the interaction.

Before you could reach him he nodded to Riggs finishing the conversation and moved past him, blocking your path.

“Scott, he was-” you blubbered through the tears. But before you knew it your face was submerged in a strong chest. The smell of cologne, pine, and spice filled your nose. A large hand ran through the back of your head and through your hair. “Shhh. I know. It’s okay. Thank you for coming.” You laughed slightly at the irony that you were coming here to comfort him.

You wiped away tears from you eyes and looked up into his blue orbs. “Are you alright?”

Unlike his usual hard facade his heart twinged at your concern. He hadn’t met anyone so empathetic before . “I’m just fine. Thank you for coming to check on me.” He wiped a few stray tears from your eyes. “Are you okay? Why are you crying.”

You felt embarrassed for getting so emotional. He was 9 years older than you for the love of god and here you were sobbing jn his arms like a child. “I’m fine it just… reminded me of something. My emotions got the best of me.”

Scott sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to get anything else out of you. “Alrigh,t well let me walk you to your room at least, my knight in shining armor.” You laughed at his attempt to joke and nudged his stomach while trying to ignore the way your fingers felt against his hard core. "Get some rest (Y/N) we have a long day." He hesitated at the end like he wanted to say more. You could see the internal argument he was having with himself, but he just turned around and made his way back to his room. Your heart sank with disappointment and embarrassment. Pushing away those feelings you closed the door, unaware that the minute you did he turned to look back staring at your room.

The next morning you followed your same routine. “(Y/N)” a familiar voice called to you while you were stretching.

“Scott.” You called softly, giving him a small smile. Boy he was a vision in the morning. Scott wore a grey dry-fit shirt paired with black joggers, his signature hat perfectly covering his dark waves. He waved at you with his water bottle in hand, “Mind if I join you this morning?” You grinned shyly and patted his cheek, “Of course, handsome, let’s see if you can keep up.”

And of course he was able to keep up. Scott was at peak fitness. The two of you jogged in a comfortable silence keeping pace. Occasionally your eyes would draw to him as if there was a magnetic attraction keeping your gaze on him. Feeling your eyes he turned to you, with one of his award-winning smiles. It made your heart beat faster. “What?” He questioned.

You blushed, “Nothing,” which only added to his cocky attitude.

“So…what made you want to join me?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to try out morning jogs myself.” Liar. He was lying to you and himself. After last night, he thought about you more. The way you shed tears for someone like him. Scott knew he wasn’t the best man. He was arrogant and dismissive; he worked for a company that benefited from the misfortune of others. But there you were last night, crying for him.

You rolled you eyes and sped up past him.

“Hey wait for me!”

At breakfast Javi could tell the energy between the two of you had changed. No longer did Scott harden his gaze at you, but there was a definite softness. He held the door open, pulled out your chair, and made sure to thoroughly explain the plans to you. He’d never seen his partner like this.

“Hey Scott come here, I wanna talk to you.” Scott turned to you and signaled you to wait for him as he made his way over to Javi. “What’s up man?”

“Did you sleep with her?” Javi accused. Scott's eyes widened.

“What the fuck? No of course not. I wouldn’t jeopardize the team like that.” He denied. It was true he didn’t sleep with you, but boy did he think about it.

Javis judgmental gaze ran over Scott then back to you. “You’re acting different? Did something happen? You can tell me.”

“Nothing happened man. We went for a jog together this morning and nothing just talked. I realized she wasn’t as bad as I thought she was okay? Now I gotta get back to work.” He turned and made his way back to you. Your eyes lit up at Scott, which didn’t go unnoticed by Javi. He worried about you. Javi had just gotten you back and not you were acting different. Maybe he didn't know you as well as he thought he did.

The loud reving of an engine broke you out of your daze as you and Scott prepped the Van. “Who are they?”

“Hillbillies with a YouTube channel.” He rolled his eyes.

Their main star emerged from the red truck.

“If you chase it!” He yelled.

“Feel it!” The crowed shouted back.

Scott’s chest blocked your view of the tornado wranglers. “Come on let’s get in the truck.” With his hand against the small of your back he guided you into the van.

After a few minutes into your drive you placed your hand on his thigh. “Don't worry Scott we’ll get that data today.”

He clenched his jaw and grabbed your hand, “Thank you.”

The moment was interrupted when a red truck came barreling beside you, almost knocking your car off track.

Instinctively Scott’s hand flew to your chest making sure you weren’t jolted from the force.

Your heart beat fasted as his large hand covered you. The heat from his palm made your core stir as your blood rushed to your cheeks. “Scott?”

He brought his hand down and moved a stray hair out of your face. “Are you alright? They could’ve fucking hit us and hurt you.” He was furious.

“I’m fine Scott don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?! That reckless driving could’ve have seriously hurt you.” He clenched his jaw tightly. As if he didn’t already dislike Tyler Owens, he hated the idea of you being hurt.

The rest of the drive was in silence. And as if it could be any worse your team did not get the data thanks to the Wranglers' interference.

You knew Scott was furious. That man wore his emotions all over his face. You could practically feel the heat radiating off him.

“I’m sorry Scott.”

He scoffed. What did you have to be sorry for. You did you part, you help recode the radar, you actually valued and listened to his input, you showed him kindness. The hell was wrong with you.

“Whatever we’ll just try again tomorrow.”

The team was tense. Failure after failure took a toll on everyone. But the only person you cared for right now was the man currently brooding on the couch next to you.

After you guys had gotten back to the motel, you offered Scott time to help make the next plan. He appreciated your efforts.

You weren’t lazy. He had seen that through your tireless work to plot and replot the data, cross-checking the weather, re-reading the radar scans. He admired that about you.

With a sigh you pushed the laptop onto the table and leaned your head back on the sofa. “I can’t look at that screen anymore. It’ll burn holes in my eyes.” You turned to Scott, who was currently chewing away at that Trident gum he always had with him. His jawline flexed as you dragged your eyes down his face to his neck.

Now it was his turn to push his laptop away. “You’re right we need a break. It’s just that Riggs is expecting progress and we’ve barely made a dent.”

You bit your lip. It was a tough situation and you couldn’t bear to see Scott so stressed. You got up and walked behind the couch and rest your hands on his shoulders.

“What are you-” before he could finish his sentence, you pushed your hands down on his shoulders massaging firmly at the knots held rigid under his shirt.

Scott’s eyes fluttered shut as you made your way from his shoulders to his neck to his shoulder blades.

A deep moan slipped from his lips as you elbowed a particularly large knot in his back.

“You’re fucking amazing.” He commented.

Your scent was invigorating. He could feel himself hardening are your touch and your smell. You were so close he could practically feel your chest against his back.

He felt his need bubbling up.

Turning around, he grabbed your wrists and stood up. You feared he was upset that you had gone too far. But instead he leaned in a kissed you. It wasn’t slow or gentle but rough and needy.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he lifted you up. The warm of your core on his cock made him shiver. And against better judgment, he gently laid you on the bed not breaking contact.

He knew he shouldn’t. You were his coworker, Javi’s friend this could jeopardize the team. But he was just a man, and you were a beautiful woman inside and out. How could he deny that? It was complicated, but in the moment, the answer was simple.

You moaned as he thrust his hips into yours.

“Do you want this?” He looked at you sincerely.

“Yes. I’m sure.” He kissed your cheek and made his way down your neck.

“You’re gorgeous. How did I get so lucky?”

“Probably that amazing personality.” You giggled.

He chucked against your skin before running his hands under your shirt. Quickly, you stripped off your top as did he, before engaging in another heated kiss.

Your hands fiddled with his belt, hearing the satisfying click. He was kicking his pants on the ground and looked back at you. You sat up and pulled his briefs down letting his cock spring foward. It was throbbing and stood tall in your face. You looked up into his eyes just to see his gaze boring into you as if he were looking straight through.

Tentatively, you wrapped a hand around him. Up down. Up down. His expression turned to one of pleasure as he lowered himself down on you. Up down. Up down. You pumped his cock gently in your hand before bringing it down to rub against your wet slit. His head nudged between your lips, making you both shiver. "Scott, tell me what you want." You looked up at him longingly. He was beautiful. You watched him breathe heavily. "I want to fuck you." Your body was on fire from your toes to your chest. The movement of his bare cock grinding against you. Desire poured out of his skin. He kissed your jawline and sucked on your neck. You gasped and closed your eyes as his hand drew down your butt grabbing firmly. He lifted your hips up and slowly slid in the tip. "More!" You grabbed the back of his hair. He sheathed himself in your heat and groaned, grabbing the headboard behind you. It had been a while since he last fucked anyone, but you were different in the way you held yourself to high standards and gave passionately to the people around you. You had caught him in your web; he was undeniable attracted to you, mind, body, and soul. Scott fucked you like it was the last thing he was ever going to do on Earth. He was rough, but that was just the way you liked it. He took charge thrust hard and fast, occassionalty letting aa hand slip down to rub your clit. Your moans echoed across the room, combined with the sound of the bed squeaking and skin slapping. He filled you up, you could feel him through your lower core. Scott pressed a hand firmly on your abdomen. "Feel that baby? That's me inside of you. You feel so good, I might never pull out." He closed his eyes and rutted in you over and over. With your last ounce of strength you pushed him over next to you, not letting his cock slip out. You forced his shoulders down and began moving up and down. He watched you smile down at him while your chest bounced, he could've cum right then and there if he didn't have self control. You rode him for what seemed like hours before you felt the familiar build up in pussy. "Scott im gonna cum!" You squeezed your eyes shut. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look down. "No open your eyes, look at me while you cum." You stared back down at him. His eyesbrows furrowed as your pussy clenched around him. "Fuck," He moaned as his hands over for you're hips.

