#richjake week 2023

[insertsickusername13]

Richjake week day four babyyyy

prompt: fire

word count: 2.1k

Summary: Rich struggles to light a candle for a romantic dinner with Jake.

--

Rich was pretty sure he was going to light the candle wick on fire with just his gaze. 

He’d been there for ten minutes already, the match in his hand unreasonably heavy and the matchbox even more so. It was just a candle. A small, cheap candle he’d bought for $1.39 at a Walgreens down the street. He was going to light it on fire. He was not going to freak out. Jake was going to think it was romantic. 

Everything else was already set up: the usually bare kitchen table they’d snatched from a curb a couple of miles away had been replaced by a smaller, round, dark-wood table and a fancy white tablecloth (the table from a second-hand antique store downtown, the white table cloth from Brooke’s attic—he’d gotten it when Jake and him had returned to Jersey for the holidays. Three months ago.). 

There was a small vase with a single rose at the center. Plates and Jake’s parents’ fancy silverware that had miraculously survived the fire were already set out.

And there was a candle. 

Though it was smaller than almost everything else on the table it seemed to stand tall, looming over Rich with a cruel smirk on its nonexistent waxy lips. 

Rich inhaled a shaky breath. 

He could do this. It was just a candle. There was nothing destructive about a candle. Rich wouldn’t knock it over and catch the tablecloth on fire, then the kitchen, then their entire apartment. Jake wouldn’t come home to ashes instead of his boyfriend and a romantic dinner. Candles were normal. Candles were fine. Rich could light a candle. 

But he could hear the SQUIP’s voice in his head. It’d been disjointed on Halloween, robotic and borderline meaningless. If anyone else had been listening—Jake, Jeremy, Michael—they would’ve heard pure nonsense. The ramblings of a lunatic. 

Rich had understood every word. He didn’t need to hear its voice to feel his entire body being shot with electricity repeatedly. He’d barely been conscious of his own hands as they poured gasoline all over Jake’s bed and in his closet. Fire, fire, fire, fire. He’d done it trembling, half unconscious and half possessed. He could do it now if he wanted. He didn’t. But he could. He just had to…

Rich dropped the match. Dropped the matchbox. He fell to his knees, his body shaking uncontrollably just like it had when it was still in his head, when it’d told him Rich deserved hell manifested on Earth, when it'd forced him to destroy everything he'd ever loved.

He wanted to cover his face, to hide his shame and the tears he knew were boiling over out of his eyes, but he could’ve sworn he saw the residue of gasoline on his fingertips. He couldn’t bear the thought of contaminating the rest of himself with such a destructive, infectious substance. He held his hands out as far as he could, the terror of what he’d done choking him, the weight of it so heavy he thought he could see the floor opening up, swallowing him and everything he’d done since to try and undo what he’d done, to erase—

“Rich?”

And suddenly keeping himself pure meant nothing. He pressed his hands against his abdomen, hiding them in his shirt. Just as long as Jake didn’t see, as long as he didn’t get ruined, then Rich would be okay.

Rich hadn’t realized how bad it’d gotten until he tried to respond to Jake and the words burned so bad he couldn’t get them past his throat. He opened his mouth helplessly, every apology he could muster trapped between his teeth, and looked up at Jake for… for something. For help. For comfort. For damnation and guilt-tripping and everything he probably deserved.

Jake dropped his bag and, using his cane for support, knelt in front of Rich. 

“Baby? Hey,” as if he somehow knew of every self-destructive thought that had run through Rich’s head since he’d first bought that candle from goddamn Walgreens, he grabbed both of Rich’s hands and carefully unclenched them, his touch softer than anything Rich had never known. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? It’d been so long since Junior year that being on the floor crying didn’t always mean the fire anymore. Sometimes it was missing his dad. Sometimes it was fear of graduation. Sometimes it had nothing to do with the SQUIP and everything that had happened because of it. 

Rich choked out a sob as he pulled himself closer to Jake, desperate for the warmth he provided. He was a magnetic sun—technically Rich could look at him and see fire and destruction but all he saw were beaches and flowers and summertime. Thank the lord for that. 

“It’s okay,” Jake whispered. He didn’t know what was wrong, yet he said it with visceral confidence—it’s okay. Rich will be okay. Jake will be okay. He ran his hands through Rich’s hair and repeated the words again and again. At some point he tried to slip in other reassurances, things he’d heard from Rich’s therapist—five things you can see, you’re worthy, can you breathe?—but he was cut off by Rich’s murmuring against his shoulder. 

“I just wanted a candle,” he borderline sobbed out, snotty and muffled, “So I could give you dinner and it could be romantic and I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it.”

“Babe—” Jake lifted Rich off his shoulder, a small smile on his face, “—we don’t need a candle for dinner.”

Of course, Jake would say that. Of course, he wouldn’t even notice, the goddamn angel. He wasn’t the one who got dragged to expensive restaurant after expensive restaurant for grand anniversaries and birthdays while struggling with the knowledge that he could never afford any of this on his own. That the paycheck he brought home every month was minuscule compared to even a small percentage of Jake’s fortune. Jake never had to wonder if he was a leech, sucking up spare bits of affection and funds where he could. He didn’t notice the candles and roses at every restaurant they went to. That was Rich’s job.

Rich squeezed his eyes shut against Jake’s open expression. Even faced with complete darkness, he heard Jake’s voice saying, “Deep breaths.”

Rich obliged. One breath in, one breath out, slow and steady, until he could look at it like Jake was: Just a candle. 

“I’m still thoroughly romanced, y’know,” Jake whispered. He cupped Rich’s jaw and ran his thumb over his eyelashes, “I've got those stupid butterflies and all.”

Rich scoffed, the cruise Jake had taken him on for his twenty-first birthday still playing in his mind. The concert they’d gone to for his twenty-second. Objectively, he knew this was enough. He was enough. He’d been to countless therapists and fought endless battles to get to the point where he knew Jake didn't need more than this, that money didn’t matter, that Jake loved him for things like this, but that doubt—bitter, poisonous, ruinous—hovered, waiting for its moment to sink its teeth into Rich’s skin. 

“Yeah,” Rich replied, and it was more to himself than it was to Jake—a vocalization of his own self-deprecating thoughts, not meant for anyone else to hear, “Romanced enough to marry me?”

