Latest Posts by sad-girl-autumn-version - Page 2

me (user since 2010) everytime this site is in a 50/50 situation of being nuked every 3 years

what it feels like losing another mutual to that 911 show where those guys havent even fucked yet

happy international asexuality day to billy bones. strongest man on the walrus. born to be a boatswain, forced to deal with fuck tent logistics.

Like remember when it was pretty well understood by men who were actually chill to be around that like obviously I hate all men wasn’t universal and if women felt comfortable saying that around you it meant you were cool and now instead every fuckin loser dude is like actually by saying men suck you’re enforcing bioessentialism and the patriarchy or some shit. Shut up you fucking crybaby

filtering down ao3 results from 14000 to 6 based on a single tag is foul. im sorry none of you are as enlightened as me ig.

no you do have to be interested in f/f pairings and if not you will be executed

Jon Bernthal as Braxton THE ACCOUNTANT 2 (2025)

I was hiding at a party by drawing outside so

Froggy Nelson & Catt Murdock

giffed the sydrichie hug again, this time in HQ <3

how it feels to be online these days

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

karen should be able to drop kick wwe style matt at least five times a day i would even pass her the chair from beneath the ring oh my god

“Ayo forever”

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Lucy Dacus about the Bear and Ayo Edebiri

I can relate

we all got that functionality suicidal homie who’s favorite website is Last. FM

“HE GOT LIFE!”

“How ‘bout old Foggy? He get life?”

“Foggy… he was the kindest, purest soul I ever met”

“And guys like you and me, we can work a lifetime and never measure up to his decency”

Lilo and Stitch (2002)

Jon Bernthal behind the scenes of DDBA.

he has the looks of a depressed english professor and the soul of a whore.

You are at a bar, and are asked to hook up by the person selected by this wheel. What's your response?

Finished episode 4 of Daredevil Born Again.

Frank and Matt defs fucked after crying together right?

its so easy to pander to me in fiction media. show me a guy that for some reason doesnt feel himself to be as human as most others are and i will sit with him for hours

Sydney’s presence helped the beef become the bear and that in turn helped Nat begin to heal the trauma associated with the restaurant. Nat was ready to let the space go after Mikey died but now she works there and is proud of the work she does there. need to see more of Syd and Nat’s friendship STAT!

i love.

It is funny how there will be an actor in a movie or show and youll think wow what an odd fellow they certainly have a strange quality… and then you google them and theyre just Australian

me reading straight up pornography: hmm… this one just doesn’t have enough accurate character psychoanalysis to get me off

popular fanon will kill patient. he needs source material to live.

renting crisis, part one. richie jerimovich x reader.

summary: in a last ditch attempt to save you both from the rising cost of rent and the loneliness you feel following mikey’s death, richie asks you to move in with him. a complicated relationship between you ensues.

a/n. first post ever. hopefully more to come soon 💌

slow burn, but not that slow.

————————————————————————

the beef - may, 2022

————————————————————————

you’re sitting at a table, counting tips, looking exhausted. richie leans against the counter, watching you. he’s trying to play it cool, but it’s obvious he’s been thinking about something.

“yo.”

“what, rich?” you respond, without looking up.

he kisses his teeth. “you still getting fucked on rent?”

you scoff, rubbing your eyes. “what do you think?”

richie’s silent for a moment before he speaks up. “i think… i got a couch,” you finally look up at him, squinting, trying to figure out if he’s serious.

“yeah, so do i. what’s your point?”

shrugging, real casual, he continues. “i dunno. just saying. i got space. spare room. wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you, you know, crashed there for a while.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and why would i do that?”

richie mocks offence, hand over his heart like he’s just been shot. “jesus christ, i make one nice offer and you act like i just asked you to fucking marry me.”

“you’re not nice.”

“i can be.” he retorts, grinning.

you study him for a long beat. he won’t look at you and continues to pretend to wipe down the counter, like it’s no big deal. but it is. and you know it.

you nod softly. “okay.”

richie glances up, surprised you actually said yes. he covers it with a shrug.

“yeah?”

smiling back, you bite your bottom lip. “yeah. but if you piss me off, i’m keying your fuckin’ car.”

he grins, clapping his hands together. “ahhh, there she is!”

you both smirk at each other. it’s not sentimental, it’s not dramatic—it’s just two people who work in a shit hole finding a way to make it a little easier.

————————————————————————

richie’s apartment - a week later

————————————————————————

the apartment is small but decent. lived-in. you lean on the couch, folding laundry that definitely isn’t yours. richie walks in, stops, and frowns.

