Sad-girl-autumn-version - Sad Girl Autumn

i swear to god maslow's hierarchy of needs does Not apply to me when i'm sick with a hyperfixation. like memes aside i actually need to think of this fictional bitch more than i need food or sleep. basic need is Talking About The Fictional Bitch actually

He’s fucking you in missionary but you’re stroking his face and saying “that’s it, baby. That’s my good boy.”

I feel like nobody is a bigger misandrist than Frank Castle. Like that man distrusts ALL other men on principle, especially when it comes to your safety.

lol no it's true! He's side-eyeing every man until proven otherwise. You're just always hearing Frank muttering "this asshole" when you're out in public when guys are pushing past people on the sidewalk or not standing for an old lady on the subway or not carrying the grocery bags for their girlfriend.

He's even bossing them around at various establishments lol. You're at the coffee shop and there's a woman trying to haul out the trash while some other male barista is scrolling on his phone and Frank is barking from behind the counter like "You!" and pointing at the male barista so they look up in terror, "take the fuckin' trash out asshole" and the barista is just scrambling to do it because they don't know what's going on lolol.

Care and Comfort

CW:  Richie being Richie, swearing. Angst and fluff. Mentions of Mikey's death and addiction.

Word Count:  2070

AN:  Requested by an anonymous person!

February 22.

It’s a tough day.  You’ve been with Richie long enough now—two years—to know what the date means.  What it is the anniversary of.  You came into Richie’s life after Mikey exited it, but you knew enough of your boyfriend’s best friend. 

What a charming, larger-than-life man he was.  Mikey Berzatto.  Mikey Bear.  Charismatic.  Filled the room with his presence, his stories, his ability to make a person feel like the most important person in the world.

Also an addict.  Also, probably, a narcissist. 

So it’s a tough day for Richie.  Mikey’s suicide blew a hole in the lives of those who loved him, and Richie loved Mikey like a brother.  Two years out from his death, Richie is no closer to any real closure:  he misses his friend.  He loves his friend.  He hates his friend for what he did, all the shitty behavior before he finally made a choice that couldn’t be taken back.

February 22 is the day that Richie’s feelings break loose like a storm.  He rages, he goes sulky and quiet.  He gets mad at Mikey, and because Mikey isn’t there, he lashes out at those closest to him.

You, namely.

But you can handle it.  What sort of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t help him weather these hard days?  Because you know, deep down, the person Richie is angriest at is himself:  that he didn’t see it coming, that he didn’t do more to help his friend.

-----

Your first year together, Richie was snappish.  He tried to start fights with you all day, and you—not understanding him completely—were too bewildered to rise to any bickering.  Your confusion took the fire out of him, and he spent the rest of the day maudlin, full of apologies, rife with terribly negative self-talk.

This year? 

This year, Richie is just sad.

He stays in bed past noon.  He gets up around one in the afternoon, wanders out into the living room of your shared apartment, then promptly plants himself beside you on the couch.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, soft.  You glance at him, take in the red-rimmed eyes, the deep lines etched between his brows.

He answers with a grunt, a non-committal noise.

“Hungry?”

Another grunt, and this one sounds sort of like a no or a nah.  A beat later, though, you hear the snarl of his stomach, and you laugh softly at it.

“Let me make you something.”

That, at least, earns you a grumble, a string of unintelligible words, but he doesn’t object when you stand up and make your way to the tiny kitchen.

-----

You’re no Carmy, and you’re no Sidney.  You’re no Tina or Marcus or Ebra.

Still, you can hold your own as a home chef.  You had a mother and a father who cooked, who taught you how to fry a chicken breast, how to make a simple fresh pasta, how to roast a piece of beef or pork.

So you can’t do a Hamachi crudo or a lamb ragu, but you can do comfort food.  Food that sticks to the ribs and warms a person from the inside out.  For Richie, on this difficult day?  You make him breakfast for early dinner or late lunch. 