He didn’t realize what he’d said until he felt Jake’s hand go slack on his face. Fuck. Fuck, no, he had a fucking speech. He wasn’t supposed to say that—

Rich looked up, eyes wide, everything else blurred and forgotten—fuck candles and fuck money and fuck the dinner he planned, he’d just accidentally fucking proposed. All he saw was Jake’s expression, all he felt was lightning in his chest and stomach. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Hm?” Jake squeaked. He looked about as shell-shocked as Rich, if not more so.

Rich had two choices: chicken out or own up to it. The fact Jake’s panicked expression—comically wide eyes, lips pressed together to stop himself from breaking out into a smile, cheeks bordering between pink and red—was so beautiful Rich was pretty sure he wanted to kiss it until he died was an answer in and of itself. 

He fumbled for the ring in his pocket only vaguely aware of Jake’s jaw dropping as he pulled it out. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, erasing the remnants of his breakdown to the best of his ability. He had a boyfriend to propose to. A perfect, pretty, loving boyfriend, and he was not going to let that be tainted by his own lingering insecurities. 

“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. Jake looked like he was going to pass out. “Okay, I was supposed to do this later, but you’re—shit, I’m supposed to be on one knee.”

Still shaking, Rich struggled to untangle himself from Jake’s limp grasp enough to prop himself up on one knee. 

“Okay, starting over, I wanted—I was gonna do this while we were eating dessert, I thought you might be more likely to say yes if I was feeding you ca—”

“Yes,” Jake blurted, “Yes. The answer’s yes. Right now.”

Rich blinked. 

“I’m uh, I haven’t even talked about how much I love you yet.”

“I don’t care. Yes. I want to be engaged to you as soon as possible. Get fucking—” he scrambled over to Rich, glowing like a buttercup or sunflower. Rich was so enchanted by the sight he couldn’t find it in himself to protest as Jake shakily took the ring ($3,471—Rich spent eight months saving up) from the box and held it out to Rich. 

“Put it on me,” he said, “Put it on, I—”

Rich took the ring and slipped it on Jake’s finger. He got the privilege of watching the stars and sky light up as Jake broke out into a golden grin. Pretty, he thought, pretty, pretty, pretty—

Jake launched himself at Rich, knocking them both flat onto the floor, his arms finding their way around Rich’s waist with starved desperation and his lips colliding with whatever skin he had access to: first Rich’s neck, then his cheek, then his lips, over and over until Jake was crying so hard he had to stop just to get the chance to breathe. 

“You proposed to me,” he giggled, “You fucking proposed, you… oh my god.”

Rich threw his head back laughing. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t vocalize it like Jake was trying to do, but everything felt coated in unbridled elation. Jake wanted to marry him. Jake said yes. He was getting married to his best friend and they were going to spend the rest of their lives together.

“I do,” Jake said, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look down at Rich, “I do. Can we get married right now?”

“I think we should eat dinner first, sweetheart, I spent all day cooking.”

Jake perked up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I made those scallops the way you like ‘em and pasta.”

Jake’s eyes lit up. Like a kid in a candy store (except that candy store only sold expensive seafood), Jake climbed off Rich and sat at the table. 

“I am so fucking glad I’m marrying you,” he said, already laying his napkin out on his lap. 

Rich flushed as he got to his feet, planning to grab their plates from the kitchen to show Jake the fruits of his labor, but was stopped by his foot colliding with—

With a matchbox. A small, unassuming matchbox that singlehandedly had the power to tear Rich apart limb by limb. 

Nothing could dim the giddiness he’d felt since Jake said yes. With unfounded confidence, he picked up what would usually be made of flames and fear and opened it, carefully taking a match into his hand. 

He could do this. He could light a candle for a romantic dinner with his boyf—fiancé.

He struck the match. 

Jake blew it out. 

Rich stared at the charred wood for a second, uncomprehending, before looking up at Jake. He almost wanted to scream. He couldn’t do that again. Once was enough, there was no way he’d be able to make more fire. 

“There’s no point,” Jake said.

“I want—”

“I broke it.”

Rich blinked at him.

“What?”

“I broke the candle.”

“How do you break a candle—”

Jake glanced nervously under the table. Despite Rich's disblief, there the candle was. Broken.

 It’d been mushed down into a mound of wax, the wick bent and covered in so much wax there was no way it’d light even if Rich wanted it to. Rich felt like he’d just been pulled from the brink of insanity by an angel. 

“I don’t need a candle,” Jake said, flashing Rich a crooked, nervous grin.

“Oh.”

A pause. It was a hurricane of a moment, the silence complete and violent despite the exultation that had drowned the room a moment earlier. 

Then, voice quiet with shame, Rich said, “I… I fucking hate candles.”

Jake reached out and squeezed his hand. 

“Not you, though,” Rich continued, squeezing Jake’s hand back, “I don’t hate you. I actually really fucking love you.”

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Richjake week day 4!!!! Fire time!!

Based off of the song 'Afterglow' by Taylor Swift

[rad-rat-with-a-tophat]

*ALARM SIREN NOISES* THIS IS FOR BOTH DAY 3 AND DAY 5 OF @lovely-blue-galaxy’s 2023 RICHJAKE WEEK. THE PROMPTS WERE SECRETS AND LOCKER

Jenna Rolan liked to pride herself on knowing things. Since she’d moved to Middleborough in 7th grade, she’d figured out everything there could be to figure out. For example, she knew that Chloe Valentine’s first kiss was with a senior when she was 15. She knew that Mr Reye’s had an ex-wife who played in the West End production of Heathers. Hell, she even knew that Chloe and Jake Dillinger hadn’t actually kissed in 8th grade, they just lied about it so people would think they were cool! So yeah, Jenna Rolans knew everything. 

And how might she know everything? Well, just a handy little thing called listening. She was the middle child of a family with 7 kids, she had learned that if you’re a little friendly to someone and say the things they want to hear, then they’ll tell you every piece of gossip they’ve ever fucking heard. Even the popular kids told her everything. Especially them, the popular kids had the most secrets that could ruin their high school careers. And sure, they might not have actually been Jenna’s friends, but they treated her like she was their best friend since kindergarten.

Who cares if all Jenna wanted was actual friends? Having people want her for her information was enough, right? 

Jenna’s feelings were currently inconsequential at the moment, Jenna was on a fucking case. The case? Rich Goranksi and Jake Dillinger’s relationship

Why? They were just best friends, right?

Wrong. Something was UP. 

Rich had joined the popular kids in early October of sophomore year. It was currently early June of sophomore year. Now why was this peculiar? Because all of the popular kids had known each other since the beginning of middle school (excluding Jenna). Now not only did Rich join the popular kids,  but he joined the inner circle. So how did a brand-new kid immediately become best friends with the most popular kid in school, Jake Dillinger?