“uh, what the fuck is this?”

you don’t bother looking up. “your clean underwear. you’re welcome.”

he groans like you just kicked him in the balls. “i don’t need you touching my fucking boxers.”

“trust me, i don’t want to. but if i didn’t do it, you’d be freeballin’ at work in two days.” you deadpan.

grumbling, he sits next to you on the arm of the couch. “not the worst thing in the world.”

“you are disgusting.”

richie, now grinning, kicks his feet up. “yeah, yeah. you done hogging the tv? i wanna put the game on.”

quickly, you snatch up the remote, hugging it close to your chest. “i’m watching the vampire diaries.”

“are you fucking serious?” he groans.

“yup.”

the two of you bicker for another minute, but it’s easy, it’s comfortable. neither of you say it, but it’s nice not being alone.

————————————————————————

the apartment - june, 2022

————————————————————————

you walk into the kitchen, still half-asleep, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that is definitely not yours—it’s one of richie’s old bulls hoodies. richie is at the counter, eating straight out of a cereal box. je does a double take when he sees you

“yo, is that my hoodie?”

you grab a mug, yawning. “might be.”

richie throws his arms in the air. “you can’t just steal my shit, dude.”

“i absolutely can.” you retort as you pour your coffee.

he snorts. “nah, see, this is why roommates don’t work out. this is how wars start.”

you take a sip of your beverage, then flip him off without looking. richie sighs, throwing a handful of cereal at you. you dodge it.

“you’re a fucking child.” your insult doesn’t land and the man in front of you just rolls his eyes.

“yeah, and?”

beat. you eye the cereal box in his hand.

“that better not be my fucking cocoa puffs.”

richie lets out a laugh, his mouth full. “it’s our cocoa puffs now.”

you glare at him, then lunge for the box. you wrestle for it like literal children until richie finally lets go, sending you stumbling back. you hold the box triumphantly, out of breath.

“that’s what i fucking thought.”

he shakes his head, shaking with laughter. “you’re the fuckin’ worst.”

you shake your head back, mockingly. “nah, you are.”

you share a grin. it’s dumb, but it’s fun.

————————————————————————

the apartment - july, 2022

————————————————————————

more comfortable in your new living situation, you sit at the kitchen table, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. richie walks in, downing a beer, eyebrows raised.

“oh no. what the fuck is this?”

once again, you don’t look up. “house rules.”

he snorts. “what is this, fuckin’ summer camp?”

ignoring him, you read out loud. “rule #1: if you leave dishes in the sink, i will kill you.”

dramatic.

“rule #2: no watching porn in the living room.”

richie furrows his eyebrows, the crease between them becoming more apparent by the second. “woah, woah. i don’t—,”

pointing at him, you avoid eye contact. “i don’t want to know.”

he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, raising his other hand in surrender.

fair.

you clear your throat, continuing.

“rule #3: If you eat my food, you replace my food.”

“you’re never gonna let the cocoa puffs thing go, huh?” he quips.

sneering, you tilt your head in a sarcastic manner. “not in this lifetime, asshole.”

richie snatches the paper from her, looking it over. you roll your eyes, snatching it back. he sits across from you, menacingly.

“you know, i kinda dig this.”

immediate confusion.

“the rules?”

shrugging, he picked at the label on his beer bottle. “nah, just… this. you here. dunno.”

you peer up at him through your lashes. it’s the closest thing to sincere richie’s ever been. you just nod, hiding a small smile.

“yeah.”

you don’t say anything else. he just sips his drink. you wring your hands together.

————————————————————————

the beef - august, 2022

————————————————————————

this time, you’re behind the counter, dealing with a customer who is very much testing your patience.

the horrible man grumbles, pointing at the menu behind you with a waggly finger.

“i don't get why you don't have more options.”

you force a smile, feeling yourself beginning to slowly die on the inside. “because it's a sandwich shop.”

the cunt across from you doesn’t miss a beat. “yeah, well, that’s stupid.”

dryly, you lean forward on your elbows. “i'll let corporate know.”

he scoffs at you. the nerve. “you got a real attitude problem, you know that?”

fuck you. you think, but you don’t have to say it because before you can, richie appears beside you. he grins, but there’s nothing friendly about it.

“you got a problem with her?”

the customer blinks, taken aback. “i didn't say that.”

"i-i didn't say that.” richie mocks. “shut the fuck up. you don't like the menu? go somewhere else.”

the man splutters. turning red.

“excuse me-,”

your coworker-turned-roommate drops his smile, eyes dangerous. “no, excuse me. get the fuck outta here.”

the customer glares, but ultimately backs off, mumbling something under his breath as he leaves. richie watches him go, then turns back to you, who's just staring at him.

you blink slowly. “jesus, rich.”

but he only shrugs, walking off. “what?”