You clenched once more before letting yourself cream around him, his semen filling you up and dripping out of your cunt With deep and heavy breaths, you fell onto his chest, his arms naturally wrapping around you. "Scott?" You lifted your head to look at him. "Yes (Y/N)?" He stroked your hair with one hand. "Are...is this a one-time thing?" You asked nervously. Maybe you should have asked before, but you were too caught up in the moment. As much as you wanted to savor the peace, it was something that had to be asked. Scott sat up at your question. "What no, I mean unless you want it to be." You smiled at him and shook your head. "No, believe it or not, I like you, Scott, no matter how much of a stick in the mud you are." You punched his shoulder gently.

"I'd like to keep seeing you (Y/N), but maybe..." His eyes drift to the side. "Maybe let's keep it from the team for now. I don't want them getting any thoughts or questioning your position." You nodded your head. "I agree." Lying back in his arms, the two of you slept comfortably as if life had always been like this.

Pt2?

Unedited : This was probably the longest fanfic I've written and its been a while so sorry for the mistakes T-T Ill come back to edit this when I had fresh eyes.

Side note can't believe the filmmakers tried to make us focus on Glenn Powell when fine shyt was right in front of us.

[my-lovelies-etc]

to be known - scott miller (twisters) x reader

synopsis: scott can't grapple with the fact that you've ended your tornado chasing fling with him. content: fluff, angst, argument, scott's an asshole duh, mentions of smut but nothing detailed, drinking/bar environment author's note: niche character time yayyyyy

the past year has been nothing but record outbreaks of tornadoes across the alley. for a month, you've been jumping back and forth between oklahoma, kansas, nebraska, and arkansas, chasing the storms that you had spent your life studying, understanding, learning, loving. your family hated what you did, going out and researching these things on your own, collecting enough data to begin your doctoral study on them. but each time you pulled into gas stations and motels collected with your little community of chasers, you felt at home.

of course, you liked some groups more than others. it was natural. tyler owens and his tornado wranglers were rather tolerable, using their money towards supporting broken towns and families. that group out of florida who drove around some rigged subaru were friendly, offering you to sit with them at dinner. then there were the tourists from england who were way out of their league, but kept to themselves mostly.

and then there was storm par. the corporatized storm chasers who collected data not to understand the weather phenomenons that so often wrecked southern america, but to profit from them. to sell land to their millionaire investors. to use their highly advanced equipment to take advantage of vulnerable people.

you ran into them more often than not, much to your dismay. you sat a reasonable distance from the tornadoes, jotting down notes from the bed of your truck about the striations of clouds and the conditions of the sky that led to the dark funnels forming. and then, four storm par vehicles would speed by, nearly sending your truck toppling each time, kicking up red dust on you.

assholes was what they were. especially scott miller, their co-leader next to javi who was essentially his exact opposite.

at the beginning, he looked at you with a smug confidence painted on his face, gum snapping in his mouth annoyingly. he thought your research would never get off the ground. when you came back the next year with a fully funded program in your belt, he shut up, but still watched you from afar with a look on his face you hated.

and then one night, something changed. it was like a tornado. perfect conditions that all equaled to something explosive. life-changing. it was a bottle of wine that had been sitting in your fridge that made you release the grip your hatred for him had on you. it was heavy winds outside the motel that drug every chaser out to their balconies. it was you looking over to see him in the room next door. it was the seltzer javi convinced him to have with him at a bar. it was the way his eyes glanced down your figure in nothing but a university t-shirt and shorts. it was the way his biceps looked in some god damned muscle tank top.

you still hate him, rest assured. but he was so good, you couldn't only see him once. you saw him throughout the rest of the year when your motels lined up.

it's a simple transaction between the two of you. he gives a faint knock on your door, leans against the frame, and gives you this stupid smirk that has your thighs clenching together. and then he crowds you onto the bed, fucks you till you're shaking and he's spent, then he leaves with little more than a goodbye. it was that easy. or, it was supposed to be that easy.

you caught yourself at the tail end of last tornado season thinking about him more. and when you drove from oklahoma to your hometown, all you could think about was him. he's been plaguing you since then. months have gone by where you've thought him at night time, hands working yourself to a half-assed finish, disappointed that it wasn't his skilled precision doing it.

this time, you knew you had to end it. you had to stop things with him. he was an asshole. he made it abundantly clear that what he wanted from you was a casual fuck. he wasn't a relationship man. he was too married to work to worry about commitment. but if he fucked you and kissed you like he always did, you worried you wouldn't let him leave so easy every night.

and that's an embarassing, scary thought.

luckily for you, storm par got a late start this season. they hadn't arrived until weeks into the season. you overheard one of their members in the gas station grumbling about scott putting off going, claiming it was a budget thing, a prototype thing, a timing thing. it made you wonder, if just for a fleeting moment, that he was putting off seeing you again.

the first day you saw him was in the field. what seemed to be an ef3 was forming in the farmlands of enid and everyone rushed out, hoping to catch a glance at the large funnel forming in the sky. you parked your truck about a mile from the path, watching with calculations already forming in your mind about the wind speed and the duration. dopplers beeped on a computer next to you, but you didn't bother to look at them.

and then, like it was something out of your nightmares, scott's truck pulled up next to you in a rush. he and another member jumped out, funny goggles on their face and white polos getting blown with the red dust of the road. you watched with disinterest as they pulled out their machines and locked them into the ground.

and then, as the tornado chugged along the road, scott looked back and connected your eyes. your stomach dropped. he got a haircut, that was for sure. and had his arms grown in the last year?

he didn't bother to greet you, but instead turned around, watching as the funnel slowly dissipated, turning into nothing but a few extra gusts of wind. with a slam of his hand against the trunk of the car, he hoisted the par into the back on his own. it was a view almost sinful.

he, nor his partner, said anything as they got back into the car. he did, however, give you a final glance before he drove off. it said something, you were certain. but you didn't have time to question it as he drove off too fast and too reckless.

that night, you heard the familiar sound of his knuckles hitting your motel door. you took a breath, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you debated even answering it. how he had even figured out this was your door, you'll never know. you tried to disconnect from his smirk, tried to forget about how good he made you feel. how he had shown up in your daydreams and fantasies since seeing him last.

you had made the decision to call it weeks ago. but seeing him made that action a lot harder. he knocked again and this time, you got up from the bed.

"hello?" you asked as you pulled the door open. he stood away from the door, eyes roaming the expanse of motel rooms all booked with sleeping chasers. he turned around at the sound of your voice and you could've swore his lips almost turned upwards in something more akin to a smile. like he was glad you answered.

"can i come in?" he asked, his deep voice sounding almost unfamiliar in your ears.

you didn't answer him, but opened the door wider, allowing him entry into your room. he was wearing some worn t-shirt from a sports team you didn't recognize and sweatpants. gray ones. his hair was still damp, like he had just gotten out of the shower and the smell of his body wash flooded your nose. it was masculine, warm, hot.

ending this would be a lot harder than you thought.

"you got a late start this season," you said, attempting to break the thick tension in the room.

he turned to look at you, eyes half-darkening. he popped his gum in the back of his mouth. you knew it was cinnamon from the scent alone. "yeah," he answered simply. "had to wait on some new prototypes. better ones."

you nodded, pursing your lips a little. you glanced around your room awkwardly, bouncing on the balls of your feet. you could feel his eyes roaming your body clad in pajamas. you were sure he could smell the floral scent coming from your shower.

your feet were planted, bolted to the rug, unable to move while the weight of your next words played over and over in your head. you watched with bated breath as he stepped closer and you knew you had to do it soon. like now. now. now. now.

just as he lifted his arm to brush your hair back from your shoulders, you spoke up. "i can't do this anymore," you said.

he backed up, looking at your eyes with confusion lacing his expression. his eyebrows knitted together and he stopped chewing his gum. "what do you mean?"

you shook your head at his question. "i mean i can't do this anymore. meet up with you. these flings. these one-night stands. i don't want it anymore."

his feet took him back a few steps, creating healthy distance between the two of you. "okay," he said, dragging out the last syllable. "are you gonna give a reason why?"

you shrugged, unable to give him the real answer. the answer of "yeah, i've been thinking about you and your stupid muscles and stupid attitude and stupid lips and stupid body and i worry that if i keep fucking you, i'm going to want to be your girlfriend and get heart broken when that's not what you want from me." you opted instead for, "i just don't like hook ups. it was fun, but it's not me."

he nodded and you could've swore there was some kind of disappoint that flashed across his eyes. maybe you imagined it, you weren't sure. "that's fine," he said deadpan. he started to leave and wrapped his large hand around the doorknob. he pulled, then looked back to you. "see you out tomorrow." then he walked out and shut the door behind him.

you practically deflated as he left, feeling that well-known lump rise in the back of your throat. you thought it wouldn't affect you like this. but then some cruel thing in your mind reminded you that you'd never feel his touch again, or his lips on yours again. you wonder if you would rather have him in some superficial, heart-clencing way, or never have him again.

you think it might be the first. it's too late now.

when scott goes back to his own room, he slams the door a little too loud, surely waking up the person next door. it came out of nowhere. just hours ago he had seen you in the field, your hair blowing in your face, eyes locked on the threatening clouds high in the sky. he admired your lack of fear and it was a thought that kept recurring in his head since he last saw you.

and yes, there were problems with the prototypes. and riggs was on his ass about getting the data right this time or else he'd pull several hundred thousand from the budget. scott had to deal with that, all while grappling with the fact that he'd be seeing you again and that was scarier than the ef5 tornadoes promised for tornado alley this year.

he felt so stupid for letting himself develop feelings for you. he was usually so disconnected. he could separate his life from his flings. every hookup he's ever had has been passionate, but done once he left the house. with you, it was different.