Therein lies the first piece of evidence. Rich wasn’t new, not at all. In fact, he’d lived in Middleborough his entire life. Except that no one, sans Jenna, ever noticed him. Now this wasn't hard for Jenna to understand. Rich had talents sure, won the 6th-grade Writing Competition, had the best grades in English out of the entire goddamn high school, and not only that but he qualified for State Choir as a freshman.

But how did no one know him if he was this accomplished? The answer was simple, he was a stereotypical loser. He wore all black, never talked to anyone, was 5’1 in 9th grade, only grew 2 inches in the next year, had glasses and a lisp, and was probably gay. Usually, the gay thing would be a benefit popularity-wise (the novelty of queer in the school.) but Rich was a literature nerd who liked dnd, so the whole “probably queer” thing docked popularity points for him.

So how did a scrawny choir kid manage to charm the one and only Jake Dillinger?

Easy, Jake was gay. 

What? How? Jenna explain! Please!

Unbeknownst to literally everyone, Jenna herself was queer, and she had had her own unrequited crush on a straight girl. So when she had a class with both Rich and Jake in 9th grade, it wasn’t very hard to notice that Rich would gaze at Jake when he thought no one was watching and vice versa.

For example, take this interaction from March of last year.

————-

It was Friday and the last period of the day and Jenna did not want to be in class. They had a sub so they were just doing spare worksheets. Well, the overachievers and nerds were doing worksheets while Jenna and the rest of the class were on their phones.

Jenna looked around the room, trying to see if anyone was talking about something she could talk about. Jake was in front of her, but he was working on homework and he rarely knew anything interesting.

Behind her was Dustin, he was talking to Viktor and Jace who were next to him. Sadly, it was about NFL rankings and not gossip.

The seat to her right was empty and the person to her left was Christine, who was too nice to say anything bad about anyone to Jenna. 

Shit, there was literally no one to talk to.

“Ah fuck,” Jake said.

Jenna whipped her head from her phone, this could mean anything. Jake could’ve a text from and that meant Jenna had someone to talk to.

But looking at Jake, he didn’t have his phone, he just broke his pencil. Booooring.

Before Jenna could go back to endlessly scrolling on Instagram, the kid to the right of Jake handed him a pencil and whispered something Jenna couldn’t hear.

Starved for any real conversation material, Jenna tried to discreetly watch the interaction. She watched as Jake took the pencil, eyes a little wide.

And, wait, what?

Jake’s hand accidentally brushed the kid’s hand and then both of them blushed?!

Oh, Jenna could- wait no.

Jenna paused, she knew the kid, his name was Rich and she was pretty sure only she knew he existed. She also knew Jake, one might even call them friends. Jake was the perfect student, smart, charming, athletic, and hot. People knowing about what just happened would ruin him.

Jenna couldn’t risk that, Jake was the one who was able to convince Chloe to let her sit with them. If he was gone, so we’re the closest things Jenna had to friends.

So Jenna never fucking told anyone.

————

Jenna was aware that this barely counted as evidence.

But then two weeks later, Jake blew off a date with Chloe.

Now, Jenna was not, and is not, a stalker. She wouldn’t stoop that low.

But Jenna did have a younger brother, and he wanted to go to the park.

And who did she see? Jake and Rich, at the neighboroughing skate park.

Of course, this could always just be guys being friends.

Flash forward to the current day though. Jenna was walking from Mrs Burbank’s classroom after making up a test. When she turned sixteen last week, her one present was her family’s shitty old Volkswagen, that was from 2001.

Jenna parked by the gym today and was calmly walking by the boy’s lockers, when she heard voices. Not just any voices though, Jake and Rich’s.

Since Rich had joined the popular kids, he quickly became well-known throughout the school. He was the angrier, shorter, and louder version of Jake, somehow managing to maintain perfect grades without ever trying. (Side note, in 8th grade, Jenna saw Rich write a 5 page essay for extra credit in English. Not that he needed it, according to their teacher he had a 100 in the goddamn class. She did ask Rich’s 9th grade Math teacher about his grades and turns out, he had 78 on his report card, so how did he have a 97 now?!)

Rationally, Jenna knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop but she had had her suspicions about Jake and Rich’s relationship since that fateful day in freshman year.

Jenna dropped her backpack on the ground, careful to make sure none of the handcrafted keychains made a sound, and sneaked to the entryway to the locker room.

Jake and Rich were talking quietly, so Jenna could only make out a few words.

“Sorry… hiding… coward… Chloe…”

Their conversation started growing in volume and from what Jenna could make out, it was something about… Chloe finding they were in a relationship?

Before the argument became loud enough for Jenna to hear full sentences, there was a thud of something  hitting a locker,

and. Oh… OH. Yeah that was Jenna’s cue to leave.

As Jenna walked to her shitty car, she considered what she heard. The last time Jenna decided not to say anything, it was to save her own skin.

But Jenna knew this sorry excuse for a school. Literally everyone was homophobic, especially Rich. And Chloe? Chloe would die before anyone got their hands on Jake.

As Jenna shut the door to her care and pulled up Chloe’s contact on her phone, she texted,

guess what I heard????? dustin k cheated on his gf w/ madeleine!!!!!!!!

(Final note, he actually side cheat on his gf)

[bmc-bigbang]

What is a Big Bang?

It’s a fandom event where authors sign up to write at least 10,000 words over a 6 month period, and then get paired with artists who create something to go with their fanfic. This can be a drawing, or something like an edit or a playlist. More details (including the rules) can be found heere.

Woah, that’s epic. Where can I sign up?

Check out the schedule at this link (mobile friendly link here), and then sign up for writers here, for artists here, and to beta read here.

[insertsickusername13]

I couldn't not do the last richjake week prompt. should I have stayed up this late on the night of an ap exam? no. but it's called dedication.

prompt: home

word count: 2.3k. whoops.

sorry for any typos, i didn't reread it. i've got sleep to do

---

Jake was still awake. 

His birthday party had ended hours ago. Well, no, that was wrong. Technically speaking, it was still going on. Trevor, the one friend Jake had made in the week and a half he’d tried to convince himself to join a frat house freshman year before he’d decided the hazing was a little too intense and opted to instead just buy an apartment for him and Rich off campus, had convinced Jake to go out with him and a group of at least twenty people to go clubbing together. 