You slice up the brioche you got earlier in the week and find it perfectly stale for French toast.  You put cinnamon and a pinch of cloves in the egg batter, fry up the slices to perfection.  You fry some bacon to the crispness Richie likes; you make a pile of buttery scrambled eggs with goat cheese and chives folded in.

You finish it all off with strong coffee in the French press, which Richie used to scoff at as needlessly fussy but now can’t live without.

You don’t bother to plate it nicely.  This isn’t the Bear, and no one is going to give you a star.  This is food as medicine, and you heap everything on a plate and carry it—along with silverware and the coffee—into the living room.

Richie has gone horizontal as you cooked, stretched out on the couch with his face to the back, but the scent of the food makes him turn a bit and glance up at you.

“Said I wasn’t hungry.”  He sounds peevish.

“Just have a bite or two.”  You set the silverware down with a clink, and Richie heaves a sigh, rolls over, sits up.  He doesn’t quite glare at you, but it’s glare-adjacent.  A slight narrowing of his eyes as he looks at you.

“Didn’t have to fucking do all of this.”  His voice has a rough edge, but you know him well enough to hear the faint thread of gratitude underneath all the gruffness.  Richie never knows how to handle being taken care of.  He’s used to being the one taking care of others:  his daughter, his ex-wife when they were still married.  Mikey’s mother, after Mikey’s suicide. 

He’s the real-life version of setting himself on fire to keep others warm, so he is always surprised when someone else cares for him.  Even if it’s something as ordinary as making him a comforting meal on a day when he’s too paralyzed by grief to feed himself.

-----

As you had guessed not hungry wasn’t true.  Once Richie gets a few bites into him, his appetite awakens and the plate is cleaned of crumbs in an appallingly short amount of time.

“Good?” you ask, and he mumbles a sheepish “thanks,” so you clear away the empty dishes, take them to the kitchen, rinse them off.

When you return to the couch, though, Richie is sitting up straight and gazing right at you.  He waits until you meet his eye, and then he says, slowly and deliberately, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He clears his throat, seems embarrassed by himself.  So much of his bluster and cockiness is an act, a smokescreen.  Richie is often insecure, chagrined by his own behavior, and you can guess that he’s berating himself for being curt with you earlier.  For dozing in bed for so long when the two of you have so few days together.

“Really didn’t have to do all that though, sweetheart,” he starts, and you wave him off.  You sit beside him, and he lifts his arm automatically, the gesture for you to tuck yourself against him, but you shake your head.  You settle against the corner of the couch, then pat your lap invitingly.

“C’mon, Jerimovich,” you tell him.  “Let me scratch your head.”

Your first impression of Richie is the most lasting one, even two years in.  He puts you in mind of a shelter dog—kicked and mistreated in some prior life, yearning for affection, baring his teeth at the thought of being kicked again. 

And like a dog, the man loves to be petted.  It’s not necessarily sexual; it’s the simple fact of human touch, the feel-good chemicals that release in his busy brain when you skate your fingertips over his bare skin, when you press your own body against his, when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

Which is what you do now.  You let Richie settle in your lap.  He tucks one arm underneath him, but he wraps the other over your thighs.  Once he’s situated, you just…pet him.  Scratch his head.  Sometimes you press your fingertips in the small muscles that go tense and bunched at the base of his skull, but mostly you just pet him.  Let the repetitive motion lull him, and you feel him relax against you little by little.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after a long stretch of silence.  The T.V. is on, some true crime cop show, but it’s muted.  The only sounds are those of city living:  faint doors opening in the hallway of your apartment building, traffic in the street, the occasional gust of wind against the window.

“No.”

A beat, and then you ask him to tell you a story about Mikey.  It makes Richie sigh, and he starts with the well-worn story about Bill Murray, but you interrupt him.

“No, tell me a story from when you were kids,” you clarify.  “Tell me about Baby Mikey, and make sure there’s lots of Baby Richie.”

