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theanothersherlockian · 4 days ago

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i love this so much!!! they’re so cute! and the guys too! jajdjaja

One Thing.

Richie Jerimovich x reader

“Don’t care if you got another cause tonight I’m your only lover”

Warnings: Smut & language.

Word count: 2655

Summary: You and Richie have done well to keep your relationship under wraps—until now.

The hum of the fridge is the only sound in Richie's house as he kicks the front door shut behind the pair of you. It's quiet — not in a heavy, haunted way — but in that off-kilter, post-shift kind of silence, like the restaurant is still buzzing under your skin.

You hadn't planned on ending the night here. Not again. Not like this.

Not when you both promised — again — no more fooling around after work. Especially considering you both started early again the following day.

But here you are. Shoes kicked off. Apron stuffed in your bag. Richie's shirt stained with tonight's sauce and the telltale signs of a night that almost got away from both of you.

There's an empty LaCroix can on the counter, a Sox cap on the table, and the smell of leftover lasagne in the air. Richie hasn't even taken off his shoes. He's pacing like he's still fighting someone on the line — or maybe himself.

"You didn't have to show me up in front of everyone," he says, finally.

You lean against the wall, arms folded, a smirk playing on your lips. "You were about to serve a pork chop raw, Richie."

"I was testing it, babe. I had a system!"

You raise a brow. "Yeah? Was your system salmonella?"

He shoots you a pointed look, but it's not angry. Not really. There's a spark there. Something amused. Something warm.

"This is why we said no more work talk after ten," he mutters, tugging off his jacket and tossing it on a chair. "We start with pork chops, and next thing I know, you're calling me a dumbass while we're naked."

"That happened once."

"And yet... it’s pretty unforgettable."

Richie finally turns to face you fully, and for a moment, the energy between you shifts — softens. Like he's about to say something honest. Something real.

But instead, he takes a step closer, tilting his head.

"You keep lookin' at me like that," he says, voice low, "I'm gonna forget why I was mad in the first place."

You laugh, but it comes out more like a breath. "I'm not sorry for calling you out. But I am sorry that it happened in front of Tina and Fak."

He snorts. "You know Fak's been rooting for us since day one. You think he doesn't know?"

You hesitate. "You think he does?"

"Babe. Fak's got, like, sixth sense relationship radar. He probably saw us make the smallest amount eye contact and started shopping for wedding gifts."

You roll your eyes, trying not to grin. "So much for secretly dating."

Richie shrugs. "I mean, we haven't exactly been subtle."

You step closer, toe to toe now. "So what, Richie? You want to tell everyone?"

He looks at you and for a second, something flickers in his eyes. It's not fear. It's something quieter. Something like hope.

"Yeah," he says softly. “One of these days, it’s gonna be out there. No hiding it anymore. I’m actually fucking kinda ready for it."

You nod, your lips twitching up. “Okay."

Richie breathes out like you just took a weight off his chest. Then he smiles, that half-cocky, half-earnest grin that makes your stomach twist.

And then, suddenly — you're kissing.

It's not slow. It's not careful. It's Richie. It's messy and warm and fast, and he kisses you like he's waited all night to feel your mouth on his again. Like he's never had anyone love him this way — and he's terrified it's going to end.

Your back hits the wall, but it's more playful than anything. His hands are on your waist, tugging you closer, your fingers already tangled in his shirt.

"You're like the best fucking thing that ever happened to me, you know that?" he says into your mouth. "And I'm still somehow always tryna screw it up."

You pull back just enough to look at him. "You haven't screwed anything up."

"Yet."

"Then stop thinking about the 'yet.' Just... be here."

He nods, pressing his forehead to yours. "Yeah. Okay. I'm here."

And he is.

He touches you like he means it. Like he's still amazed you let him do this — that you want him. Clothes fall off in record time, more laughter than finesse. He trips over his own pants trying to kick them off and nearly knocks over a lamp. You both burst out laughing before falling back onto the couch, half-naked and flushed.