with you, he had to push himself to leave your bed. he had to push your floral scent out of his head. he had to remind himself that this was supposed to be a casual thing and that you shouldn't like each other.

and then you appeared in his thoughts when he jerked off and realized he was done for. he just hadn't gathered the courage to end it like you did.

he fell back on his scratchy, uncomfortable motel bed, hands on either side of his head in distress. why was he so torn up about this? it shouldn't matter.

he turned off the bedside lamp and pulled the comforter over his lower half. he shut his eyes, desperate to forget about the night and especially forget about you. but every time he got close to sleep, he was plagued with images of your smile in the gas station or your focused gaze out on the road. he thought about how good you were and how awful he was for what he was doing.

scott miller was screwed and he knew it too. he didn't sleep much that night.

some random chaser out of texas invited you out to a bar with her friends the next night. was your moping truly that noticeable? you said yes, of course you did. you needed scott out of your head. really, you needed him miles away in the distance, but until the season ended, he'd only be a short drive from you every day.

you hadn't bothered with really trying to dress well, considering it was just some local dive bar filled with tourists. what you wanted was some drinks, a little socialization, and go home.

you'd only been there for thirty minutes, only one shirley temple in deep, when javi and two other storm par members came in. a minute later, scott came in, clearly disinterested by the environment javi no doubt drug him into. you were really positive at the moment that the world had it out for you. you really hated storm par.

you also hated just how good he looked tonight. having really only seen him in his work clothes or pajamas, you felt as though you unlocked a new facet of scott miller. he was in some jeans on top of boots. instead of a storm par polo, he put on a t-shirt with some beer logo on it and it carved him out perfectly. heads turned as they walked in and you knew eyes were on him.

just as the group found some booth in the corner, scott looked up and for a second, your eyes met. your breath hitched and you turned around immediately, desperate for another drink from the bartender.

over on the side of the bar, scott's heart thumped in his chest, both from the loud country music coming from a jukebox and from seeing you at the bar. you looked effortless. you caught attention. you took sips from your drink with the soft lips he thought about kissing last night. jesus, he needed this season to be done with.

the whole day, he was distracted. he couldn't call out orders or focus on the data they were out there to get. he replayed last night in his head. all he could feel were your hands on his body. he hadn't known, until that moment, that this was what he wanted. he wanted you.

he wanted you and your passion. you and your witty remarks. you and your specific diner orders. you and your sweet snacks and energy drinks. you with your clipboards and computers in the bed of your truck. he wanted you and everything that came with that. javi noticed he was distracted, maybe a little sad, and thought it was a good idea to go out. it was a good idea, sure. he could have found someone else to flirt with a little at the bar, but now you're here and his heart is on the floor.

"man, you've been looking like a kicked puppy all day," javi said, bumping into his side. "which is saying something since you always got this superman stoic look."

scott glanced sideways at him, shaking his head. "i'm fine," he said, though his curt tone said a little more. javi, ever observant, followed scott's previous gaze to the bar where you sat, the bartender looking at you with a smile as he handed you another mixed drink.

"hmm," javi hummed. "don't you want a beer?"

scott glanced back at the bar, then to his partner next to him. "you getting them?" he asked.

javi shook his head and scott could see gears connecting together in his head, slowly turning. "no, can you? you know, my back just hurts so bad from hitting that ditch with the truck today."

scott sat there frozen, unwilling to head to the bar.

"unless, there's a reason you don't want to head to the bar."

scott looked at javi, his eyes widening just a fraction. he got it. he knew he did. "jesus, javi, don't you stop worrying about other people?" he asked, that same mean tone he usually carried slipping through. javi didn't take it personally, though, just leaned in more to scott so their conversation was quieter.

"she's a good girl," he said. "what's going on with that?"

scott stood up quickly, adjusting his shirt in the process. "nothing," he said. "i'll get the damn drinks." his large frame pushed through the crowds of people till he reached the bar. unfortunately for him, the only spot free was just a few stools down from you. he could smell your perfume, hear the ice in your drink clinking around. in some other world where things were easier and he wasn't so complicated, he'd go up and confess everything and head home with you.

in this world, though, he stood there quietly, trying so hard not to look in your direction.

you were trying to as well, focusing on the cherry in your drink that kept swirling around with your straw. scott, in his casual clothes and gelled hair, stood just a few feet from you and you couldn't give him that look that told him to come to your room later. you'd never get that again. you took a sip of your drink as scott ordered a couple beers for his group.

as he left, your eyes betrayed your mind and you watched him. he looked back, feeling eyes on him and he paused. he stood for a second, looking at you, and then walked away.

"jesus," you whispered, putting your head in your hands. with a wave of your hand, you called the bartender over and paid your tab quickly. you stood from the bar and headed outside, desperate for some air to clear your thoughts.

several minutes passed of deep breaths and watching the night sky. clouds formed and very distantly, thunder clapped. you knew tomorrow would be a busy day and that you should head home, but something kept your feet planted on the ground.

you knew what it was when the door to the bar swung open suddenly and you could've laughed when you saw scott walk out, rubbing a hand down his face like he was just as frustrated as you. when he turned around, he laughed, he really did.

instead of going back inside, he leaned against the wall across the door, keeping a far distance from you. the two of you played a stupid game of looking up, then looking down, then looking up.

unable to tolerate it anymore, you pushed yourself from the wall and went to head to your truck parked down the way, but then a firm hand wrapped around your wrist and you looked back, connecting eyes with scott.

"yes?" you asked, ripping your wrist from his grasp.

"i-uh," he started to say something, but stopped. "i'm sorry."

you looked at him shocked, as if you thought he'd never been capable of saying the words sorry. like he was too self conceited to do so. his jaw clenched and he took a short breath in and out.

"what is it, scott?" you asked, tired of his glances and looks. you thought in that moment that maybe you'd make it a point to never go to the same storms and locations storm par was. maybe you'd find tornadoes further north. maybe you could change your research purpose and find something new. just to be able to leave the grip he had on you.

"what are you doing tonight?" he tried. his voice was as casual as he could make it, as if he didn't want to convey through his voice the hope that you'd come back to him and forget your words. that he would be what you want.

you shrugged, finding his words out of character. "i don't know," you said honestly. "go to sleep. get an early start for tomorrow."

he nodded, glancing down at the ground. before you, scott would never act this way. he wouldn't be shy or unconfident or a beat around the bush kind of guy. he'd ask if you wanted to come back to his room still. he'd put on that smug smirk and his muscles would flex a little and he'd brush hair from your face with gentle, but firm hands. you changed him and god, he hated it.

"i'm gonna go," you told him, stepping away with an attempt at resolve.

"wait!" he said before thinking about it. he winced at your quick turn around, at the frustration clear on your face.

"what is it, scott?" you asked, biting down on your lip hard to keep from a tear slipping down your cheek at the way he looked at you then. you wondered what was going through his head. you noticed the break in his rough exterior and breathed out. "are you gonna say something or-"

"jesus," he breathed out, wiping a hand down his face roughly. he took strong steps towards you, his face set strong. "are you oblivious?"

you looked at him in shock, offense written on your face as clear as day. "excuse me? just because i broke it off doesn't give you a reason to be an asshole to me again."

"that's not--i'm sorry. okay? i didn't mean to say that," he said, hands reached out as if that would placate anything. "this is just fucking hard for me."

"what's hard, scott?" you ask.

his blue eyes bore into you and you were sure that a minute longer, you'd have a hole straight through your chest. "this! this is hard. talking to you. being around you. trying to be honest with you because i haven't felt this way for anyone else, yeah? so just bear with me for a damn second."

your heart dropped straight through your body and you were sure that if you looked on the ground, it'd be beating there, quicker than the winds you'd been dealing with for the past weeks.

"i don't know why you called this off," he started. "but i don't like it. i've been thinking about this and about you since last year. you keep making your way into my thoughts and i keep trying to push you out, but then i see you on the side of the road and i short circuit and i forget everything i'm here for. i don't want this to end."

"scott, i told you that i don't want to hookup anymore. i don't like it. i don't want that with you."

"then what do you want?" he asked, hands wrapping around yours that were hanging lazily by your side. "what can i do?"

"scott, just stop. this isn't what we need-"

"i know what i need. i need you," he said, voice breathy and frustrated. his jaw tightened and his eyes were practically unblinking. his chest rose and fell quickly. if you looked close enough, you could see the faintest shake in his fingers. he might've been scared in that moment.

"you don't know what i need. you don't need me, scott."

"i know you. i know you like sweet tea in the diner and you like it extra sweet with sweet-n-low packets. i know you keep cough medicine in your hotel room because the dust makes you sick every year. i know you watch sitcoms on bad storm days that shake you too much. i know you're scared your grant might lose funding if you don't get good results this year. i know you like hotels with balconies so you can read at sunrise before going out. i know that lightning scares you. i know you hate storm par and everything we do. i know you hate our polos and our stupid trucks and sometimes me."

he took a big breath, as if he had just torn out his heart straight from his chest and placed it in your hands.

"i don't hate you," you whispered, your voice heavy and full of emotion. "do you really notice that much about me?

he nodded. "you're all i've been able to look at and think about for the past year."

you smiled a little, just the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. instead of fighting back the lump in your throat, you let your eyes water and one tear slipped down your cheek. you wiped it quickly and sniffed, looking up at scott with a kind of renewed sense of love. "i didn't want to end anything," you confessed. "i was...i was having feelings for you. i never wanted you to leave when you came over. i wanted to wake up next to you. i wanted to see outside of all this. but i thought you'd never want that. so i ended it before i got hurt."

he let out a dry chuckle. "yeah, i used to not want that. but god, you just had to come in and change everything, huh?"

you smiled at that, copying his small chuckle. you breathed out, glancing to the side, then back to his bright blue eyes. "i do hate storm par. you're right. and i hate those polos. and your stupid trucks."

