📰 | Richie Jerimovich X Reader ; “Princess.”

📰 | richie jerimovich x reader ; “Princess.”

🎧 -> untitled 07, kendrick lamar

info: Richie Jerimovich x Reader, no use of (y/n), reader’s nickname is princess because duh it’s cute, mention of drugs, arguing, brief mention of Mikey, brief mention of a sexual relationship, Richie just wants what’s best for you.

summary: Richie is your dealer, and also a pretty good lay. But recently he’s changed his priorities, and tries to change yours, too.

gigantic bear brainrot right now, and i was thinking about that little glimpse of dealer richie annnndd that’s sorta it! don’t like, don’t read, but the overall consensus is about recovering and breaking old habits.

i also happen to have such a soft spot for this man!!!!!! sue me!!!!!!!!!!!!! i literally wrote this in less than an hour i’m insane

Hey. You working?

Richie’s phone goes off, ironically, right when he’s on his break. Every day, he goes outside for a cigarette at the exact same time. And you know that. He knows you know that, and he also knows what you want. Of course he does. It’s always the same thing. He stopped doing this shit for a reason, but you? He’s weak. And probably stupid.

Neither of you even discuss the plan: it’s protocol at this point. Not even seconds pass, and he’s already punched in a response.

Nah. Come see me.

Minutes later, and there are footsteps approaching down the back alley, towards the door Richie lingers near. He turns to see your form approaching, watching the way you tug at the sleeves of your sweater, likely much too thin to truly combat the cold. With how hasty you’d been, Richie suspects you’d already been nearby. Likely around the corner, just waiting for the go ahead.

It’s been a few weeks since he last saw you, though Richie knew why. Because he didn’t do this shit anymore. To reach out again, you must’ve been desperate. He could work with that.

“Princess.” He greets, nursing a lit cigarette between sharp teeth.

You’re sighing, a look of exasperation on that pretty little face. A mix of relief, and discomfort, at being out in this weather. “You’re my saviour, you know that, right?”

Richie scoffs, already approaching. Closing the gap between you two. “Find that one hard to believe.” He mutters.

As usual, you move in to intrude on Richie’s space, tucking yourself against his side. The biting Chicago winter urges you closer, as he’s somehow warm, though Richie is always warm. One hand ashes his cigarette onto the concrete, and the ofher arm wraps around you, hand cupping the ass of your jeans, thumb tracing the pocket seam.

Laying there is a wad of cash, he can feel the outline faintly under the thick fabric. But he doesn’t take it. Nor does he replace it with anything, despite what you’d been expecting, what he’d agreed to. This routine you’d built up, an unspoken process.

You shift away slightly, looking up at the taller man with furrowed brows. His hand shifts higher, finding its place against your side, holding onto your hip.

“What gives?” You ask, trying to decipher that unreadable look on Richie’s face. For a man so expressive, you were lost on an interpretation in this moment. He wouldn’t even look at you, squinting at some unknown spot in the alley.

Then his head starts shaking, a disapproving look forming, before the words follow. “Sure you don’t want some dope instead?”

“If I wanted dope, I would have asked for it.” You retort. The words were sharp with intent, slightly irritated.

Richie tries harder to convince you, finding that would be easier than outright admitting his concern. “Come on. You haven’t thought about making the switch?” He muses as if it were obvious, taking a long drag from his cigarette. That hand is still on your side.

You roll your eyes. “To what? Being miserable and a fucking downer?”

“No.” Richie rolls his eyes. “To going, I dunno.. natural, or whatever.”

This gets no response, and Richie finally glances down at you. You look confused, but mostly pissed. Definitely some form of agitated.

“Weed and shrooms.” He clarifies with a shrug.

“Are you serious?” You’re snapping at him, finally stepping back a little, out of his hold. “As if you even have shrooms.”

“I could get them if you wanted. Gotta be better than that other shit.”