It doesn't stay very funny long.

Once you're straddling him, once he's kissing down your jaw and murmuring your name in that reverent, quiet way he never uses around anyone else — it shifts. It always does.

"You good?" he asks, brushing your hair back.

"Better than good," you whisper.

And you mean it.

He holds your waist like he's grounding himself, guiding you down onto him with a sharp breath. The stretch pulls a moan from your throat, and he stills, letting you adjust.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "You killing me over here."

"You love it."

"God help me, I really do."

He moves inside you with a steady rhythm — not rushed, not frantic. Like he's savoring it. Like every second is a gift. His fingers trail up your spine, into your hair, pulling you down into another kiss that's all tongue and heat and unspoken things he's too scared to say out loud.

You whisper his name. He groans your nickname into your shoulder. And when it builds — when it crests — it's not fireworks. It's a wave. A quiet crash. Like coming home.

Afterward, the room is thick with warmth and quiet. Richie's arms are wrapped tight around your back. You don't move. You just stay there, wrapped up in each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Eventually, he speaks. Muffled. Soft.

"You think we're gonna fuck this up eventually?"

You look down at him, running a hand through his hair.

"We already are. That's the whole point."

He laughs — real, full, unguarded. And then pulls you down into his chest.

You settle there, hearts thudding out the last of the tension.

"He grins into your neck. "God, I'm so lucky. You like me, even when I talk too much."

"I love you," you correct. "Even when you talk way too much."

And for once — Richie doesn't say anything clever.

He just holds you tighter.

You're still lying on his chest, skin damp and flushed, when he breaks the silence again.

"Can I ask you something?" Richie murmurs, his voice quieter now, like he's not totally sure he wants to say it out loud.

You shift slightly to look at him. "Always."

He hesitates.

"You ever think about... I don’t know.Kids?"

The question lands soft but weighted — like a pebble dropped into still water. Not hard, but the ripples travel deep.

You blink slowly. "Are you serious?"

He nods, eyes not quite meeting yours. "Yeah. I mean — not, like, now. Not tonight. Obviously. Jesus. But, like... I don’t know. Just wondering if you've thought about it. Ever."

You take a shaky breath, slightly surprised by how fast the answer comes.

"I don't think I want them."

Richie's eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, you brace for it — the discomfort, the shift, the subtle judgment you've learned to expect from people who don't understand why a woman might say no to that idea.

But he just nods. Like it makes perfect sense. Like he already knew.

"Yeah?" he says, voice even.

You nod. "Yeah. I mean... I've thought about it. I've really thought about it. But it's just not something I see for myself. Not now, and maybe not ever."

There's a long pause.

Then Richie exhales, smiling softly. "Honestly? That's kinda a relief."

You marrow your eyes. "Really?"

He shrugs, resting his head back against the pillow. "I love Eva more than anything in the whole goddamn world. I'd jump in front of a train for her. But... it's hard. And I think I messed it up, a lot of it. Being a dad, it's like—" he pauses, squinting toward the ceiling "—it's this thing I keep trying to grow into, and I don't always know how and I don’t ever think I will.”

You press your hand to his chest, fingers over his heart.

"You're a good dad, Richie."

He gives a half-smile, a little crooked, a little sad. "I try. But the idea of doing it again, starting all over? With someone I love this much?" He turns his face toward yours. "That's scary as fuck."

Your throat tightens at that. "Because you don't want to lose it?"

"Yeah," he says, almost a whisper. "Exactly."

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, you won't."

He kisses you — soft, lingering. No heat, no rush. Just gratitude. Just you and him.

You sigh into it, letting yourself settle deeper into his arms.

"I like us how we are," you say quietly. "I don't need anything else."

Richie nods. "Yeah. Me too. You're already more than I thought I'd ever get."

The room is still and golden in the low lamplight. Outside, cars speed by like background music for your very weird, very wonderful life.

Eventually, he tucks you closer, murmuring against your hair.