"i'll make sure we don't kick up any more dust in your way, okay? and i'll switch to the t-shirt more."

you nodded. "and you'll spend the night with me? not run off?"

"i don't think i ever want to leave your side again," he said, the grip he had on your hands tightening. "let me drive you back to the motel?"

you eagerly nodded, giving him a wide smile that he actually returned. his eyes roamed over you, not with the lust they used to, but with adoration, with the knowledge that you wanted this too. he moved one of his hands down to interlace your fingers together and he led you over to the stupid storm par truck to take you back home. to that motel with scratchy sheets where he could show you the things he'd been dreaming about for months.

you'd come get your truck in the morning, but for now, you could only focus on scott's firm grip on your hand, even as he drove. things felt a lot easier now. you glanced sideways at scott to see a permanent, small smile on his lips and you copied it with your own.

[my-lovelies-etc]

steady hands, soft ruin

summary: he doesn't look at you anymore. but still, you watch.

series: part 2 to “your eyes, like shadows”

pairing: Silco x Reader

w/c: 4.2k

notes: tropes, guys. so many tropes. i make no apologies, and hope you love them as much as i do. ahead is canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries, gun use, kissing, YEARNING!!! i love this man so much

read on ao3: here

He doesn't look at you anymore.

At least, not that you can catch. But, sometimes you swear you can feel it—a weight pressing against you, an attention that vanishes the second you dare to meet it. You convince yourself you’re imagining things; the shift in his posture, the slight dip of his head when you enter the room.

He doesn't speak to you beyond necessity, either—not that he ever filled the office with words. He was always quiet, measured, never indulgent with conversation. But before…before that night, his silence felt different. Less distant, less deliberate.

Now, when you ask a question, he responds. His responses are curt. Efficient. Devoid of anything extra. You follow directives, fulfill tasks, take notes. There is no hesitation, no wasted words. It’s not that he’s ignoring you, not really. But that doesn't make it sting any less. 

And still, you feel him.

There are moments, slivers of time between one heartbeat and the next where you swear he's watching you. A presence, something that exists only in the air between you. But when you lift your head, he’s always focused elsewhere. 

You try not to watch him, to respect the boundaries—the wall he has put up. You tell yourself whatever almost happened between you—the hesitation, the breath between words, the way his gaze caught on your lips—you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. If he’s made it clear it won’t happen again, then fine. You’ll respect that.

But still—you watch.

You tell yourself it’s just habit. Nothing more than what you’ve always done. But it feels like more than that, like you’re collecting glimpses of him the way someone might collect precious stones: the furrow in his brow when he's concentrating, the tightness in his jaw when he returns from a meeting gone poorly. The uneven edges of his teeth when he smiles at his daughter—rare, fleeting, but so genuine that it makes something deep inside you ache.

You would do anything to see that smile turned toward you. Just once.

The day has reached its end. Your routine has stayed mostly the same—reports finished, tasks complete. You linger briefly in the doorway, hesitating just slightly, just enough to wonder if he’ll glance up, this time. 

As always, the air carries something unspoken, something neither of you acknowledge—like a tightly drawn wire stretched between two points, humming with tension but never snapping. The weight of the past—the night that almost tipped you both into something else—sits between you like a misplaced object that neither of you move, choosing to walk around it instead. 

You wish him goodnight. Silco dismisses you with a wave—absent, uninterested. You swallow down the sting, the hollow ache that has no name. And you leave.

Outside of the office, the crowd is beginning to pick up as regulars of The Last Drop begin to file in. The air is thick and heavy, a contrast to the cool air of Silco’s office as you step through the bustling crowd, weaving through bodies as you make your way outside.

As you walk home, you give yourself the same speech you’d given in your head for weeks—that you won’t think about him anymore tonight. As always, you fail. You tell yourself not to picture his unreadable expression, not to linger on his cold dismissal. And yet, the rejection presses against you like an ache you can’t soothe.

The streets demand your focus. You finally pull your mind away, grounding you in movements you've practiced a hundred times before. 

The Undercity is never quiet, never truly empty. Shadows stretch under the dim glow of street lamps, bodies shift in alleyways, voice murmur from behind closed doors. You weave through it all with caution learned by the necessity that comes with growing in Zaun—slipping through gaps down alleyways, keeping your pace steady and purposeful.

There's a rhythm to the streets, always a predictability in the chaos.

But then—tonight—there's a shift.

The scuffle behind you isn't loud. Just a scrape, a sudden motion. But your instincts sharpen instantly, the hair on the back of your neck rising, pulse kicking into something fast and urgent.

You turn, too late. Hands grab—rough, purposeful. Unforgiving.

There's little time to react. Your fingers scramble toward the blade at your side, where it always is, but it’s useless. The faceless men coming after you are faster and stronger. More practiced at this kind of violence. You know better than to try to fight back.

You feel it: the sharp yank at the bag slung over your shoulder, a shove given with an angry snarl. The force comes suddenly, sending you sprawling—the cold, dirty ground rushing up to meet you. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, your ribs, your side. Air rips from your lungs, stolen by the impact. The world is suddenly distant, voices nothing more than muffled static and then—

It all turns black. —

You’re not sure how long you lie there.

You wake up with a pulse of agony, pain throbbing deep in your cheek, a dull roar pressing against the edges of your consciousness. You’re limp against the cold pavement, the scent of damp stone filling your nose. The city hums around you, and you stay there, caught somewhere between wakefulness and something heavier.

Whether it's been minutes or hours, you don't know.

The first inhale is shallow, trembling as your ribs ache in response. You push yourself upright with slow, careful movements, whimpering softly as your body protests. The ground is cold beneath your fingertips, rough against your skin.

You take inventory: nothing broken. That's a mercy. Your clothes are intact, nothing open or ripped. Relief settles into your bones, heavy and undeniable—this could have been worse, as it so often is in Zaun. The thought should be comforting…it isn’t.

Your bag, of course, is long gone. That at least, doesn’t matter. Nothing important was inside—just a bit of money along with a few personal effects. Nothing irreplaceable.

You press a hand against the brick wall beside you, heaving yourself onto your feet. The ache in your body makes itself known with each limping step, but you move anyway.

Home, you just need to get home. You glance back, just once, toward the empty space you had occupied, the place where strangers took what they wanted and left you with nothing but bruises. No one had stopped. No one had seen. Or if they had, they didn’t care.

You limp your way through the familiar streets, each footfall careful and deliberate. Each step causes a pain sharp enough to make your breath catch, but you don't stop. You can't. 

When you finally reach your apartment, you push the door open and quickly shut it behind you with urgency; the air inside your little home feels different. Stagnant. Lonelier than usual. 

You make your way to the bathroom, flicking on the light, finally meeting your own reflection. You’re swollen, but not terribly. Aching.

There's a scrape on your cheek, and a garish cut beneath your eye thats bleeding sluggishly. You don't have any antiseptic, just water. Still, it’s soothing against your skin as you attempt to clean the wounds.

The adrenaline coursing through your veins begins to fade, exhaustion taking its place along with something else: the weight of your survival settling. It could have been—should have been—much worse.

It should have been what you know happens to so many others in the Undercity, to so many bodies abandoned in nameless alleyways; stories that simply end without warning.

You finish cleaning up. You double-check the lock, then crawl into bed, still in your day clothes, still aching. The bed is too big, the space too empty. You press your face against the pillows and let the tears come. You don’t expect comfort. Not here. Not in this city.

Violence is just part of it—a thing that just happens, a thing you learn not to dwell on. Lying here, bruised and aching, you feel ridiculous for how shaken you still are. It wasn’t even that bad, not really. Your bones aren’t broken, the thieves didn’t take anything that mattered. You’ve heard stories worse. Seen worse. So why does the silence of your empty apartment feel so suffocating? 

You press your fingers against the scrape on your cheek, the shallow cut beneath your eye, letting the sting remind you that you’re still here. Still breathing. It helps, a little.

But as you shift beneath the covers, curling onto your side, there’s something else nagging at the edges of your thoughts. A quiet, ridiculous yearning you don’t want to name.

Because there’s no one here. Because if there was—if he was—maybe the fear wouldn’t feel quite so sharp. Maybe the emptiness wouldn’t stretch so far.

Not that it matters. Not that he would. You know better than that.

Tomorrow will come like it always does, dragging you back into the hum of work, back into the presence of someone who won’t look at you, won’t speak beyond necessity, and won’t acknowledge whatever door slammed shut between you that night. And you’ll do what you always do—show up, finish tasks, act like nothing happened. Because that’s how life works.

Still, you tug the blanket a little tighter around your frame. It doesn’t help.

But you do it anyway.

—

The next day, you’re at your desk, nearly finished with a report, trying to complete your work before he returns. The day had worked out in your favor. His schedule was packed—meetings, shimmer production site visits. Obligations that kept him away from the office, away from you. It wasn’t intentional, but it was what you needed—you weren't sure you could handle his quiet indifference today, not after what you went through.

You do feel better—less shaken, less fragile, but the night before is still there, lingering in the stiffness of your movements, the dull ache crawling across your body. The cut beneath your eye oozes slightly despite your efforts to clean it. The darkened bruises had settled deep within your skin, quiet and throbbing.

So, you buried yourself in work—let the routine pull you forward, locked into focus. It helped, made time move faster and soon the dull throb in your bones and the sting beneath your eye felt secondary. The hours passed steadily—you’re determined to finish before Silco returns, before the inevitable arrival you don’t want to face.

But fate, as always, has other plans. The door swings open—sudden and sharp, hitting the wall behind it with a loud thud.