He chuckles against you, and it sounds warm.  Genuine.  He’s never said it, and you’ve never asked, but you can guess that it helps him somehow, when you ask for Richie stories in the guise of Mikey stories.  How you gently try to frame him as the main character in his own life instead of Michael Berzatto’s side-kick and sometimes-stooge. 

Now, Richie tells you a story from his high school days, and it’s his own story, and Mikey is just a supporting character, but an important one—a supporting character before the crush of adulthood, before Papa Berzatto took off and left Mikey as the man of the house.  Before the Beef as it skidded into bankruptcy, before the arson attempts and shell games with Unc’s money, before the pills and the dealing out of the alley, before whatever darkness in Mikey swallowed him up and put him on that bridge with a gun two years ago to the day.

It's a funny story, some prank on some stodgy old teacher, and Richie chuckles as he tells it.  You can hear his own darkness bleed out of his voice, can hear him remembering the good ol’ days instead of wallowing in the bad ones.  You can hear him remembering his friend who was more like a brother—remembering him in all his bright promise and not as he left.

The story ends, and then you hear it:  a weak sniffle.  You lay your palm over the curve of his skull, hold him, and think that a cry might do him good.  Richie holds so much in; tears might be healthy, might help him grieve Mikey in a more healthy way—

“I know it, you know,” he says against your lap, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

“Know what, baby?”  You wonder at what revelation he is going to share with you, what understanding in his own psychology or Mikey’s has come to him.

“I fucking know I don’t deserve you,” he replies, and it surprises you.  You gape wordlessly above him.  It wasn’t what you were expecting him to say.

“All this shit,” he explains.  “My life’s a fucking mess, and every year, I fall into this black hole and you have to pull me out.”

You smile down at where he’s settled in your lap, and you feel a wave of love for him wash through you.  Your boyfriend, Richard Lawrence Jerimovich.  Rough around the edges and then some, but underneath all that trauma and hurt lies the biggest heart you’ve ever seen.  A heart of gold.  A man who wants desperately to belong, to be loved, to be needed.

“You’re putting a lot of weight on have to,” you tell him.  “I don’t have to.  I want to.”

He shakes his head.  “Shouldn’t fucking have to or want to.”

“It’s just life, Richie.  It beats us up.  What’s the point if we don’t take care of each other when we’re feeling a little more beat up than usual?”

“You take care of me more than I take care of you.”

You scoff, and you resume scratching his head.  Dragging your nails through his short hair.  “Bullshit.”

“You do.”

“You keeping score on me, Jerimovich?”

He grumbles at that.  “You’re not keeping score?”

“In love?  Never.”

As usual, the mention of love makes him squirm.  Makes him uncomfortable.  He’s perfectly fine saying it to you, says I love you easily and without a bit of hesitation.  Hearing it said back to him, though?  That’s entirely different.

You say it as much as you can.  You let him squirm and be uncomfortable and you let each mention of your love for him chip away at those rough edges a little more, revealing more of that big heart of gold.

“I love you,” you tell him, and sure enough, he squirms again.

So you say it again and again, over and over, until he finally surrenders to it, sighs and nestles himself in your lap, and he mutters it back to you as he allows you to comfort him, to take care of him.  To love him.

I have a few but take your time on these!

Tony Stark x Female Reader // The reader gets injured on a mission and tony freaks out which causes the team to have to calm him down, but you end up being okay.

Newt x Reader (TMR) // The reader gets the flare but so does her brother minho and newt panics

Eric Coulter x Reader // Christina talks about the reader in a bad way to Eric challenges her

this was fun! btw i already wrote the tony stark one and the newt one, which are linked in my masterlist!

masterlist

It’s empty in Dauntless this time of night, so late (or perhaps so early) that even the most tenured partygoers have all retreated to their rooms to wait until morning. The only person Eric can see is himself, his only company the vague shape of his shadow keeping pace next to him.

Then again, maybe he’s not the only one up. As Eric walks, he sees a silhouette through an open door somewhere to his left. There’s a figure outside, staring out at the city as it sleeps.