Jake had invited Rich. Rich had followed as he always did, much more hesitant than Jake was to enter a room full of dancing strangers and loud music. He’d been tense the entire time, watching every movement with unprecedented determination. He was partially convinced the robotic voices merged with the basic pop music was the SQUIP reaching out to him through his subconscious, and eventually it was enough for him to retreat to a bathroom stall and try to ignore the panic sliding through his veins. 

Jake found him half an hour later. He looked almost as bad as Rich, though he somehow had a smile on his face. 

He’d knelt in front of Rich and said, his hands running softly over Rich’s back both to comfort him and turn him on (because Jake was Jake), he’d whispered (with the music in the background, he’d really yelled it, but it sounded like whispering), “You wanna go home?”

Rich nodded desperately. 

They were back at their apartment by 10:30. 

They were in bed by 11. 

It was almost midnight now and Jake was writhing between the sheets. They’d started out cuddling, Jake’s arms wrapped comfortably around Rich’s middle as he quietly poked fun at their friends’ drunken dancing. 

“You should’ve seen them,” he said, his fingertips tracing circles over Rich’s hips. His lips were practically pressed against Rich’s neck, his words so quiet they were only audible because Rich could feel their formation on Jake’s mouth. “Kylie kept accidentally grinding on Javier—”

“Accidentally?”

“She pretended she thought he was some random guy. He kept apologizing.”

Rich’s laugh drifted off, just as light as his consciousness. He never fully fell asleep, though he was drifting so close to the darkness that he barely felt Jake extract himself from their position and move to the edge of the bed. He distantly saw the light of Jake’s phone. When he blinked, it was gone. 

He woke because Jake was writhing. Like he was sick, gripped by fever, on the verge of death. He tossed to the side too violently for someone who had just held Rich like he was made of glass, and when that didn’t seem like enough he turned again, this time taking half the blankets with him as he curled up on the edge of the bed. His phone was on again. 

Rich blinked against the sudden brightness of it, cold and disoriented by this unfamiliar territory. 

When he tried to speak, all his syllables came out slurred. Jake was well accustomed to discerning Rich’s language when he was like this—he’d spent all of sophomore year around Rich when he was so wasted he could barely keep himself upright, let alone talking—he barely needed a moment to translate what Rich was saying into normal English.  

“Bl’nke’s,” he breathed. Jake murmured an apology and surrendered all the blankets to Rich, leaving himself exposed and sitting up, his arms wrapped around himself and his phone sitting on the mattress in front of him. 

Rich was so close to falling back to sleep—whispers of dreams edged at the corners of his vision, creeping into reality and luring him back into the safety of unconscious—and quite honestly, he would’ve drifted off without a second thought had he not, in the very last minute before he was supposed to close his eyes, glimpsed the wetness of Jake’s eyes reflected by the light of his phone. 

Rich’s dreams plummeted out of existence.

“Jake? What’s wrong?”

Jake’s eyes flicked from his phone to Rich on autopilot. Upon seeing Rich’s expectant gaze, he blinked back whatever sorrow had suddenly struck and forced a half-hearted, purposefully tired-looking smile onto his face.

“Nothing, baby, you can go back to sleep.”

That shit was not going to work on Rich after three years together. He’d seen Jake try to hide his tears a million times before, whether they be caused by faux smoke or SAT results. He knew every sign of stress and had memorized the way Jake breathed when he was trying to stop himself from crying. 

“Bullshit,” Rich replied, propping himself up on his elbows. Jake was already distracted, his gaze pinned back on his phone's home screen. It was almost midnight. Rich frowned as he watched the clock hit 11:58. 

“It’s okay to grow up, you know,” Rich said. He was grasping for straws, making desperate guesses at what could possibly be wrong. Jake only hummed in response, a sign that Rich had guessed wrong.

“Exams will be fine?” Rich tried, “You’re smart and awesome and will pass no matter what?”

At that, Rich earned a small, forced laugh. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jake said, his eyes not leaving his phone but his tone taking on almost a teasing edge to it, “Seriously, you can go back to sleep.”

Rich wondered if Jake thought that was actually going to work. He couldn’t believe that now, after all this time together, Rich was going to just roll over and leave him there to cry alone. 

Unsure of what else to do, Rich sat up and scooted over to Jake, his movements slow and muddled just because it was nighttime and the darkness convinced him he had to be quiet. Once close enough, he wrapped his arms around Jake’s waist and leaned his head on his shoulder. He felt Jake let out a breath at the touch. 

“What’re we waiting for?” Rich whispered, kissing Jake’s shoulder. 

Jake shook his head ‘no’ as the clock hit 11:59. 

“Mk.”

The silence stretched. Rich pressed another kiss against Jake’s skin, then another. When that didn’t seem to do anything to alleviate Jake’s rapidly quickening heartbeat, Rich started tracing circles up his sides. Oblivious to what was the actual problem, his mouth remained clamped shut. He couldn’t say the wrong thing. Not when Jake stopped breathing, the oxygen he was supposed to inhale caught in his mouth like he was scared it’d poison him. His back was ramrod straight and every muscle poised to flee. 

His phone screen went black after minutes of idleness and when Jake reached out to turn it back on, it blinked awake with the numbers 12:00 written across it. 

Jake squeezed his eyes shut. He shook his head ‘no’ rapidly, his breaths suddenly coming in with barely a millisecond between each inhale and exhale. His lungs sounded wet, his throat clogged, and his face was coated with something that resembled tears.

“Rich,” he choked out. Rich could hear the agony in his voice, could audibly make out the struggle it was to get just that one simple word past the lump in Jake’s throat. 

“Yeah?”

“Something’s wrong.”

Rich knew. Rich knew, and he thought maybe the world was ending and his worst nightmares were crawling from his mind through his eyes and into the real world, but with Jake crying in his arms, all he could whisper was, “It’ll be okay,” as he reached out to wipe the tears off Jake’s cheeks. 

“No, it—no, no, no—”

Jake plunged into Rich like he was the ocean. He grasped for his shirt, for his body. He curled himself up in Rich’s arms, his face hidden in the space between his neck and shoulder. His hold was so tight he almost stole the breath from Rich’s lungs, but he was so fragile and fucking weak that Rich breathed right past his desperation. 

Rich was so stunned he couldn’t bring himself to consciously move. Instinct drove him to shield Jake against whatever invisible army was attacking them. He ran his hands up and down Jake’s spine even as Jake’s fingers dug into Rich’s ribs and back, surely leaving bruises that would purple. 