Your body reacts before your mind does as you jump out of your skin. A sharp noise escapes you—a startled shriek that makes your skin prickle with embarrassment. The sound too raw, too vulnerable.

You recover quickly, clearing your throat, offering a quiet apology. “I’m sorry, sir.” You murmur, not daring to turn around. “It’s just…you surprised me, that's all.”

Silence. Then, a scoff. “Afraid of me now, are you?”

His words hit like an accusation, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.

“No!” You say too quickly, like a reflex.

Silence stretches over you again, heavier this time. “Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

You inhale slowly—willing your pulse to steady, trying to force the tension in your shoulders to loosen. You know this moment is inevitable. You had hoped—foolishly—that you would be gone before he returned, before he had a chance to see, to give the bruises time to fade. You sigh, there's no avoiding it now.

You push your chair back with careful deliberation, standing with measured restraint. You turn slowly, reluctantly.

Time stops.

His gaze catches you instantly. It happens fast—his expression darkening.

It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else—to someone who had spent less time studying him—the tightening in his jaw, the slow pull of his brow as he takes in every mark, every wound, every inch of damage you tried to hide. His pupils have blown wide in their fury.

He steps toward you, movements measured and controlled. You stiffen, but don’t retreat. You couldn’t if you wanted to.

His fingers brush gently against your chin, tilting your face just slightly, inspecting the injuries with a barely-contained rage that makes your stomach twist. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. Barely restrained.

“Who did this?”

“It was just a couple of thugs,” you swallow, trying to force your voice into something steady. You try to sound indifferent, as if the night previous hadn’t shaken you more than you wanted to admit. “They wanted my bag, but it’s fine. I didn’t have anything important in it—no reports or sensitive documents that would put the business at risk.”

The second the words leave you, his expression tightens. He scoffs—sharp, unimpressed, as if the very idea of your priorities insults him—like the very notion of your safely ever being secondary to paperwork is so ridiculous he doesnt even have the patience to entertain it. You suddenly feel stupid, like you had missed something.

“Sit.” He directs, nodding toward his desk.

You hesitate—only for a second—but obey, sliding onto the edge of the polished wood, watching as he moves with quiet efficiency, retrieving a cloth and a bottle of liquor from a cabinet. You shiver slightly, barely perceptible, as he steps close.

The first touch is careful. His fingers tilt your chin, angling your face toward him, his movements deliberate but light—as if he's holding back, like he doesn't trust himself not to be too harsh. The sting from the alcohol bites immediately, sharp against the broken skin, and you wince.

Silco shoots you an apologetic look before his focus hardens again, returning to his task of dabbing your wounds clean. The silence stretches, pressing into the space between you.

You watch him, you can’t help it at this point, studying the intensity in his features—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his seafoam eye remains locked onto his work while the corrupted one twitches, the orange glow flickering. You wish, more than anything, that you could read his thoughts, see whatever is sitting behind his measured control. Then—

“This is my fault.” His words are barely above a murmur, like they weren’t meant for you to hear.

Your breath catches. You shake your head quickly. “No, it isn’t–”

“You work for me.” He cuts you off, his tone is edged, leaving no room for argument. “You should have an escort home.”

There's no hesitation in his tone, no doubt. Just certainty that the idea of you walking alone at night, vulnerable to the violence of Zaun, is something unacceptable. You let out a breath, half amused, half disbelieving.

“That's ridiculous,” you say with a dismissive laugh. “I’m just a secretary.”

His expression shifts. Quiet, still. So quiet you almost miss it—

“You’re more than that.”

It wasn’t meant to be said aloud. But you know, without a doubt, that he meant it.

Your throat tightens, and before you can think better of it—before you can stop yourself—your hand moves. You place it atop his, where it rests cradling your jaw.

His fingers twitch beneath yours, just slightly. The warmth of his skin seeps into yours. His seafoam eye twitches. But he doesn’t pull away. You inhale, barely audible. “Silco…”

It slips out before you realize it—his first name. You’ve never used it before, not out loud, anyway. You had only ever referred to him as Sir, or Boss. His gaze snaps to yours, holding you there.

Then, he retreats. Your stomach twists. You should have known, should have expected it—the wall to be built back into place.

You sit frozen as he moves to the other side of the desk, you hear a drawer opening then closing. Edges of your vision begin to blur, eyes burning before you can stop it. You really don’t want to cry in front of him.

Then, he appears back in front of you—holding his hand out. You blink the tears away.

You stare at it. For a brief second, you wonder if you’re imagining things and your exhaustion has finally twisted reality into something softer than it actually is. But he doesn’t move. 

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach forward, placing your fingers into his grasp. He takes them, his grip firm and certain.

“If you’re going to work for me,” he says, calm and controlled. “You need to learn how to protect yourself.”

With that, he leads you out of the room. His grip on your hand remains—firm, unrelenting, tighter than probably necessary, but neither of you acknowledge it. You let him guide you out of his office, down the stairs, through an empty corridor to a back entrance you didn’t know about, avoiding drunken patrons of The Last Drop.

You exit the building to an empty alleyway. It's quiet and grungy. The damp scent of the undercity mixing with something stale and metallic. He only stops when you’ve both stepped fully into the empty space. Silco finally pulls away, releasing your hand with some effort.

You feel the absence of his touch, but before you can process it, Silco reaches behind himself, pulling out a pistol from the waistband of his trousers—a sleek, well-worn weapon, familiar in his calloused grip.

“You’re going to learn how to shoot.” His voice is final, steady, leaving no room for objections.

To which you immediately begin to object. “That’s—that’s really not necessary.”

He ignores you, inspecting the gun, checking the chamber with practiced ease.

“I’m not some—some henchman, or whatever. Besides, I hate guns—”

He silences your protest with a single look, his expression cocky. “It’s not wise to argue with your boss.”

You exhale, irritated, but don’t bother responding, ultimately knowing you won’t win this. He presses the pistol into your palm, the weight surprising you.

“It’s…heavy,” you mutter, adjusting your grip awkwardly.

“I’ll be getting you one of your own, soon.” The certainty in his voice makes something in your chest flutter. 

Silco steps back, nodding toward a battered wooden fence at the far end of the alley—full of bullet holes, evidence of past target practice.

“Aim.”

You lift the weapon, but your hands tremble slightly, unfamiliar with the grip. He immediately sighs in exasperation. 

“You mean to tell me you grew up in Zaun and never bothered to learn how to shoot?”

You scowl at him in return. He huffs something unflattering under his breath, having no patience for excuses. Then—he moves.

One moment he’s standing beside you, watching you with quiet irritation. The next, his body is pressed against yours—close, firm and solid. The shock of it steals your breath away.

His presence surrounds you entirely, every inch of him enveloping you, steadying you. You feel Silco’s hands wrap around your waist, traveling up your arms, adjusting your stance with easy precision.

The moment shifts, suddenly you realize: he’s never been this close. Ever.

You feel everything. The shape of him—taller than you, lean but strong. More solid than one would expect, absolutely no frailty to him. His heat settles deep against your spine. The warmth of his breath against your skin. His scent—whiskey and cigars and something expensive—envelopes you.

Your pulse trips, your fingers twitching against the cold steel. You feel him, more than hear, speak low near your ear. “Like this.”

He covers your hand with his own, adjusting your grip, steadying your aim.

You try to focus, try not to drown in the warmth of him, the closeness, the way the moment stretches too long, too charged. “Keep your eyes open.”

You realize, with a jolt, they were fluttering shut. Heat blooms beneath your skin, and you shake your head, forcing yourself to refocus. To focus on the gun in your hands rather than the way his front is pressed so completely against your back. You inhale, steadying your grip, and pull the trigger.

The gunshot cracks through the alleyway, ringing in your ears, but through the sharpness of the sound, his voice still reaches you—low, murmured, close. “Good girl.”

You exhale, pulse thrumming, adrenaline lingering. The words settle against your skin, curling deeply in places they shouldn’t reach.

His fingers remain wrapped around yours—his grip firm and unwavering. Slowly, his head dips, his warm breath settling against your hair, close enough that you feel the inhale—deliberate, like he's memorizing everything about you in this moment.

Your eyes flutter shut again. You wish you could sink into this moment and stay there.

You feel the pistol leave your hands with practiced ease, his fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it from your grip. You hear the quiet slide of metal as he tucks it back into his waistband, the motion effortless and habitual.

You brace for it—the distance. You anticipate the moment he steps back behind the unseen wall, where whatever fragile thing between you can get stitched back up before it can fully slip. It doesn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly. Unsteady in a way you aren’t used to hearing.

The words are quiet but genuine. You try to dismiss them. “I told you it wasn’t your fault,” you murmur, wanting to pull him from whatever guilt sat heavy in his chest. “You weren’t even there—”

Before you can finish, you feel him shake his head. Suddenly, you understand. He’s not talking about the attack, or your bruises, or for the near-empty streets that swallowed your pain without a second thought.

He’s speaking of everything else. The silence, the avoidance. The way his indifference had cut sharper than the hands that had thrown you to the ground. Your throat tightens, breath catching against something deep and unnamed.

Silco’s arms remain wrapped around you, firm. Grounding you. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the feeling for just a second.

“Have dinner with me.” It’s not a command, or even a request. It’s soft, inevitable. It carries the weight of knowing that declining isn’t an actual possibility—not because you can’t, but because you won’t. You never could.

You exhale, leaning back into him. Letting the tension drain from your shoulders, allowing yourself stay in his arms, for just a little while longer. “Okay.”

You feel his breath steady, the relief flooding his form. He’s still holding you. Your pulse is slow, steady, settling into the warmth of his arms which are still wrapped around you, in the quiet weight of his presence.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to look at him. Only to find Silco already looking at you as if you were something precious. Slowly, you shift, turning in his grip, fully this time, to face him entirely.