"Can we stay like this for a while? Just... like this?"

You smile. "We've got all night."

And you do. Just the two of you. No screaming tickets. No line cooks. No fake-outs. No pressure.

Your life together isn’t perfect. It’s a little messy — the way the kitchen counters are always cluttered with coffee mugs and takeout menus. The house smells like late-night Chinese food and your lavender candles, you’d somehow convinced Richie to keep. There’s the Saturday mornings spent arguing over who gets the last pancake, the lazy Sundays wrapped up in a blanket on the couch binge-watching old movies. It’s the kind of life that’s full of noise and chaos and laughter, but always full of each other.

The room settles into a soft quiet, the kind that follows everything — the laughter, the kisses, the honest talks. You lie tangled in each other, warmth settling like a soft blanket.

Richie’s fingers trace circles on your arm, but his voice breaks the silence again, low and hesitant.

“Can I ask you something else?”

You hum tiredly, still pressed against him.

“If Eva’s okay with it... maybe you’d want to meet her?”

You smile, heart squeezing softly. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

He smiles back, his eyes bright. “Me too.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The following morning the morning sunlight cuts across the prep station like a spotlight. The Beef smells like bleach, lemon zest, and burnt toast — classic — and everyone's still dragging from last night's double shift.

Everyone but you and Richie.

You're humming under your breath, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in a bin of herbs. Richie's at your side, close enough to brush elbows, rattling off a joke to Marcus that doesn't even make sense — but everyone's too tired to call him out.

You lean over to grab a container from the lower shelf. Richie moves behind you, his hand automatically sliding to the small of your back as he passes.

It's instinct. Casual. Familiar. Too familiar.

He doesn't even notice. He doesn’t even hesitate and keeps walking toward dry storage like his hand belonged there.

Tina pauses, mid-chop, eyes flicking up from her green cutting board. Ebra squints from the other side of the kitchen like he's solving a complicated math problem. Sydney goes still.

Marcus looks up from the mixer. "Wait. Did you see that?"

"See what?" you say, far too fast.

Sydney narrows her eyes. "Okay, now I know something's up."

Richie's already back a second later, reaching over you for a knife and doing it again — hand grazing your spine like he's tuning a radio.

He still doesn't notice.

Sydney drops her spoon.

"Okay," she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What the actual fuck is going on?"

You blink. "What?"

"That's the third time he's touched your back in like ten minutes. Is that, like, a nervous tic? Muscle memory? Or is this, I don't know... foreplay?"

You cough.

"I touch a lot of backs," Richie says defensively.

"That's worse," Tina mutters without looking up.

Ebra nods. "Deeply concerning, cousin."

"It's spatial awareness," you try weakly, but your ears are already burning.

Fak appears from the walk-in just in time to catch Richie's hand resting — casually, intimately — on your hip. He stops in his tracks, mid-chew, holding what looks like a very expired granola bar.

"Wait. Wait. WAIT—" Fak points, his voice rising in excitement. "OH. MY. GOD."

"Fuck," you mutter.

"I knew it!" Fak cries, triumphant. "You guys are together! You've been secretly banging this whole fucking time!"

Marcus peeks over a stack of baking trays. "But you said they weren't."

"I was misled by their Oscar worthy acting," Fak says dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like he's winded.

Sydney crosses her arms, smug. "I've known for weeks. Richie's been weirdly... soft. I thought maybe he had a brain injury."

"I don't do soft," Richie snaps, but his cheeks are red now.

"You rub her back like you're burping a baby," Sydney fires back.

Richie points at her, opens his mouth... then closes it. "Okay. That's fair."

Tina leans against the counter, smirking. "I knew something was going on. You been humming this morning, girl. Nobody hums at this job unless they're in love or on some really good drugs."

"I thought they were just co-dependent," Ebra adds. "You know. Like most people here."

"You're all being so dramatic," you protest.

"You kept it from us!" Fak gasps. "You kept it from me! I was gonna make you friendship keychains!"