“Fuck! You’ve gotta be the world’s worst dealer.” You utter, running a hand through your hair and looking off into the distance.

Before he can get a word in, you begin venting, letting that frustration bubble up. “Y’know, if I wanted a lecture, I’d call my parents. But you, Richie?”

So, he snaps back. Like he always does. After all, fighting is miles easier than having an actual discussion. “I dunno, princess, this ain’t fuckin’ right! I can’t do this shit to you.”

“It’s coke, Richie! Not heroin. I’ll be fine.” You urge.

He shakes his head, voice only rising with his temper, a tone most are accustomed to. “You know that’s not the fucking point.” The words have anger in them, laced with bite, intent.

And for some reason.. some, god forsaken reason, you let up.

Maybe you knew this would happen. Maybe you had the smallest, tiniest inkling that coming to Richie, of all people, was a bad idea. You knew he’d stopped dealing, for the most part. But you couldn’t blame him, not after everything that happened with Mikey. It’s not like you didn’t know him, too, but it was different.

So, you relent, pressing a hand over the crease of your brows. “Okay, okay. Just..” You can’t get out a full sentence, mind reeling with about twenty thoughts at once. The most prominent notion: you certainly weren’t getting your coke today. Not from Richie. And, frankly, you didn’t trust anyone else.

He looks down at your dejected form, jaw clenched with tension. Richie didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, by any means, and felt a pang of sympathy. In an ideal world, he’d give you anything and everything you wanted.

In an ideal world, you wouldn’t be asking.

“What’ya need it for, anyway?” He ends up inquiring, tone a tad softer, now that the hostility has simmered.

You shrug, kicking around a rock. “House party.”

Richie nods, getting a vague idea of what was happening. It was for later. That was good.

“Then how ‘bout.. you come over to mine,” He suggested, “We smoke up instead.”

It wasn’t an unfamiliar request, but any means. You’d spent many nights in his apartment. It was lonely and derelict, as most days, he didn’t have his daughter around. Sometimes things escalated. By all means, Richie was certainly a good fuck, if anything. But you were messy, complicated, not someone that stuck around for long. Richie understood that, as he wasn’t looking to settle down, either. Not with someone like you. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Already bought the beer, Rich.” You justify, giving a minor resistance towards the idea.

Of course, he has a solution for everything. “Bring it.”

You nod along, the slightest of smirks appearing on those plump lips. It was clear as day, a physical indicator that you were fucking weak for anything he suggested. “So you’re denying me product, and you’re gonna drink my beer?”

“Yeah, but the weed is free.” Richie offered, a grin beginning to form, purely because he was getting what he wanted.

There’s a low whistle, sucking the air from between your teeth. It’s cold out, and you’d rather get home, given this was supposed to be a quick pick-up. The thought of spending a night over at a Richie’s place was incredibly tempting, given you hadn’t seen him much lately. He’d been pulling away, which was understandable. You weren’t exactly the healthiest to be around.

“M’kay, weirdo.” You agree, looking away to avoid spotting how purely happy that makes Richie. Deep down, you know he’s genuinely pleased with himself, not just for getting you to come over, but to abandon the drug altogether, even if just for a night. He’s fixing you, making you a better person, which you really fucking hate.

He throws the cigarette to the ground, stomping on its ashy remains. “See? What a good fuckin’ girl you can be. Just gotta use that pretty little head more.”

To emphasise his point, Richie cups the top of your head, fingers disrupting the part of your hair. His hands are huge, for the most part, covering the expanse of your skull. It prompts you to swat it away with a displeased grunt.

“Don’t push it, asshole.” You warn, already trying to fix your hair. Before he can cause any more damage, you’re turning on your heel, eager to escape the cold.

“10pm. Don’t be late, princess.” Richie calls out to your retreating form, watching the semi-enthusiastic thumbs up you flash him in return.

Feeling pretty goddamn successful, he gets back to work.