His twitches slightly at the movement, his hold adjusting instinctively, but he doesn't let go, doesn’t turn away.

Instead, his hands lift, framing your face on either side, his warm palms pressing against your skin, thumbs brushing just beneath your jaw. His touch is deliberate—more gentle on the injured side, where the bruises still ache. Like he’s memorizing every wound, every detail.

Then, he leans in. Slowly, unhurried. He stops—just for a brief second, just long enough for you to catch the way his seafoam and orange eyes flicker down to your mouth, the way his breath steadies, the way his grip tightens almost imperceptibly against you.

Finally—finally—his lips meet yours. Soft, but firm. Not rushed, it's just right.

The pull toward him is stronger than it has ever been, your fingers twitching slightly before they find purchase against his chest, gripping the fabric of his vest. The heat spreads beneath your skin, settling into your ribs, curling deeply in your stomach as you exhale against him, pressing deeply into the kiss, allowing the moment—no—allowing him to consume you whole.

The weight of the kiss settles into the space between you. It’s firm, deep and long overdue. His grip doesn’t loosen, not for a second. His fingers press into you, warm and steady, anchoring you in a way that feels deliberate, like he’s making sure you stay exactly where you are, where he wants you.

Whatever restraint kept this at bay for so long, whatever unspoken thing that had wedged its way between you is gone now, and neither of you mourn it. All that exists in its place is the way his lips move against yours; as if he's committing every second, every inch of you, to memory.

You want more—everything, anything he’ll give you. Your hands slide slowly upward from their place on his chest. They trace along the lines of his collarbone before shifting higher, settling along each side of his face.

Your fingers move instinctively, tracing along his cheeks, soft, careful, deliberate. When they graze the jagged edge of his scar—rough beneath your fingertips—he stills.

His breath halts, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s caught between reaction and restraint as your thumb ghosts across the texture of his ruined skin.

And for a second—a single, fleeting second—you worry you’ve gone too far. That this is something he doesn’t want, that you crossed a line you shouldn’t have crossed.

Still, he doesn’t leave. His grip loosens and his hands shift, pulling away from your lips just enough for a bit of space between you to return—not to retreat, but for something else entirely.

Without a word, his fingers slip to yours, gently pulling your hand away from his face—only to turn it over and bring it to his lips.

He kisses your palm—soft, unhurried, lingering.

Slowly, carefully, he presses your hand back to his cheek, his own fingers covering yours now, holding you in place—keeping you there.

Silco leans back down and continues kissing you. This time, deeper, with something heavier behind it. 

Something wordless.

Something certain.

Something you know neither of you will regret.

if you've read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart. comments and reblogs mean the world to me, so please please tell me your thoughts!!! (even if it's just screaming gibberish it makes me kick my feets)

[my-lovelies-etc]

your eyes, like shadows

summary: despite all the warnings, you feel none of the unease you’re supposed to feel with him. perhaps that was its own brand of foolishness. perhaps thats why you kept watching him—carefully, secretly. or so you thought.

pairing: Silco x Reader (no use of Y/N; she works for him as an assistant)

w/c: 1.8k

notes: 2nd person POV, mentions of violence, romantic and sexual tension, no smut. silco is an emotionally constipated mess. this is my first time writing for silco, pls be kind!!! (read part 2 here)

read on ao3: here

You never planned on working for a man like him.

The job was simple on paper—good pay, minimal interaction, discretion required.

You were what he needed: someone quiet, someone unassuming. And when options were thin, when desperation outweighed preference, you became the best choice, and frankly, you needed the job.

You never asked questions. Not about the deals he made, the people he met, or why his name could silence an entire room. You kept your head down, did what was required. It should have been easy.

Except for one thing. You watched him.

Your gaze strayed when you believed he wouldn’t notice—lingering in stolen seconds, collecting details like secrets you’d never dare to voice. The sharp cut of his jaw, the way his presence commanded a space without effort, the uneven ridges of ruined skin that told stories you’d never ask him to recount. He was danger carved into flesh and steel.

You should have left hours ago. The office above The Last Drop had long steeped into evening dimness, shadows pooling in the corners, stretching long against the floor as the last traces of daylight bled through the round iron-clad window.

The air carries a subtle chill—not biting, but enough to press against your skin, a reminder of the late hour. The room itself—spacious, heavy with dark wood and low lighting—feels even larger with just the two of you here. You have no reason to linger, really. No unfinished work keeping you chained to your desk. Just Silco.

A smart woman—one who values her safety, her wellbeing—wouldn’t still be here.

You’ve heard the warnings. Listened to the stories about him told in whispers. A man like him doesn’t inspire trust. He commands respect, obedience, fear—but not trust.

And yet, despite everything, you feel none of the unease you’re supposed to feel. You trust him. Perhaps that was its own brand of foolishness.

Perhaps that’s why you keep looking at him. You’re careful when doing it—or so you think.

“You like staring, do you?”

Your breath hitches. His voice carries no real curiosity, only the weight of knowing—knowing far too much, seeing far too well everything you had thought was hidden. He leans back slightly, measuring your reaction.

You look away fast, as if retreating will erase the truth he has already unearthed.

“It’s impolite,” he continues, his tone flat, measured. “To gawk.”

“I—I wasn’t gawking,” you manage, still refusing to meet his eyes. The words come out too soft, unconvincing even to yourself.

A quiet scoff. Not amused, not cruel. Just… expectant. His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then he exhales something faintly derisive.

"Lying to your boss? Bad manners." His tone edges toward something haughty and unimpressed. He tilts his head slightly, almost lazy in his scrutiny. "Unwise."

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. There’s no point denying it—not now, not when he has already unraveled your failed attempts at subtlety.

You swallow, then hesitantly speak. “I like looking at you.”

A beat of silence. His brows twitch, just barely—not a frown, not surprise, but something adjacent. Something shifts in his expression. Not irritation, not exactly—just… something.

You press forward, nerves fraying under the weight of his gaze. “You’re too intimidating to look at directly. But when you’re not… well—that is, when I think you aren’t watching…” You swallow. “You’re… fascinating.”

Silco doesn’t say anything, only holds still in the quiet that follows. And maybe, for a moment, he thinks he has misheard—because ‘fascination’ isn’t a word most people use when looking at him.

You shift slightly, gaze flickering lower. Then softer, shyly, barely above a whisper, you continue— “You’re… well…”

“Say it.” It’s not a command. Not exactly. But it’s firm and expectant.

Your pulse stammers. You look away, as if retreating will make him forget, make him drop it. He doesn't.

"I—" You exhale sharply. "It’s nothing."

He huffs. Not amused, nor cruel. Just waiting.

"You've already started." His tone is impossibly steady. "Might as well finish."

You shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t give him anything to hold against you. But the silence stretches, pushing into the space between you, forcing the words closer to the surface. You’re suddenly glad for the dim lighting of the room, grateful he can’t see the redness that has flooded your cheeks.

“I—I think you’re… handsome.”

Silco hums. Not in amusement, not surprise—just consideration at the admission. Admittedly, he had expected something else. People often stare at him, but not like this. Not for that reason.

His gaze lingers for a beat longer than it should. Then, the smallest twitch of his lips—something unreadable. At last, he exhales. “Fine.”

You blink.

“You have permission.”

“To…?”

“To look.”

He says it so simply, as if stripping the tension from the act will make it less strange, less heavy. You don’t move at first, half-expecting him to take the words back, to tell you he had only been testing you, seeing how far you would push. But he doesn’t.

He looks back at you. Fully.

It’s not the same as before—not laced with quiet calculation or simmering impatience. He has given you permission, but the weight of it settles between you in a way neither of you expected.

Your gaze lifts, hesitant but steady, and meets his.

You test it, studying him now with purpose instead of stolen glances, waiting to see if it feels different. It does.

Suddenly, you notice everything—the sharp symmetry of the unscarred side of his face; smooth, striking, almost startling compared to the ruined half. The brutal ridges of scar tissue twisting over his cheekbone, down to his jaw, jagged like torn earth, uneven and merciless. You wonder, fleetingly, if they still hurt. If they burn on bad days, a reminder of whatever, or whoever, carved them into him.

But then, there are things you hadn’t noticed before. Like the color of his good eye—seafoam, almost too soft for one so dangerous. It should clash with the severity of him, but it doesn’t. It only makes him more difficult to turn away from.

Your pulse is louder now, thrumming against your skin. And then you notice something else.

The faint smudging at the edge of his temple, the areas where his usual application of makeup has faded throughout the day, revealing his scars in harsher relief. The traces of effort to make them less ugly, less distracting—but now, stripped of their softened edges, they are more bare. More real.

And he hasn’t bothered to fix it. You wonder if he notices. If he even cares.

The way his throat bobs as he swallows, slow and deliberate, makes you think maybe he does. The faint twitch in his corrupted eye, an involuntary flicker, brief but undeniable, makes you think maybe he is too aware of how closely you’re looking.

For a man built on danger, there is something startling about the way he holds himself now—rigid, unreadable, but with something flickering beneath the surface. Almost—nervous.

You hadn’t thought a man like Silco was capable of being nervous. The realization presses against your ribs, warm and uncertain.

But he doesn’t look away, and neither do you. Because he is finally letting you see him—fully, without the shroud of intimidation or authority dampening the edges.

You study him, taking in the details you had only glimpsed at before. In the quiet, a thought curls itself into your ribs—

‘Does he like looking at me, too?’

The possibility is unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

Maybe it’s the way he holds your gaze, unwavering yet unreadable, like there is something unspoken lingering beneath his quiet allowance.

Maybe it’s the way his gaze hasn’t strayed.

Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t told you to stop. Not yet. Not at all.

The silence between you changes.