"We weren't hiding it," you try to explain, glancing at Richie.

"We just... didn't say anything," he finishes, sighing.

"Didn't say anything?" Sugar repeats, appearing in the doorway with a clipboard. "Richie, are you serious?"

"Oh for fucks sake," Richie mutters. "Not you too."

"You kept this from me?" Sugar demands, pointing between the two of you. "Me?"

"I knew you'd react like this!" he shoots back.

"And you—" she spins to you, eyes wide "—you could've said something."

You shrug. "You could've asked and I may have told you."

Carmy, of course, chooses that exact moment to stroll out from the office, towel over his shoulder like a chef poster boy, calm as ever.

"I thought it was obvious," he says casually, walking past the group.

The room freezes.

"You what?" Sugar blinks.

Carmy shrugs, already halfway to dry goods. "I mean... Richie's been a extremely normal lately."

Richie scoffs. "I am never normal."

"Exactly," Carmy says without turning around.

Everyone loses it.

"Okay," Marcus says, through a grin. "Now I do feel betrayed. I thought we were your friends."

"You are," Richie says. "That's why we didn't want to subject you to my very real and terrifyingly powerful sex aura."

"Richie," you groan, wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and die.

"What?" he shrugs. "Babe. You knew what this was."

"Do not call me 'babe' in the kitchen," you warn — but you're already grinning from ear to ear.

And then — as if to hammer the point home — Richie's hand returns to your back again. Not thinking. Not performing. Just him. Just something he does without realizing. A soft, grounding rub between your shoulder blades.

It's not a secret anymore.

But somehow, it still feels like something private. Something just yours.

Sydney raises an eyebrow. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I think I ship it."

Richie beams. "You hear that, baby? We're canon."

"Right I’m leaving," you say, flatly.

"I'm proud of you," Fak says, placing a solemn hand on Richie's shoulder. "Our little guy's in love."

"I will kill you," Richie says, playfully smacking his hand away.

But his other hand doesn't move from your back.

And you don't ask him to.

#richie jerimovich x reader

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theanothersherlockian · 4 days ago

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richie jerimovich - i don't hate you

♫ raspy taylor - feels like a sunday

this fuckin old man, jesus christ

main masterlist | blog playlist

"Would you two just sort your fuckin' shit out already, it's pissing everyone off!"

Carmy slammed the door to his office shut after his mini rant, leaving you and Richie inside. Richie opened it again and shouted down towards the chef, clearly annoyed.

"Yeah, just like your fuckin' attitude, cousin. Fuck outta here!"

"Get back the fuck in there now, Richie. Fuckin now!"

Richie slammed the door before Carmy could continue, leaving the two of you stood together in the office. Trying to look anywhere but at him, you fiddled with a few loose papers on the desk. There was definitely no way you were about to start conversation, that was certain.

"Well, sweetheart, get comfortable. There's no way we're sorting this out and he won't let us back out there until we do. Gonna be a long fuckin' night."

You scoffed. "Whatever. Don't call me sweetheart, either."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Or what? You gonna run and tell Carmen? Such a fuckin' baby."

Not even dignifying his schoolyard taunts with a response, you rolled your eyes and just sat down, finding something to fidget with. Choosing one of Carmy's pens, a black ink one that had 'Chef Carmen B.' engraved on the side, you twirled it between your fingers and leaned back. Richie made himself comfortable, too. He pulled out his phone and scrolled away.

The silence was heavy in the room as you both respectively ignored the other.

If you were being honest, you didn't even know why you and Richie argued. I mean, he argued with everyone so it was a given, sure. Richie just liked to pick fights, and he had hated you from the moment you walked in so it seemed like the natural course of action that would bicker. But it had quickly surpassed bickering and turned into full blown rage fests.

In truth, you didn't even hate him, you reacted because it seemed as though he hated you. It was the constant insults and backhanded compliments. The purposely bumping into you and knocking stuff out of your hands, only to blame it on you when you dropped it. Petty little behaviours that got blown way our of proportion.