Eric is inclined to pay this person no mind and continue on heading home, but as he draws closer he realizes he recognizes the figure as one of his initiates. Well, that settles it- initiates aren’t supposed to be out of bed at this hour, and if someone else catches them, it’ll be on Eric’s head for sure because he didn’t train them right or something.

Holding back a sigh, he walks over to the door and slips outside. The night air is cool even compared to the usual brisk chill of the Dauntless corridors, making Eric shiver in spite of himself. red to the chilled halls of Dauntless, and Eric shivers in spite of himself. He raises his voice, calling out to the girl leaning over a haphazard iron balcony.

“Initiates have a curfew, you know.”

The girl laughs, he can tell from the shake of her shoulders, although the sound of it is ripped away by the wind.

“Are you going to knock me down in the rankings if I stay?”

The girl turns at last, and Eric fights back a curse, because he finally recognizes her and it’s Y/N of all people. Y/N, the one person who keeps making him doubt himself, the girl who laughs like nothing he’s ever heard before, who makes Eric want to be better than he already is. If he was smart, Eric would have kept walking and never stopped by this door, because he’s been looking for an excuse to pretend he doesn’t have feelings for a while now and this just blew all that away.

It’s just- well, Eric’s not the type to have picture-perfect moments, except for maybe when he wins yet another round in the ring and looks up to see his knuckles splashed with red, the whole world gone black and white except for those dots of scarlet. Yet when Y/N looks at him, her eyes almost glowing from the stars, the wind lightly twisting around her hair and skin in ways that Eric wishes he could, he realizes that he can’t run, not from this. Not from her.

Y/N cocks her head to the side, and Eric realizes belatedly that she’d asked him a question. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring, but he needs to stop now. It’s a shame that’s far harder to do than he’d originally thought.

He clears his throat sharply, hoping his infatuation isn’t as obvious to Y/N as it is to him.

“Maybe I will. The rules are here for a reason, you know.”

It’s a stupid response, but Eric can’t convince the receptors in his brain to focus long enough to form a better thought. They’re just stuck in the same loops of Y/N’s smile, the curve of her skin under the dark night sky, the way it’s just the two of them out here. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

Y/N just shrugs, though. “I’ve followed the other rules. Besides, no one needs to know if you don’t tell them.”

Secrets. Eric can’t help but wish they could break one more. “What’s out here that would be so interesting, anyway? I thought initiation was hard enough for everybody that you’d be asleep with the rest.”

Y/N turns back to the landscape unrolling before her. “I couldn’t sleep, who knows why. Besides, I like seeing the city from this angle. For some reason, it’s totally different from how it was back in my old faction.”

This makes Eric curious. He’s grown used to the city, used to knowing which buildings are full of light and which are just crumbling wrecks, long since abandoned by everyone except the factionless. He wishes he could look at the world in the same way Y/N does, like everything is new and worth loving. He wishes she would look at him like that, too.

Y/N smiles, considering the tiny pinpricks of light making up the city they call home. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Eric nods slowly. “Yes, it is.” He isn’t looking at the city, though. He hasn’t once been able to take his eyes off of her.

At last, Y/N sighs reluctantly, pushing away from the balcony until she’s facing him again. “Alright, I got the message. Heading back to the initiate bunks now.”

Some part of Eric is vaguely disappointed by this, like he would have loved to spend hours out here lost in thought with her, but he can’t exactly vocalize that now, so he just follows her back into the Dauntless complex.

“I can walk you back, if you like.”

Y/N arches a brow at the statement, although she doesn’t seem put off by it. “What, worried about me getting lost?”

Eric shakes his head. “I’ve seen enough initiates get taken out while they were walking around at night. It wouldn’t be the first time to happen, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Y/N shivers slightly at the thought, tucking her arms around her chest. Eric wishes he could pull her closer to him, erase all fear until the world began and ended with her.