Neither of you are moving—not consciously. And yet, something is happening. The space between you is now charged, yet still delicate.

Your awareness of him sharpens, not just in your mind but in your body—like your very breath is attuned to his. And then—you lean in.

You’re not alone. He moves too. Not intentionally. But he doesn’t stop, and neither do you.

The moment unfolds like gravity itself is tipping you toward him, leaving you breathless in its quiet insistence.

Your gaze flickers lower. His lips—they are closer now, enough for you to see details you hadn’t before. The way the scar at the corner pulls just slightly, disrupting the symmetry. The tension in his jaw—like he isn’t sure if he should let this happen.

Your pulse climbs. Closer. Almost.

And then—a noise. A sharp shuffle of movement outside the office. Reality collides into you.

Silco reacts first. The presence that had been drawing you closer had vanished. The moment is severed, like a thread suddenly snapped.

Before you can process it, before you can even breathe, he moves. Not just shifting back, but leaving entirely.

He abruptly turns away, walking toward the large window behind his desk with precise, controlled steps. His hands clasped behind his back, a practiced movement—one you recognize immediately as he reasserts control.

His silhouette cuts against the greenish hue of the Undercity dusk filtering through the glass. He doesn’t acknowledge what almost happened.

The tension lingers in the air, thick and unresolved, but he makes no move to address it. Instead, when he finally speaks, his voice is even and careful—just firm enough to leave no room for discussion.

"It’s late." He exhales slowly, measured. "You should go home for the day."

Gone is the flickering vulnerability. He turns slightly, shoulders squared, breath leveled. Whatever almost happened—he won’t let it happen again.

You absorb the sharp shift in atmosphere, the careful reconstruction of the barrier he had almost let slip. You straighten too quickly, trying to force your hands to still, masking the way your pulse trembles beneath the surface. You don’t protest. You don’t ask what this meant.

You just move, collecting yourself with too much precision, like if you don’t— if you hesitate—you might shatter what little dignity you have left.

Your fingers feel too rigid when you reach for the door. As you pull it open, you wonder—fleetingly, stupidly—if this is it. If you’ve just walked yourself out of a job, if what nearly happened has ruined whatever fragile balance existed between you.

You are seconds from latching the door shut behind you when his voice cuts through the silence. "Tomorrow."

The word is quiet. Firm. Not weighted with emotion. You turn back to him. "Sir?"

A beat of silence. “I’ll see you tomorrow."

He still doesn’t turn to face you. Still keeps his gaze locked on the window, hands clasped behind him, posture unreadable. You nod, despite knowing he can’t see it.

Then you leave, stepping through the doorway knowing that whatever had almost happened was now locked behind the heavy wooden door.

Until tomorrow, anyway.

if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart!!! please leave a like and reblog. comment any feedback below, if you feel inclined 🖤 read part 2 here

[my-lovelies-etc]

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ The MASTERLIST ♥

Not the best formatting but it will do for now – hope this is helpful for navigating my page!

Just a reminder all my works are Mark Grayson x f!Reader. 🫶

【ＤＲＡＢＢＬＥＳ】

One Text, One Photo [Smut]

Blindsided

Dancing Queen

Lazy Mornings [Smut]

Starry Night

Focus, Mark!

Lovers in Mourning [Prisoner!Mark hc]

Congratulations

Pomegranate [Viltrumite!Mark]

Just a Baby [Mohawk!Mark]

【ＯＮＥ－ＳＨＯＴＳ】

Empire of Two [Sinister!Mark]

My Hero

Thank You [Smut]

40z and Shorties [Variant!Mark] [Smut]

Power Play [Omni-Mark]

Out of My Mind [Mohawk!Mark] [18+ content - not really smut tho]

How to Slay a Dragon

The Cycle of You [Shiesty!Mark]

The Mask We Wear

If I Was Your Girlfriend...

【ＴＷＯ－ＰＡＲＴＥＲＳ】

Concrete Flowers [Sinister!Mark]

Part One

Part Two [Smut]

Heroes & Heartache

Part One

Part Two

A Jealous Heart [Variants]

Part One

Part Two

Loverboy [Lensless/No Goggles!Mark]

Part One

Part Two

Cut Deep, Kiss Hard [Lensless/No Goggles!Mark]

Part One [Smut]

Part Two Brunch Edition! [Smut]

【ＳＥＲＩＥＳ】

Echoes of You [Unspecified Variant!Mark]

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six [Smut]

Part Seven [Finale]

Shattered Affections [Mohawk!Mark | Sinister!Mark]

Part One [Mild Smut]

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven [Smut]

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten [Finale]

Opposites Attract [Mohawk!Mark]

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

[my-lovelies-etc]

this blog hates donald trump

Look how many people hate him. I’m pretty damn happy about that 😁😁😁😁😁😁

[my-lovelies-etc]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, | rex sloan 'splode' x gender neutral reader

love mail — PLEAASE please rex sloane be famous IM BEGGINg this took me like an hour but it's so long i'm actually surprised i committed to it. !!( ; ﾛ)ﾟ ﾟguys.. .. please... my efforts for my alive husband.. MAJOR S3 SPOILERS ! angst too oops, not proofread sorri !

wc : 2.2k

the three times rex sloan broke your heart.

rex sloan, or splode, one or the other — depending on how much he liked you, was a man that many knew for his pride, ego, and utter selfishness. the living, breathing representative of a self absorbed man. you hated the fact you fell for his stupid jokes and undeniable charm, how could you not? in his words, he was irresistable, and you had to admit.. he wasn't lying.

rex had you smitten with that little smirk of his and promises of well spent 'bonding' and 'getting to know each other'. you were doomed the moment he caught on to what made you tick, and what made you flush.

the very first time he had broken your trust, was his promise to court you — to have a beautiful life with you, that your eyes were pretty, that you were his, all his. only to hear those same words as he pounds into some random woman in your apartment, to your dismay. clothes that weren't yours and ones that definitely belonged to rex are scattered all over the place, and you just feel sick.

you make sure to yell for them to get out. and your eyes burn into rex's unapologetic ones, you see that smile on his face — unashamed, uncaring. you accept your defeat, that you fell for stupid, flowery words, from a pretty face with an ugly heart. you fall to the floor when you hear the door click, wobbly knees unable to hold you up for any longer as you sob; heart screaming at you for allowing yourself to be betrayed like this — when you knew you should have been smarter, wiser. not fall to something as stupid as love.

dealing with him around the base was your worst nightmare. he was fine; same insufferable jerkbag, while you cried and cried for days on end. where your body felt used, and your heart strings being tugged so tightly, you were afraid your fraile organ would burst. you knew one thing for sure, rex splode — was a man beyond redemption, beyond saving, and beyond forgiveness.

you dealt with seeing his face all the time, pissing you off, the team off, and being the same arrogant asshole he always was. you scold yourself for ever thinking he was anything different, for all the times he confided in you, and you him, for all the times your connection was more than cheap sex — was revealed to be nothing. hell, you wouldn't even be surprised if the cheap sex was all rex cared about. fuck that guy. (not literally, enough of that.)

the second time was weird. because you never even took him back — but after his.. haunting battle with king lizard that damn near killed him, the team did everything they could to keep him alive. at the cost of him needing to be bedridden for a while, unconcious, barely breathing.

you don't know why you even bothered to visit. you used to fight the urge to bash his face in, but seeing him so.. still, perhaps even peaceful.. you come to wonder how anyone was able to tame that fire he so naturally burned with. you made regular visits with mark, his best friend. and the way he talked about rex, made you remember the version of him you understood him as. for all his spunk and bite, he was still a man. a man who just wanted to be loved; for reasons unbeknownst to you at the time, as his past left him feeling unwanted.

you pitied him, almost. nothing can excuse cheating, nothing — but still.. you can never really get rid of the affection you held for someone. in the back of your head, like a virus that won't go away, it stays.. even if you can't see it, you definitely feel it.

things got worse when he woke up, because you don't know why — or how — but he just.. got better. scoffs and sneers turned to smiles and greetings, brushed off attempts at small talk became check ups on his health, and for the first time in the longest time.. your heart softened for him. you felt the familiar ache of your heart whenever he was around, but not one of hatred, but instead of.. yearning. oh no. your feelings for him coming back a second time around was not welcomed.

you didn't know how to feel on the night rex asked to see you at the roof of your apartment complex, and you didn't know what you were thinking when you agreed to meet. your footsteps feel heavy as you walk the stairs to the very top, and when you open the door — there he is. you expected the whole hero get-up, it was like the only thing he wore.. but no, just a shirt and plain pants while he leaned against a short wall, his back turned as he looked over to the city below. weird, you noted, but rex splode was always weird. and annoying, and insufferable, and —

"you ever think about what it's like?"

you snap out of your thoughts — surprised to hear such softness in his voice. it was almost believable, you scoffed mentally, even if you two were on better terms, you remained cautious. but nevertheless, you walk towards him, standing by his side with crossed arms. "what are you getting at?" you mumbled, an unintentional bite in your tone as rex chuckled, all too familiar with it.

"you know, what it means to be more than a hero — something more than a masked figure that saves lives, lives that are the reason i can only wonder what it must be like to.." his voice trails off, but you're understanding the direction this conversation is going.

you opened your mouth to continue his sentence, the previous snark disappearing. "be happy, truly, and unapologetically happy." you finished, turning your head to search his face for confirmation of her assumption of his words. his bittersweet smile speaks volumes.

he then asks; "you know my last name? like, for real." laughing at the question, you answer without thinking. "splode. it's stupid, rex splode — explode —"

"sloan."

your laugh slowly dies down, blinking at the realization. "my full name is rex sloan." rex, for the first time in.. ever, looks vulnerable. and all of a sudden, you recall just exactly why you were always so captivated by those eyes of his.

the talk extends for a couple hours, some tears are shed, unsaid words were finally shared, and a single promise was made.