You huffed, scribbling on a blank piece of paper, refusing to be the first to speak. Instead you began to draw, doodling away on the sheet.

Richie put his phone away, looking down at his feet and losing himself in thought.

If he was being honest, he didn't even know why you and him argued. Richie knew he wasn't the easiest to get on with, especially since Mikey's death, but why you were at each other's throats all day every day was weird. Maybe he felt threatened, or maybe intimidated by how fast things in the restaurant were changing, and since you were the most recent change as a new member of staff, he took that anger out on you. That was far from fair, and he felt bad about it.

In truth, he didn't even hate you. He acted like this around because he thought you hated him. He was everything you were not. Richie was older than you by a considerable amount, divorced and incredibly sour for the most part. Life had hit him hard. You were pretty young, vibrant and had your future in the palm of your hand. Richie truly and honestly believed you could do anything, he knew that.

Taking a moment, Richie decided to glance up at you to see what you were doing. You were sat at Carmy's desk with your hair down and flowing around your shoulders and pooling on the table as you leaned into your work. Your face was slightly scrunched up, concentrating on whatever it was you were trying to draw. Your bottom lip was pulled in under your teeth and you sat cross-legged.

Richie couldn't believe it, but he found himself smiling. He had always found you pretty, even though it hadn't been the best start. You didn't get on with each other, but he would be a fool to deny how he thought of you. On a purely outside aesthetic, he thought you really were beautiful. Lost in concentration though, you looked even better to Richie.

Your eyes darted up with the feeling of someone watching you. As your pen stilled, you questioned the man sitting before you.

"What? You gonna laugh at me or something? Come over, you can take the piss if you'd like."

The venom in your voice wasn't lost on him, but he stood and came over anyway. Glancing over your work a smile spread across his face. A real one not filled with mockery or ill-intent. His eyes softened, turning the paper so he could see it head on.

It was a sketch of a man behind a counter, looking down as he worked on some food. There was a hand towel throw over his shoulder. Off center cups stacked high next to him and a soda machine were lightly sketched into the back. There was room for a sign above him that you hadn't managed to fully flesh in yet, and it clicked with Richie why it looked familiar.

You'd drawn the front counter of The Beef.

Whether or not you meant to do that or not, it had happened, and then his attention was drawn to the man you had sketched. He had short hair and an apron on, a short sleeved t shirt finishing the outfit. A shadow of a beard you hadn't finished filling in had started to take shape, and Richie didn't know if he was going delusional or not but it looked so familiar.

Too familiar, maybe.

"You know it kinda looks like me," Richie said, pointing to your drawing. "It's really good, too."

Narrowing your eyes, you look it over again. Shaking your head, you were trying to find fault somewhere; just anything, hoping you could prove him wrong. Your endeavor was pointless and you realized the worst thing you could.

He was right. Richie was right as fuck.

Your subconscious had drawn him, not only had you managed to draw him but it was so instantly recognizable, too. In the process of doing it, that didn't even click with you. But now it was clearly and undeniably Richie Jerimovich.

Why the fuck did you do that? Mentally cursing, you stood up and stretched.

"Is it good? Do you really think it's good or are you being nice so we can leave?"

Richie couldn't help but laugh. "No, I'm actually saying it is good. I am capable of giving you a compliment, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Richie, all you ever do is shout at me and argue with me, I can't remember the last time you complimented me. In fact, I don't think you ever have done."

Richie motioned to your drawing about to comment. "About two seconds ago-"

"Other than that, dickhead!"

Richie held his hands out in surrender, for the first time unwilling to start a screaming match with you.

"You gotta work on that anger," Richie said, almost as though he knew it might infuriate you. He wanted to know what he'd done wrong for you to dislike him so much, but he sure as hell wasn't about to just ask. He had to be the most Richie about it that he could be. "That amount of anger in such a short person isn't healthy. You need an outlet."

"Oh fuck you," you replied, a wave of angry tears almost breaking through.