Some terrible, straggled noise slipped out of Jake’s mouth and against Rich’s chest. It was so animalistic, so broken that Rich thought Jake was choking. He almost wrenched himself away from Jake to give him the Heimlich, or call 911 but—

But he was just sobbing. Genuinely sobbing. Like the stars were falling from the sky, like love had just torn his heart in two and drowned it in acid, like his body was being crushed and shattered—or maybe that was the feeling that overwhelmed Rich at such a wretched sound. He couldn’t tell. Everything had gone blurry. 

“Baby,” Rich tried, “Baby, no, god, shit—”

He pulled Jake closer, his grip tightening as if he could protect Jake from this. There was this dread—this indescribable, painful, terrible dread—growing, infecting, destroying the whole of his body. This was wrong. No one could hurt Jake. This was just fundamentally wrong. It broke the laws of the universe, of religion. No. Jake wasn’t allowed to feel this. 

But Jake’s ragged, convulsive breathing was proof in and of itself that it was all real. Jake was breaking.

“It’s okay,” Rich said, his voice stable and calm as if his insides weren’t on fire with panic, “It’s okay.” Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay, please be okay.

“I wanna go home,” Jake sobbed, so watery and weak it bordered on wailing. “I wanna go home, I wanna go home, please—”

“You’re home,” Rich whispered. His hands ran through Jake’s hair with a feverish type of comfort. Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay. “Or do you want to go to New Jersey? We can go back. What do you need?”

Jake shook his head as he gasped in a wet, agonizing breath. He stuttered out nonsensical ramblings, their meaning lost in between every cry. All Rich managed to make out was a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, don’t be, baby, please tell me what’s wrong.” Please, Rich didn’t say, please, I think I’m losing my mind. You’re going to kill me. I’m going to die. 

He held Jake tighter. 

Jake shook his head repeatedly even as he forced out an answer.

“They’re supposed to text,” he sobbed, his voice quavering with the effort it took to keep his waterfall of words from drying up, “They’re—they text me, they text me on my birthday and they never miss it even if it’s just from a throw away phone or someone stranger’s phone, they always do it and they’re supposed to text me every year and they’re dead, they’ve gotta be dead, and I want to—to go home.”

He pressed himself against Rich even harder, hiding the shame of his confession (because it was a confession, because Jake told Rich he hadn’t heard from his parents since they left. Rich didn’t have the capacity to be angry at the lie.). 

Rich looked at Jake’s phone for an answer. He looked for a late text, for an explanation. For an email from Jake’s mother telling him what to do, just something. 

He was met with an empty screen. With a crying twenty-two-year-old in his arms. With his own trembling hands, his mind trying to come up with an answer. He needed map to the home Jake wanted to get back to so badly. 

He couldn’t bring it back. Even if he hadn’t burnt down Jake’s house, even if they were sitting in his parents’ living room right now, their pictures on the walls and their history embedded in the hardwood floors, Rich couldn’t bring it back. He couldn’t suddenly construct family dinners. He could repeat I’m proud of you until his voice was cracked and broken and it’d be nothing compared to one smile from Jake’s dad. He couldn’t bring them back. He couldn’t make graduation a family event, couldn't bring the comfort they could, couldn’t wish Jake a happy birthday like they could. They had his childhood.

He could make a life for Jake, but he couldn’t bring him home. Only Jake's parents could do that, and they'd decided to fucking run.

“I love you,” was all he could think to say. “I love you so much. I love you.”

Jake squeezed him tight. Nothing about the hug convinced Rich that he’d done anything to help, but Jake’s violent sobs had subsided into quiet, graceful (because it’s Jake) weeping. He kept his face hidden against Rich’s shirt and though Rich wanted to kiss the tears off his face and the redness from his eyes, he let Jake stay where he was, sheltered from the worst of the world. 

“I”m sorry,” Jake said against Rich’s skin, his voice like the broken edges of a mirror.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, love.”

Rich was sorry. He was sorry he couldn’t fix it, sorry every house they lived in would only be an echo of what Jake wanted. 

Jake pulled himself away from Rich hesitantly, each limb aching just from the act of crying so goddamn hard. He looked up at Rich with the rawest expression Rich had ever seen—it was like his skin had been torn off him, revealing a broken mess of terror underneath. 

“You’re not—you’re not gonna leave, right?” 

It was such a fucked up question to ask that Rich wanted to scream. No, he was not going to leave. He was never going to leave. He wasn’t like them, he was better, and even if he couldn’t build Jake a home, he could at the very least stick around. 

“No,” Rich responded, struggling to keep his voice from showing the anger building underneath his skin. Jake could cry for them, could yearn for their comfort, but Rich would spend the rest of his life hating them with every bit of his being. They did this. “I’m never leaving you, I swear it."

[insertsickusername13]

Day three of richjake week 2023 and I actually have something written before 10 pm! Be proud of me.

today's prompt: Secrets (oooohhhh)

disclaimer: so star said no explicit content bc they're a minor buuuut I had an idea and listen, it's not explicit like AT ALL, but it does talk abt sex a little and sexual content is definitely implied. I got permission from Star but she also said I have to put a warning sooo here is a warning that yes sex is talked about but no it is not explicit in the slightest. oh also beware of mentions of abuse.

Summary: Rich faces the consequences of being in a long-term kind-of relationship with a prince.

word count: 1.9k

--

“So you’re really willing to live the rest of your fucking life like this?! Living a lie?! You’re so much of a fucking coward you’re planning to hide your entire life—”

“It’s not a lie!” Jake yells, so loud, so guttural, so utterly animalistic Rich is convinced it must be pure screaming rather than a sentence with actual words woven into it. 

Rich almost flinches back. He almost lets himself be afraid of this primitive version of Jake, but to do that would be to exile his consciousness back to five years old, hiding under his bed while his brother took the brunt of his father’s anger. He won’t do that.

“Don’t fucking yell at me,” he seethes, and though he tells himself he’s being mature, being clear and concise, he still blindly fumbles for the silver hairbrush on Jake’s vanity behind him. It can cause pain. He can cause pain. Just in case. 

Jake’s wild, bloodshot eyes follow the movement—darting back and forth in his eye sockets, the rest of him remaining unmoved, borderline crazed in the way he barks out a stark laugh at the pathetic sight. 

“Here’s a deal: don’t try to pretend I’m like you—” this he spits, the words acidic and smoking with implications, as he approaches Rich, his stance daunting and condescending like he believes Rich to be stupid “—and I won’t yell.”