Instead, he keeps walking, and they reach the initiates’ sleeping quarters soon enough. Eric manages a quick goodbye before he leaves, although he doesn’t go until he sees Y/N slip inside the door. He doesn’t want to think about her being attacked any more than she does. Maybe that’s a sign that he’s lost his edge, or maybe that he cares about her far more than he should. Then again, by now that’s a given.

Looking back on it, that night was the last sign Eric needed to realize that he liked Y/N a lot. During training the next day, Eric can’t stop thinking about the way she looked under the moonlight, instinctively drawing close to him against the chill of the wind. He wishes he could go back, but he doesn’t see her out on that balcony again. A shame, to be sure.

However, during the first day of actual fights instead of just practicing with the punching bags, Eric finally gets a chance to talk to her again, outside of the prying eyes of the other initiates. Y/N’s friend Tris has to fight against Molly, one of the tallest and toughest girls there. Tris falls almost instantly, more stunned by the fact that they won’t be able to tap out than anything else.

Y/N offers to help get a mostly unconscious Tris to the medical wing, and Eric jumps at the chance. He does his best to seem casual as he directs Four to take over teaching the initiates, and, tossing one of Tris’ arms over his shoulder, helps Y/N start to carry the other girl out and through the halls.

Y/N glances at Eric over Tris’ head. “You know, I didn’t think you would be the type to help initiates get help if you didn’t have to.”

Eric looks between Tris and Y/N, surprised, before realizing that the Stiff can’t actually focus on a single word they’re saying due to a particularly strong hit to the head.

“Maybe I wanted to prove that I’m better than you think.” No need to think about the reason for that.

Y/N smirks. “And you do that by dragging Tris to the med wing?”

Eric gives her a look. “If you like, I can leave now and let you carry her the rest of the way.”

It’s a bluff, of course. He’s already proved that he’d never leave her if there was an option where he could stay, and Y/N knows it.

“But then you’d be robbed of my fantastic company. We all know that I'm far better than any of the other initiates.”

She’s joking, but Eric thinks that she’s actually closer to the truth than he cares to admit.

“It’s better than having to watch some of the other trainees fight. Seeing how bad their form is might be making me worse.”

Y/N laughs. “That’s a valid excuse to leave. I have to ask, though- why did you really come? I mean, you had no real reason to help Tris with me. We all know Four would have jumped at the chance.”

Eric looks over at her again, pleasantly surprised to note that she’s already looking at him. “Maybe I wanted to prove that I’m better than you think,” he repeats. This time, Y/N’s eyes clear as if she finally gets what he’s trying to say.

He shouldn’t be getting this close to her, and Eric knows it. Still, he can’t exactly stay away. He sees her every day in initiation, and she’s got too deep a hold on his heart for anything else to last. Eric does try his best to hide his true feelings from the rest of the trainees, though. He can’t have them thinking that Y/N’s only high in the rankings because one of the initiation leaders is crushing on her. She’s better than that.

Apparently, Eric is doing a little too good of a job in seeming unbiased, because scarcely a day or two later, Christina starts complaining to him about Y/N, and it takes everything Eric has to not kill her on the spot.

Christina was on thin ice as it was. She lost her first fight, everybody could see it, but she wouldn’t commit to the loss. Instead, just before her opponent could keep going, Christina had flung up her hand, crying out around a bloodied nose that she was done, that she couldn’t take any more of it.

Eric had sensed weakness, and more than that, a chance to make an example of the former Candor. Initiates only respect the rules for so long; it takes a public display for them to realize the consequences of breaking the rules. The rule about not tapping out of fights, especially, is an irritant to many of the trainees. Christina is the perfect reason for a little motivation to the rest.

So, Eric allows the fight to stop, much to the surprise of the other initiates. Only Four looks unaffected, likely because he knows what’s about to go down.

Eric stands by the fighting ring, helping Christina out. “You had too much, yeah? What happened?”

Christina’s voice is low and quiet. “I think she broke my nose, and I needed to stop.”