"If that's what you need as an outlet-"

"No!" you shouted back, interrupting that train of speech before it could even depart the station. "I just don't know why you hate me so much. What did I do wrong?"

You were now around the other side of Carmy's desk, leaning the back of your legs against it as Richie stood a few feet in front of you. He looked at you, right in the eye, and a confused look washed over his face.

"Who told you I hate you?" he asked, softness in his voice.

You shrugged. "It's felt like it for as long as I've been here. I only give as good as I get because it feels like you hate me."

Your voice was quiet and low, Richie almost struggled to hear you. This was about to be the first actual chat you two had partaken in since meeting, hopefully the first to not end in a fight. He let out the smallest chuckle, baffled by your statement.

"I thought you hated me," Richie spoke to you, hoping his words might get through. "I thought when you got here that you didn't like me. You got on so well with everyone else, even Chi Chi and shit, but me? I felt like we didn't talk because I did something wrong."

"No," you said. "No, you never did. I never talked to you because you were always engaged in arguing with other people. I never got the chance to say hello."

"You know I don't hate you, right?" Richie asked, like a child with a question about the universe. His voice was gentle, but it was a rhetorical question. "I hate the idea of you."

"How is that any better?"

"Hey, hear me out," he recovered his train of thought. "Hear me. I hate the idea of you because you were a breath of fresh air for this place. It has been gritty and shitty for so long, even before Carmy took over, but now he wants to change everything and you were a change and-"

"Fuck, Richie what the hell?"

"And I just panicked. Thought you were gonna be some professional chef or something! I hate that shit, I hate Carmy and his Noma shit, thinkin' he knows fuckin' everything. That is not what this place is meant to be!"

Your voices were now raising above the previous level, and clearly you were both getting irate. The civility had no chance of lasting long anyway, but it died quicker than you thought it might.

"You can't just hate me because of some preconceived mess you have going on inside your brain, that shit hurts."

Richie chimed back. "Well fuck, I didn't mean it to!"

You were practically at the top of your lungs now. "Well it did!"

Then, the room fell silent.

Richie had taken two strides forward, his arms wrapping around your waist as his body pushed you back against the desk. Richie's hands held your face, and with such gentle touch he tilted your head up to him and kissed you. His lips were so soft, and the kiss was slow and calm despite the fiery feelings between you moments ago.

You kissed him back, relaxing into him as your arms found a home around his neck. Dragging your fingers across his scalp, hearing a small groan come from him. Richie was the first to pull back, but not far at all. Instinctively, you jumped onto the tabletop, wrapping your legs around his torso. He rested his forehead against yours, one of his hands winding through your hair to push it out of your face. Opening your eyes, you found him looking at you with a completely new vibe.

"Richie," you whispered out, still not quite over what just happened. "Jesus."

"Leave you breathless did I, sweetheart?" he smiled at you, a kind smile this time. "Considering how much you've clearly been thinking about me I'd say you liked it."

"How would you know I have been thinking about you?" you asked out of genuine curiosity. "Stroking your ego again, Richie?"

He laughed, the insults starting again but already feeling lighter. He leaned in closer to you, kissing you on your neck and lifted his head. Lowly, he spoke into your ear.

"You can draw me from memory. That tells me enough."

Richie leaned back in and kissed you again, this time with far more passion and care. You weren't going to argue, nor were you going to complain. You were enjoying every minute of it, if you were to be honest to yourself. His hands found their way beneath your shirt, but went no further than just the skin on your waist. You kept him close with your legs, just savouring being here.

"This is not the outcome I expected," you admitted, and you felt Richie chuckle.

"Are you complaining?" he asked, a playful tone lacing his words.

"In a move that has shocked both me and the rest of the nation, no I am not complaining."

Richie let out a proper laugh, a full and happy laugh. It sounded so nice, it was the same kind fo laugh he had when his favourite customers were in, or when he was on the phone to Eva. That's how you know it was real.

"Well then, sweetheart, come here."

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