He sticks his hand out, jabbing Rich right between the ribs. He wants Rich to shake it. To make their ‘deal’ official. 

Rich glares down at the offending hand, then back up at Jake’s face. It’s unfair that between the pure malice on Jake’s face and the hard, unwavering set of his jaw, Rich can still see the soft, caring prince he was so accustomed to. That boy was the opposite of irascible. He was painfully civilized, polite to a fault. Jake hasn’t changed, hasn’t suddenly become some unredeemable monster, he’s just been stripped of the humanity he fought so hard to keep among the selfish lords and nobles and royals he’s forced to surround himself with.

“Like me,” Rich repeats, voice so monotonous he almost doubts that he’s kept his humanity either. Even so, anger boils in his stomach, burning his insides with steaming heat, a painful form of proof. He’s human. He’s furious. 

When he repeats the words again, they’re painted with rage. 

“Like me. Fucking like me.” He backs up—one step, two, three. Jake’s vanity bangs up against his spine. “So you’re willing to strip me, fuck me, undo me, but you’re scared of being like me?”

Jake’s hand clenches into a fist. Rich can see the indecision on his face. He wants to hit something. He might hit Rich. Instead, he digs his nails into his own palm until blood coats his fingertips and drips down his wrist.

When he speaks, he doesn’t yell. He sounds like he’s negotiating with another king, debating the outcome of some war with a random, pretentious prince he’d stumbled upon at one ball or another. His civility has returned to him, sure, but it’s a bitter kind—it burns with psychotic desperation despite its apparent tranquility. 

“I never gave you any indication that I wanted anything more than sex. You knew that from the beginning. You knew this was just an—”

“If you say experiment I will never speak to you again. Experiments don’t last two and a half fucking years.”

Jake looks like a ship about to go under. He looks like destruction. 

“I have been engaged with multiple different women over our time together—”

“You seemed perfectly content coming home to fuck me every night anyway.”

Jake makes a sound like he’s just been stabbed with white-hot metal. His legs give out for a second—not long enough for him to fall, but long enough for his muscles to go from tense to struggling to hold him upright. The only reason he doesn’t sit is because he knows how it’ll come off. He’s been in the council’s chambers, he’s sat in on negotiations and treaty signings. He’s memorized every aspect of body language that can signify weakness and, by god, he cannot let Rich know that he makes Jake weak. 

“I have been engaged with multiple women,” he repeats, the words slipping between his teeth (teeth that have dug into Rich’s skin, have tasted his blood, have memorized the indents at his hips and the slope of his muscles), “I am engaged to a woman. Not you. Never you. Our arrangement—”

“Affair.”

“Arrangement—” The word comes out strained this time.

“Dalliance,” Rich says.

“Arrangement—” He almost sounds like he’s choking on it. Rich smiles.

“I can keep fucking going, asshole. We had sex. We didn’t sign a contract. Fucking own up to it.”

Jake lowers his head in submission.

“Our dalliance was just fun. Just playing. It was a thing for children. It was never anything more than—we were just—” he struggles around the word, the weight of it so complete he can barely say it, not only afraid of Rich’s reaction—violent, furious, unforgiving—but also of what it would do to himself. He’ll be forced to slice off his own tongue. It’ll always taste like the shape of—

“Experimenting,” he says (almost sobs), “You were just an experiment.”

Rich drops the hairbrush. If he keeps it in his hand he’ll throw it and he’d rather die than do that.

“Right,” he says, his voice trembling. Doubt stands behind him, a shadow so dark it makes his vision double and triple. Even as the room spun, the two, three, four, five Jake’s all swimming in his vision coalesced down into one boy, one prince, standing in front of him without a crown to be seen. “Right, an experiment sticks around even as you filter through dozens of different girls. I’m the experiment. Not them. They’re not all just fucked up attempts to find a girl who makes you feel like I do. Because she’ll fix it. She’ll fucking fix you—”

“I don’t need fixing! I’m not—” he spins, grabbing his dress shirt from the floor. It’s pretty incriminating to be half naked with the boy you’re claiming you don’t love. 

“I’m straight,” he says, forcing himself into the shirt, “I’m straight. It’s not fake when I’m with her. I’m marrying her because I want to. Because I can't---don't, fuck, won't marry you.”

He keeps talking, Rich knows he keeps talking, but it’s so quiet Rich can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears, over the tears blurring his vision. Jake’s mouth moves, muttering to himself, reassuring himself that it’s the truth—he likes her, he likes her, he likes her—and Rich does everything he can not to obsess over the words. He almost wants them tattooed on him, wants to stare at them with burning eyes until the entire world has caught fire with the knowledge that Jake does not love him. 

Jake pulls his suit jacket over his shirt. He looks up from the floor and over at Rich, his gaze a labyrinth of lies Rich doesn’t want to believe, but Jake’s always been a sweet talker—he can make even the most bitter of words taste like honey. That’s how he kept Rich around for so long even as he danced with girls at balls and took princesses out on picnics while Rich stayed sitting, waiting at Jake’s bedroom door like a little kid, for Jake to come home and bed him. 

(But it was never the sex, no matter what Jake said. It wasn’t. It was the moments after. Jake, naked under the covers, malleable like molten gold, hanging off of Rich’s words like he was trying to ingratiate him. It was Jake’s hands on Rich’s hips in every dark corner of the palace Jake ruled. It was the stolen kisses before council meetings, chaste kisses in hallways during balls that would’ve escalated to more had Jake not had to return to the ballroom a moment later to dance with a noble’s daughter. It was the pink of Jake’s lips as he kissed Rich’s shoulder, his mouth still the strawberry flavor of the lipstains the girls he courted wore. 

It was Jake pacing the length of his room, repeating the lines to a speech he was about to give with the nervous fervor of an anxious teenager about to confess. It was the way he looked at Rich for either approval or constructive criticism, and the way he accepted every word Rich said, whether good or bad, with a curt nod and hidden smile. 

It was the fact he never seemed to know what to do with himself when Rich complimented him. A simple ‘you’re pretty’ and Jake was frozen, face flushed and tongue drunk and uncoordinated, unable to come up with any response other than nervous laughter.

It was the first night Jake had fucked him. He’d tried to make it all a joke. 