Although she was willing to tap out of the fight, Christina is apparently still too brash to keep the blame firmly on herself. “It wasn’t my fault, though. I didn’t think I would be fighting her. Y/N was supposed to be lower in the rankings, it would have changed the order of fighters around. Honestly, I don’t even know why she’s ranked as highly as she is, she’s not even that good. She’s kind of useless.”

All of a sudden, Eric’s humor for a display of power suddenly disappears, replaced by a cold hatred. “What did you say?”

Christina somehow regains the ability for critical thought, and wisely keeps her mouth shut. It doesn’t matter, though, because Eric has heard enough. He starts to guide Christina towards the exit, one hand on her back to keep her going.

As he walks, he whispers something in her ear, so quietly only Christina can hear. “Don’t you dare talk badly about your fellow initiates. You want to know why Y/N is so high in the rankings? It’s because she doesn’t tap out of fights. She isn’t weak.”

Christina flinches, not like the reaction will do her any good. Eric’s mind is made up, and the other trainees must be able to sense his anger, because they follow Eric and Christina out to the bridge.

Eric stops, and lifts Christina easily over the railing until his hands are the only thing keeping her from falling into the Pit. “Grab the rail.”

His voice is cold, colder than it usually is. Eric can hear shocked gasps coming from the other initiates, but he doesn’t turn to face them. Instead, he presents Christina with the options to hang from the bridge spanning the chasm, fall and die, or become one of the factionless. Unsurprisingly, Christina chooses to keep holding on to the rail.

Eric counts slowly, as painfully slowly as he can, treasuring every agonized cry from the girl hanging from the rail. It’s revenge, in a way, revenge for the fact that he cannot do anything to protect Y/N except for this. He can blame this act on Christina’s cowardice, and it is due to that in part, but mostly it’s because she tried to put down Y/N, and Eric won’t have anyone talking that way about his girl.

His girl. Eric likes that.

Eventually, he calls for time, and Tris immediately springs into action, helping Christina off of the rail. Y/N, however, does not go to her friend, but instead silently slips away and follows Eric into a quieter room, as if she can tell that something wasn’t right.

Her arms are folded, but Eric doesn’t think she believes him to be a monster. Not yet, at least. Eric can’t decide whether she would be right to believe it or not. “What was that about?”

Eric keeps his gaze firmly trained on the wall. “She tapped out of the fight. You can’t do that.”

Y/N shakes her head. “I saw your expression change when she was talking to you. What did she say?”

At last, Eric can’t keep his eyes from finding her any longer. “She insulted you. I couldn’t have that.”

Eric doesn’t know how he expects Y/N to react. Shock, maybe, or disgust. Fear has always been an option. Instead, she laughs.

“So, what, you were protecting my honor or something? I’m touched. That’s very sweet of you.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure I like your tone, initiate.”

Y/N’s smile just broadens. Eric belatedly realizes that he’s given her enough ammunition to last a lifetime, the realization that he’d do just about anything for her. He’s not sure that it’s a bad thing, though.

“For what it’s worth, I appreciate it. Good to know that you have my back.”

Eric shrugs. “She deserved it.”

Y/N smiles again. “Thanks anyway.”

She steps forward to kiss his cheek, then turns and leaves the room. Eric watches her go, his mind suddenly plunged into a daze. Shit, she likes him. This might be the best twist of fate he’s ever seen. Eric smiles to himself, and follows her out.

divergent tag list: @dindjarinneedsahug, @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace

The urge to make out with a pussy is strong today 🫠 I just wanna kiss and bite down someone’s thighs. Feel someone run their fingers through my hair as I greet their lips with a kiss. Hearing them get louder as I use my fingers to spread what’s mine. Inching my face even closer and stretching my tongue out, reaching as far as it can go. Feeling their grip tighten on the back of my head, them grinding into my tongue letting out just the sweetest moans. More and more till they can’t hold back any longer and finish all over my tongue.

when men wear jewellery. okay anything for u daddy