"i promise," rex's hand makes it's way to your cheek, soothing your sniffles as the other pulls you close by the hip. a gesture you once recognized as rex wanting something physical, but there was more to this.. something emotional, a connection beyond desire and lust. "—that i'll be better. i'll fix what i broke back then, when i was spoiled, a big brat.. and that i'll be a good man for you. for all the hurt i caused, i'll try to heal tenfold. i'll be more than.. rex splode, i'll be yours." he whispered, leaning in close and brushing his nose against yours, a form of sweet affection.

and at those words, you leaned in to kiss him. a seal, one could say, to his oath of change. and since rex was staring at your lips all night, being on his very best behavior, he appreciated the reward. "you know.." he mumbled against your lips, smiling. "for once in my shitty life, i think i'm actually content." a laugh escapes him, and you practically swallow it with the way he just.. can't, won't pull away from you. "it's kinda worth living if it's with you."

but nothing could be greater than his relief that you forgave him. that the man you found to be so repulsive and conniving, was worth forgiving. and you will never know how much that meant to him. how much you meant to him.

the third, and very last time rex had broken your heart, was the invincible war.

the team was sent to deal with an invincible variant, no biggie! rex was joking about how excited he was to kick his best friends ass, and you laugh.. the war was hard, after all. with so much destruction, some humor doesn't hurt.

you wish you told him to not underestimate the enemy, to have a high guard.. because maybe, maybe you could've stopped this.

monster girl and rudy are safe, they had long fleed the bridge and now it was just you and rex. beaten, bloodied, and bruised.. but together. rex had taken so many more hits, for you and the others more than anything else. the gash in his side is still dripping blood and you feel sick at the sight. you can't win this, you won't win this.

your thoughts are disturbed by the hardest hit you'll likely ever take if you make it out of here alive, slamming you into a wall, knocking the wind out of you. "agh—.." trying to get up serves impossible, every inch of your body is screaming for you to stand, but the building shakes with each explosion rex throws at gogglesible — and all you can do is helplessly watch as your boyfriend, the love of your life, still tries to fight a battle he knows he's lost.

your one good eye widens at the sight of gogglesible getting the upper hand, grabbing rex by the throat — chokes and curses of struggle escaping his lips. "when i'm done with you, it'll be your dumb little partner next. right after they watch you get torn to shreds, limb by limb, with nothing left of you to mourn." the variant spoke coldly, his grip on rex's neck tightening with every second.

you watched helplessly, tears brimming in your eyes as you catch rex's gaze. even as he struggles, he's still got his eyes on you, so loving, full of nothing but adoration. so that's when you know somethings wrong — because for all the love you have for him, you know he wasn't the type to become sappy in the middle of battle. not unless —

that's when you're forcing yourself to move. grabbing onto the wall as you don't notice the way he reaches into his aforementioned gash, too focused to getting to him before it's too late.

rex always joked about going out with a bang — oh fuck, please be some messed up joke.

"honey,"

the sound of his voice immediately makes you snap your head to him, the kindest smile is on his lips — and he's got that apologetic look in his eyes. he knows what'll happen, he just hopes you remember him fondly. not for who he was, but who he became. cause among everything else, he was grateful to become yours. that you will be the one person to remember him as rex sloan, and not the jackass the world made him be.

"make sure to look away f'me, yeah?"

three times rex broke your heart,

two times you chose to forgive —

and one whole lifetime to live without him.

you sob as you turn your head away, the sight too much to bear as the last thing you see is rex's skin beginning to glow an bright yellow hue.

"my entire goddamn skeleton, dickhead."

and then, it was over.

you wake up in a hospital bed, noticing the burn marks that cover your skin, almost mocking the experience you had only hours prior. a reminder of who you lost, permanently engraved on your body forever.

at your side, is a note; it's not anything grandiose, hell — it's crumpled and the penmanship looks half assed. but you know it all too well, rex.

hey, i'm awful at notes. don't expect sappy shit, alright? i just have a horrible feeling about the mission and, you know, no regrets. not saying somethings gonna go wrong but i just want you to know.

when i met you, i was a horrible guy. i chased nothing but my own self pleasure and ego, and i still regret it. the way you looked at me that night, i get scared of disappointing you like that again. god, i wish i wasn't writing this on some tiny notepad i stole from marks desk, but i digress.

i love you, holy fuck i love you. you're my world, my honey, my heart. you made an irredeemable scumbag a tolerable young man, and that's something to be proud of. make sure to never forget that, okay? you were the reason i stopped throwing myself into danger like i was immortal, for once i..

i would be afraid.

for the first time in my life, i was terrified of dying, and that was new — so incredibly new to me. regardless, i'm glad i get to come home to you every single night, honey. no need to be afraid of dying when i know i'll fight hard to live, and see your pretty eyes first thing in the morning.

i love you, for all your sassy remarks and shitty jokes, i love you.

i'll see you when we get back from the mission, and you'll laugh at me for making something so stupid and sappy. but you know i mean it, everything, it's always for you. all of it is for you.

— utterly yours, r. s. ♡

[my-lovelies-etc]

ANOTHER HERMES DRABBLE

🔞18+ MDNI🔞

TAGS: teasing, light praise kink, handjob, whining and whimpering Hermes, power bottom(I think?), AFAB!Reader, fem!Reader x Hermes, porn without plot, no beta we die like the crew, overstimulation, begging and pleading, Hermes is whipped.

WORD COUNT: 919

A/N: These demons need to be vanquished, and that can only be done by writing them down. Have some more Hermes filth, lovelies.

ART BY XIMENA NATZEL

“Darling, please...” Hermes whined needily. You were straddling his lap, your fingers threading through his mussed hair, occasionally scratching his scalp lightly, while trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses and gentle love bites all over his collarbone, neck and shoulders. You had been teasing him for almost an hour, your lips and hands never touching where he needed them the most. You wouldn't even deign him a kiss. You had him squirming and writhing beneath you on your couch. Hermes, God of oh so many things, messenger of the Greek Gods, was putty in your hands. A soft hum sounded from you as you slid a hand down to his chest, and you felt the God tense underneath your feather-light touch as you began tracing idle patterns on his pecs and sternum.

“Please… what, baby?” You muttered against the column of his neck. You grabbed the hair at his neck and tugged his head back slightly, earning a breathless moan from him. Hermes eagerly tilted his head back at your tug, desperate for more of your ministrations. He had his hands behind his back, not tied up or anything, just tugged back there between himself and the couch, at your request, and who was he to not give what his lover wanted. It was taking every ounce of restraint and strength in him to not just grab you and pound you into the couch, but you had asked if you could take control for a bit, and oh, was he absolutely loving it. His entire body felt like it was charged with electricity, every little touch you did made his over-sensitized nerves go haywire, sending so many shivers and shudders through him he was practically vibrating.

As Hermes opened his mouth to response, to plead for you to touch him where he wanted, no, needed you the most, you leaned on close and took his lower lip between your teeth, and all that left him was a high pitched whine as he chased your mouth when you leaned back once more. “Please, I need more. I'm aching, darling…” his voice was strained and breathless. You had him pleading, begging, for more. For anything that'd relieve the almost painful ache between his legs. He looked up at you with big, pleasure hazed eyes, his silvery irises almost glowing with raw need and desire. A sweet, wicked smile curved your lips, and you cooed in a slight mocking tone as your hand on his chest began roaming his toned torso, your fingertips brushing ever-so-lightly over his nipples. Hermes sucked in a breath, and for the first time since you began, his hips involuntarily bucked up against your core, eliciting a quiet moan from you and a gravelly groan from himself.

You tutted disapprovingly, tightening your grip in his hair to yank his head back further. The hand you had on his chest moved downwards, your nails scraping lightly over his toned chest and abs before your fingertips teasingly traced the hem of his underwear. “You want it down here? Want me to touch you, give you what you need?” Hermes let out a noise that sounded like a mix of a whimper and a groan, and he nodded eagerly. “Please.”

“Hmm… I guess I'll reward you. You've been so good the whole time. Such a good boy~” You praised him, and your words were rewarded with a string of small whines and whimpers as he kept nodding, his brain short-circuiting from even the slightest of praise. He bucked his hips again, this time deliberately, and he sent you a pleading look. Hermes looked absolutely ravished. His cheeks, neck and chest were all flushed a dark pink, his lips parted while his breath came out in ragged pants, and his eyes were glazed over. You swallowed, and gave him a small nod before shimmying slightly back on his lap to give yourself room to work. You threaded your fingers through his hair, the gesture gentle and sweet, while your other hand tugged his underwear down, freeing his twitching cock from its confines.

You directed your eyes to his cock, your nimble fingers wrapping around it before giving him a trying stroke. The moan that escaped Hermes at the simple flick of your wrist was the most erotic sound you had ever heard, and it was music to your ears. You stroked him again, this time pressing the pad of your thumb down on the slit, smearing the hefty amount of precum that had been leaking out all over the blunt tip, and Hermes let out what sounded like a string of curses in ancient Greek. His cock twitched in your hand, and you raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at your lips, and you began stroking him faster and harder. It took all but five or six strokes before a desperate cry rumbled in Hermes’ chest, and he came all over his stomach and your hand, but you didn't stop. Your hand moved at a slightly slower pace, but you kept stroking him, and you had him shuddering beneath your ministrations as pulses of hot cum shot out of his twitching cock.

You were just about to let go of him, when suddenly your world turned around, and you found yourself with your face pressed into the couch cushions and your ass in the air. Hermes positioned himself behind you, and he leaned down, covering your body with his much bigger one, and he groaned quietly next to your ear.

“My turn, darling~”