“You’re supposed to boss me around sometimes, y’know,” he’d laughed, still breathless from their climb back through Jake’s bedroom window. They weren’t supposed to go down to town without supervision, but when Rich had caught Jake with his sheets tied into a rope and hanging off the side of the castle, he’d joined him instead of yelling. “Instead you just let me do whatever I want. I could—” he’d grabbed Rich’s shirt and pulled him in close. “I could touch you here—” his fingertips brushed over Rich’s bicep, then the rim of his pants, “—and you won’t stop me.”

There was a long, heavy pause. Jake looked up from the place he was touching Rich and whispered, “You’re not stopping me.”

Rich smirked. 

“Do you want me to?”

Jake only laughed again, bright and starry. He shook his head as he dragged Rich to his bed, overeager and ecstatic. 

It was the fact Jake loved him. Jake loves him. 

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me—)

Jake approaches carefully, almost scared of what Rich will do if he gets too close. Rich remains still, waiting. He wants Jake to kiss him. He thinks maybe he will. One last impassioned kiss, a dramatic ending to their dramatic story, before Jake says that god forsaken word again and leaves.

But Jake only skirts around the edge of Rich’s personal space and snatches his crown from the vanity behind him. 

“Maybe,” he whispers, sounding calm and resigned—almost defeated—now that Rich is thoroughly convinced of Jake’s intransigence, “Maybe it never had anything to do with you, have you—” he swallows the truth and continues, “—have you ever thought about that? Maybe it could’ve been anyone. Maybe you were just a boy in my bedroom willing to have sex, and maybe that’s all I thought. Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe I liked it, but maybe that was just because you touched me and you wanted me, and I—”

Rich searches Jake’s expression for pain. These words should be hurting, should be tearing him apart from the inside out. That’s what they’re doing to Rich. They’re destroying him. He never thought Jake was pernicious. He always thought Jake was an instrument of god, an extension of pure creation and goodness, but there were no tears in his eyes. Only a vague, shadowy regret. 

“---maybe I just let you want me. Because it felt nice to be wanted.”

He knows what he’s doing as he puts the crown on his head and leaves. It’s a show of status. Rich is a servant with red-hot tears on his face and Jake is a prince with a crown on his head. 

Jake is a prince who’s going to a ball to dance with his betrothed and Rich is a servant who’s going to stay in their— in Jake’s—bedroom and clean up the mess of their love and then the mess of their fight. 

Fuck you, Jake Dillinger. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

---

the secret is that they're in a relationship. bc. bc jake's a prince and he's not allowed to be in a relationship w a dude. yep. okay.

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Heyo everyone!!

Richjake week will start on Thursday, April 27th and go until Wednesday, May 3rd.

You can create a drawing, a piece of writing, or whatever you feel inspired to do for these prompts! You also don't have to do every single day! Stay away from explicit/s3xual content as I, the organizer, am a minor.

The prompts are:

Thursday, April 27th: Rain

Friday, April 28th: Instruments

Saturday, April 29th: Secrets

Sunday, April 30th: Fire

Monday, May 1st: Locker

Tuesday, May 2nd: Promises

Wednesday, May 3rd: Home

If you wish to participate in any of the days, make sure to use the tag "#richjake week 2023" in your posts!

Have fun everyone!!

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Reminder that Richjake Week 2023 starts one week from today!! See the post linked below for the prompts!

[insertsickusername13]

Hoping, praying, crying, trembling, please no one read this please it's so bad please. you're going to have to ignore all the typos literally couldn't bring myself to reread this

Richjake Week prompt 1: Rain!!

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: Rich and Jake have a very important conversation. In the rain.

Rich decided a month ago that he’s going to tell Jake when it’s raining. 

He has the image clearly in his head: the sky opening up, mourning for his soon-to-be lost relationship with raindrops Rich decides to see as metaphorical tears. There’s of course an atmosphere of catastrophe in his mind, upheld by the fire in the background and the SQUIP standing behind him, seething out acids that only marred Rich’s body further.

It’s raining now- a harbinger of his doom- and his body feels like it's on fire again. The world is on fire, all the while it's being simultaneously doused and reinvigorated. Jake’s shadow on the concrete in front of Rich only makes it worse.

“I can’t tell if you want me to cuddle you or go away,” Jake says. He tries to take on a joking edge to his tone, the lilt in his voice alight despite the fact the sun isn’t, and Rich offers up a skeleton of a laugh in response. Jake frowns as he sits, tense and hesitant, on the other end of the bench.

Rich pulls his knees up to his chest. They’re outside in the summer rain (though it’s really only a drizzle), Rich having decided to face his reality head-on rather than hide from it among the walls of their apartment. Their apartment (he doesn't deserve that).

He’s curled up on a small, cushioned bench, his side pressed against the armrests as he tries to broaden the space between him and Jake as much as humanly possible.

“I still can’t tell,” Jake whispers and this time around it’s almost soft, his hesitance audible in the small, shaky breath he takes afterward. Rich watches the rain. 

“I want you to stay," he says as if it's simple.

Jake doesn’t seem reassured in the slightest. He remains in the same position as before: back straight, hands on his knees, eyes following Rich’s every movement with a starved type of desperation that echoes. 

“Okay,” he says, “But what do you want me to do?”

Rich shrugs, the words he knows he needs to say so close to physically manifesting them as a fatal blockage in his throat he has to choose between opening his mouth and having vomit spill out or leaving Jake in pained silence. 

“Can I…fuck, Rich, you’re not giving me much to work with here. I—I want to help. Tell me how.”

Rich watches the rain. He watches and decides he hates it. He hates that it has to ruin what he’s so carefully cultivated. He fought like hell to keep Jake. He’d watched Jake try to leave—he’d watched his expressions as he found out about the SQUIP, about the full extent of Rich’s lies and all the ways Jake had been ruined by them. He’d almost left. Rich fought to keep him, begged and promised, and struggled to keep those promises but succeeded nonetheless. He won. It isn’t fair that now he has to fight all over again, has to pick back up his metaphorical sword, and argue until his tongue is bleeding and his lungs are on the verge of collapse just to convince Jake he’s worth a second chance. A third. 

Though there’s some invisible hand on his throat, squeezing his vocal cords and chest with a borderline sociopathic effervescence, he whispers, “I have a secret.”

He watches the rain and doesn’t watch Jake’s innate radiance dim to barely an ember. Jake's nails dig into his knees, the image of Chloe with another man, Chloe with a girl, flashing in his head. He can't lose Rich too.

“You…" he tries, "Okay. Okay. It’s okay. I’m listening.”

Jake shifts closer. Rich almost falls off the bench in his attempts to get farther away, to stretch the distance, to not let Jake touch him or see him or know him or get angry. He pulls the sleeves of his sweatshirt from his wrists to his knuckles, hiding as much skin from Jake’s view as possible.