“fuckin’ psycho.” you say to yourself, shaking your head. you turn back to the register, biting back a small smile as you move on to the next customer.

————————————————————————

the apartment - september, 2022

————————————————————————

the apartment is dimly lit, mostly by the glow of the tv. richie is on the couch, flipping through channels with another beer in hand. you’re is in the kitchen, rinsing out a glass, moving slower than usual. you’ve been quiet all night. though richie doesn’t think much of it—until he hears a quiet sniffle. he barely turns his head.

he’s casual, not even looking away from the screen. “yo, you sick or some shit?”

silence. then, another sniffle. he frowns, finally turning to look at you. you’re standing at the sink, hands gripping the edge of the counter, your shoulders tense. he sees the slight shake in your back.

fuck. she’s crying. he thinks.

richie sits up, his voice softer now. “hey.”

you quickly wipes her eyes and turn your back more, like you’re trying to hide. you let out a breath, trying to play it off.

“it’s nothing.”

he throws his arm down the side of the couch, searching for the remote. “yeah, alright. you’re just standing there crying ‘cause of nothing.”

you exhale through your nose, frustrated, but your voice betrays you, wobbling.

“i don’t fuckin’ cry.”

richie tilts his head, tone dry as he finally pauses the tv. “yeah? what’s that, then?”

you huff a laugh, but it’s weak. you shake your head, rubbing at your face aggressively like you’re trying to scrub the emotion off. he watches you for a second, then gets up, walking over.

leaning against the counter next to you, close but not too close, he breaks the silence again.

“it’s fine, y’know.”

you mutter out a small “no, it’s fuckin’ not.”

“yeah, it is. you live here, don’t you?”

you sniff again, looking down at the counter. richie reaches past you and grabs the roll of paper towels, tearing one off and handing it to you. you take it, still not looking at him, dabbing your face.

the man next to you clears his throat. “you wanna talk about it or what?”

you swallow, staring at the sink. your voice is small when you speak.

“…don’t know.”

richie nods, like that’s a perfectly fine answer. he doesn’t push. instead, he nudges your arm lightly, pulling a shitty little joke out of his pocket.

“just don’t go getting snot all over my counter, alright? i keep this place immaculate.”

an actual laugh escapes you—quiet, but real. you shake your head again, eyes still wet, but there’s something lighter in your face. he smirks, nudging you again. “that’s better.”

you both stand there in silence for a few seconds. then, richie pushes off the counter and grabs another beer from the fridge.

he holds it up toward you in question.

“beer?”

you exhales and nod.

“yeah.”

he tosses it to you. you catch it, finally looking at him. he just shrugs, like this never happened. you pop the cap and take a sip.

then you go back to the couch, richie flipping the channels like normal. like it’s just another night.

————————————————————————

the apartment - november, 2022

————————————————————————

it starts small. at first, it’s just convenience. you’re on your laptop in the living room, but richie’s watching something loud and stupid on tv. so you roll your eyes, pick up your laptop, and disappear into your room.

no big deal, right?

then, one night, richie’s door is open, and he’s lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone. you pass by, stop, and lean in the doorway.

“what are you doing?”

he doesn’t bother looking up. “bein’ fucking awesome, obviously.”

“mm. looks like you’re laying there like a loser.”

he scoffs, still not looking up. he scoots over slightly, making just enough space on the bed without actually saying anything. you don’t hesitate—you flop down next to him, on your stomach, scrolling through your own phone.

you don’t talk, just sit there in comfortable silence. blue light bouncing off your faves.

a few days later, richie’s walking past your room, and your door is cracked open. you’re lying on your side, curled up, watching something on your computer.

he stops. “what’s this?”

“a fucking movie, richard.”

he grumbles at your reaction. “no shit. what’s it about?”

“it’s french. you wouldn’t get it.”

richie pretends to be offended, letting his jaw drop. “‘scuse the fuck outta me?”

you smile, but then—you scoots over a little, thinking of when he did the same before. just a little. an unspoken offer. your roommate leans against the doorframe for a second, then shrugs and walks in, falling onto the bed next to you.

“alright, let’s see what kinda pretentious shit you’re into.”

then it just becomes a thing. you don’t say anything about it, but richie’s room stops being just richie’s room. yours stops being just yours. there’s no boundaries anymore—not in a weird way, just in a roommate way. in a ‘we live together and we’re comfortable way.’

you’ll be half-asleep in your bed, and richie’ll walk in and steal one of your hoodies off the chair like it belongs to him.

richie’ll be laying in his bed and you’ll wander in, sit on the floor, and scroll through your phone without saying anything.

neither of you question it anymore.

one night in particular, richie’s lying in bed, doing god knows what, and you walk in without knocking. you’ve got a beer in your hand and toss it to him without looking.

he catches it and cracks it open.