“You’re gonna be angry at me.”

Lies. Jake doesn’t get angry. He gets defensive, sure. He’ll build up every possible barrier within a moment, isolating himself from Rich and everyone else before Rich can even finish whatever incriminating sentence he’s trying to say, but he doesn’t get angry. Not like Rich’s dad does.

Jake doesn’t seem as aware of this rule as Rich is. He hesitates before he responds, and when he does, he doesn’t deny Rich. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, and the words are so carefully chosen—cherry-picked from a stockpile, organized just so Rich would be assured without being condoned---that Rich almost falls for the pretty picture Jake paints. He's knocked out of the delusion as he remembers hearing that exact sentence in a romance movie two weeks earlier.

“Yeah, well," Rich says.

Jake inches closer again, this time just close enough so he can brush his knuckles up against Rich's elbow. Rich thinks he might faint, but he keeps his body so completely unresponsive that even someone as clairvoyant as Jake doesn’t notice the deep-rooted discomfort twisting in his stomach. Without a sign to stop, Jake’s touch solidifies into something precious, something golden and rare. He doesn't let go.

“Talk to me, baby, please.”

Baby. He’s so casual with it, so confident in his relationship with Rich that he can slip in pet names and touch Rich without feeling like the entirety of him is imploding.

Rich hates it. Rich hates that he can’t kiss Jake. He hates that he can’t go out to dinner with him without worrying about what the waiter thinks, what the people next to them think, what his father would think if he ever looked at Rich long enough to know what’s going in in the rest of his life. He hates the rain. He hates that every time Jake tries to reach out—to bridge the gap Rich has been meticulously building ever since Jake first whispered I love you—Rich wants to puke. Because if Jake gets too close, if he touches Rich for too long, he’ll be able to feel the femininity in Rich’s hips, in the build of his hands, in the spaces between the cracks in his body. He’ll know and he’ll never look at Rich the same. He’ll know and he’ll treat Rich like the rain. 

Rich clenches his jaw.

“I’m trans.”

Jake’s still holding Rich’s elbow. He’s completely silent, completely still, barely existent beyond the persistent heat of being alive. Then, the words slurring together with quiet confusion, “So… so you’re a girl?”

Rich is going to die. Rich is going to die. Rich is going to die. Rich is going to die. Rich—

“No! No, I mean you’re—you’re a boy? Which… which direction?”

Rich is too disoriented, too scared, to respond. He practically falls off the bench in his attempt to stand—to escape—an action that Jake mimics as he scrambles after him, hands fumbling to grab on again, to touch him, to know him—

Jake’s fingers tangle in Rich’s sweatshirt, gripping onto that rather than his actual forearms. 

“Hey,” he says, louder than the rain. Then, more reassuring, “Hey, baby, I’m sorry, stop, I’m—”

Jake doesn’t get angry. Jake will get defensive and, as Rich learns the moment he finally manages to open his eyes and face the consequences of his prevaricate lifestyle, Jake gets scared. Utterly, simply, wholly, scared. 

“I’m sorry,” Jake says, eyes so wide and desperate Rich is sure he’ll cut himself on Jake’s gaze. The finality of his apology is either the inevitable breakup Rich has been anticipating for the past weeks or a confirmation of every hope he hasn’t dared dream. 

“It’s okay.” It’s not.

“I—I don’t know what to—you—of course, I—I’m not upset.”

Rich’s response comes on instinct. 

“I’m not a girl.”

Jake nods like he’s accepted a command rather than told a fact—determined, focused, ready to die on the words he’d just been told.

“Okay. So your name’s still Rich?”

“Yes.”

“You’re still my boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“So… so nothing’s really gonna change?”

Rich wants to laugh. Nothing’s really gonna change? Does Jake not feel like lightning just struck their home and left the entire thing in ashes? Can he not see how hyper-aware Rich is of every fiber of his being, from the curves he’d skillfully hidden with Jake’s hoodie—too big, purposefully chosen for this conversation so Jake won’t search for the signs he’d missed for so long—to the place where Jake’s thigh presses against his own, so close and warm and knowing?

He swallows either a smile or a sob and whispers, “Not if you don’t want it to.”

Jake makes a sound of frustration. 

“But what do you want? I—I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saying right now, Richie, I’m—I don’t—”

Rich guesses Jake has never seen a movie to base his personality off of for this scenario. 

“Just—” Jake tries, gripping harder to Rich’s arm, this time his fingers pressing into Rich’s veins and muscles. “Just tell me what to say. Or do. I love you. I want you happy. With me. I want you to know I support you and you’re still my boyfriend and this doesn't change anything but you’re kind of looking at me like I’m insane or going to hurt you and I don’t know what to say to prove that isn’t true, and this is clearly important to you, and I honestly don’t know why I’m the one freaking out when you just fucking came out to me but please—”

Rich gets on his tippy toes and kisses the rest of Jake’s panicked rant off of his lips. Jake plunges into it, and Rich isn’t sure if it’s because he’s grateful to be back in familiar territory (Jake can do kissing, Jake can do physical) or if he’s glad to have confirmation that Rich isn’t angry with him. Between the feeling of Jake’s arms creeping around his waist with a careful certainty to squeeze the life out of him and the rain, picking up now that Rich had gotten the hard part over with, he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out.

“That was good enough,” Rich says, lips coated with a disgustingly perfect mix of Jake’s spit and rainwater.

“Oh, thank fucking god. Thank you.”

He wraps himself around Rich, closer than he’s ever been before, pressed into Rich’s space like he’s trying to taste it all before he drowns. Nuzzled against Rich’s shoulder, either shaking from anticipation or shivering through his now soaking-wet clothes, he whispers, “So proud of you baby, really—but did this have to happen in the rain?”

“Yes. You have no fucking idea, Jake. Yes, it did.”

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Reminder that Richjake Week 2023 starts tomorrow!! See the post linked below for the prompts!

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Day 1 of Richjake Week 2023!! Today's prompt is Rain.

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Day 7 of Richjake Week 2023!! Today's prompt is Home.

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Day 6 of Richjake Week 2023!! Today's prompt is Promises.

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Day 4 of Richjake Week 2023!! Today's prompt is Fire.

[lovely-blue-galaxy]

Day 3 of Richjake Week 2023!! Today's prompt is Secrets.

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Day 5 of Richjake Week 2023!! Today's prompt is Locker.