“you’re gettin’ real comfortable in my room, lady.”

not knowing what to say, you shrug, flopping down next to him. “yeah, well. It’s better than mine.”

he gives you a look, taking a sip of his beer. “your room is the exact same as this one.”

“yours has better vibes.”

he snorts. “oh, fuck off.”

you laugh, nudging him with your knee. richie rolls his eyes but smirks. you sit there, drinking in silence, the radio playing some dumb late-night talk-show in the background. and it’s fine.

neither of you say it, but—it’s kinda nice, not feeling alone all the time.

————————————————————————

the beef - february, 2023

————————————————————————

it’s a slow part of the day, that weird in-between where nothing really happens. you’re leaning against the lockers, sipping a coke, and richie’s bullshitting about something stupid.

sugar enters from the office, she had been around a lot lately because carmy was trying to convince her to renovate ‘the beef’ into… you didn’t even want to know.

her eyes eventually land on the two of you as she greets you both with a smile. “wow. you two are really attached at the hip these days, huh?”

you snorts, taking another sip of your coke.

richie just raises an eyebrow. “what the fuck does that mean?”

sugar sends you a knowing look.

“it means every time i come in here, you two are either flirting, arguing, or just—existing in the same place. it’s kinda strange.”

you angle your head away from richie to hide the growing blush on your cheeks. “thank you, natalie.

she eyes you both, unimpressed. then, she crosses her arms and tilts her head slightly.

“i’m just saying. it’s kinda funny. you guys live together, you work together—.”

richie interjects. “oh my god, is there a point to this?”

sugar only laughs.

i mean, it’s cute guys. like a little old married couple. mikey would prob—,”

you and richie both react at the same time.

“what the fuck—,”

“shut the fuck up.”

tina laughs from somewhere in the kitchen, obviously enjoying the show. sugar just smiles, like she’s oblivious to what she’s doing.

“i think it’s sweet, you guys! you take care of each other.”

richie scoffs, but he doesn’t have a real comeback. he just shifts on his feet and mutters “yeah, well, fuck off.”

she raises her hands in surrender, still smiling innocently, and walks off. you shake your head, downing the last of your drink before setting the can down with a clink. you look over at richie, who’s still scowling like he’s been personally insulted.

“you’re being so weird right now.”

“you’re being so weird right now.” he retorts, like a six-year old.

you roll your eyes, but there’s something in richie’s face—just for a second, something small and unspoken. neither of you acknowledge it.

instead, you nudge him with your elbow and walk off, and he watches you go for half a second longer than he should.

————————————————————————

the apartment - march, 2023

————————————————————————

the soft glow of the lamp lights the room, casting a warm, intimate glow. you’re lying on your back, the blankets scattered around you. richie is beside you, propped up on one arm, his other hand resting casually on the bed.

you two of you talk, but your words are light, almost nonsensical—just enjoying the simplicity of the conversation.

your faces are close, so close that it feels natural to hear each other’s breath and feel the warmth between them.

you laugh softly, pulling a drag from your cigarette and handing it back over.

“do you think… if we had an actual pet, we’d be good at taking care of it?”

richie chuckles, amused by the randomness of the question. “like a goldfish?”

“yeah, like a goldfish. what if we killed it by accident? i feel like we’d be those people who forget to feed it and then, like, find it floating in the tank.”

he laughs, his eyes sparkling with humour. “i dunno, i think we’d be fine. i mean, i could always blame you. you’re the one who’d forget.”

you playfully swat at him, but you’re smiling, your eyes soft and full of affection.

“right, blame me, huh? we both know i’m probably the responsible one between the two of us.”

richie pulls a very serious face, his lips fighting the urge to curve into a smile. “oh yeah? well, last time i checked, i was the one who made sure we had food last night.”

“pizza doesn’t count as ‘responsibility,’ rich.”

he smirks, and just then you realise how his face is only inches from yours.

“hey, that was a survival tactic. you’re welcome, sweetheart.”

you’re quiet for a moment, the air between you comfortable.

turning your head just slightly, you meet his eyes with a softness that says more than words ever could. richie’s face softens, too. there’s a brief beat of complete silence before he leans in, his nose brushing against yours lightly.

“is this the part where we get all deep and talk about our feelings or…?”

you laugh nervously at his words.

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💌