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mercvry-glow · 28 days ago

Text

In the cool blue

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. while staying at the cody house, a small group of rivals takes you, j and nicky hostage while the other are out. pope helps you in the after math.

warnings. based off of season two late episode six/early seven (so spoilers but also eh), reader is at the house with j and nicky when javi shows up, assault, drowning, gun mentions, reader and j get beat tf up, pope is actually pretty chill in this he's a softie today, established relationship, angst and hurt/comfort, general animal kingdom stuff, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. this is now my longest fic 😭 idk what inspired me to get this out but I really hope y'all enjoy bc this is a doozy and my current magnum opus. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 5700+

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

You were stretched out on a lounge chair by Smurf’s pool, your freshly painted toes resting on the edge, a silk robe sliding off your sun-warmed skin. The water glowed that dreamy blue under the patio lights, casting ripples of light across your legs.

J and Nicky were inside, supposedly studying—though judging by how quiet it’d been for the past hour, you figured they were either making out or asleep, but with Nicky banging Craig you didn’t know. Either way, it meant you had the place to yourself. For once, things felt… safe. Even with Pope gone, running one of those jobs he never gave you the full story on.

You liked it better that way.

Until you heard the gravel shift.

At first, you thought it was just the wind. But then came the unmistakable slam of feet on the driveway. Then another. Then voices—low, quick, male.

You sat up.

The voices weren’t familiar. They didn’t carry like Deran or Craig’s. They were sharper. Harder.

You turned, just in time to see movement at the side gate. Four shadows. One of them kicked it open without hesitation.

Your blood ran cold.

You were moving before you even realized it, sandals forgotten by the chair, robe trailing behind you as you bolted across the backyard and slipped inside through the back slider, locking it instinctively—too late.

Before you could even breathe, a glass behind you shattered.

You screamed—just a little, more of a gasp—and darted down the hall, barefoot on tile, adrenaline flooding your veins.

You ducked into the nearest hallway closet, pulling the door shut as softly as you could, heart pounding so loud you swore they could hear it from the kitchen.

Then came the noise.

Boots stomping on tile. Furniture dragging. A bottle shattering.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to hold in a whimper.

“Where is it?” one of the men barked.

“Check the freezer! Smurf used to keep cash in the damn freezer,” another snapped.

Cabinet doors slammed open. A chair was kicked over. Something heavy crashed to the floor and shattered. They were tearing the place apart like they knew something was here—and they wanted it now.

You didn’t dare peek. You couldn’t even cry. You just stayed curled up in the dark, wedged between winter coats and some old duffel bags, praying your knees wouldn’t give out before it was over.

You weren’t cut out for this. You weren’t a Cody. You weren’t like Pope.

You were just the girl he liked to keep close.

And right now, you were alone.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in the closet.

Seconds? Minutes? It all blurred. Your muscles were locked, knees tucked to your chest, the smell of mothballs and old leather coats clinging to you as loud crashes and shouted curses continued to fill the house.

They were everywhere—kitchen drawers being yanked out, bedroom doors thrown open. You heard the crack of something heavy hitting the wall, then the dull thud of furniture being flipped.

Your fingers gripped the hem of your robe, knuckles white.

“Nothing’s here!” one of them yelled.

Another guy laughed, a low, mean sound. “Bullshit. This is Smurf’s place. There’s always something here.”

They were getting closer.

The voices grew louder. Clearer. Footsteps pounding down the hallway—your hallway. You squeezed your eyes shut.

And then they stopped.

Right outside the closet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You heard someone mumble something under their breath, and then—

Click.

The door handle shifted.

You barely had time to suck in a gasp before the door was yanked open, the bright hallway light flooding the tiny space. You squinted up at a man with a shaved head, a leather jacket, and a small scar across his cheek. He froze when he saw you—half crouched in the back of the closet like a deer caught in headlights, robe pulled tight across your chest, cheeks streaked with silent tears.

His eyes widened, and for a split second, you thought maybe he’d just back off.

But then he smirked.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and oily. “What do we have here?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

He grabbed your arm, hard, yanking you up to your feet like you weighed nothing. You stumbled, your bare feet skidding on the hardwood.

“Thought this place was empty,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes raking over you like he was trying to figure out if you were worth more than whatever cash they’d been looking for.

You tried to wrestle yourself back into the closet wall, like maybe you could disappear. But he faster, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist like a vise once again.

“Let go of me!” you gasped, but it barely came out.

He yanked you to your feet with zero care, dragging you forward, your bare toes sliding on the hallway floor. You fought him, pulling back with what little strength you had, but his grip only tightened.

“Don’t make this harder, princess,” he snapped, dragging you through the house as drawers hung open, broken glass crunched underfoot, and the stink of beer and sweat filled the air.

“I didn’t see anything—I swear—” you tried, breath shaking.

“Bet you know where the money is, though,” he shot back.

“I don’t!”

He ignored you, hauling you through the busted slider door and out into the cool night air. Your robe flared in the wind, and you blinked against the patio lights still glowing around the pool. Just minutes ago, you’d been lying there, peaceful, content—now you were barefoot, bleeding from your heels, and being dragged across the stone like some kind of prize.

The others were outside now too. Three men, scattered across the yard, tossing things from the poolside storage chest, upending flowerpots, one of them even kicking at the filter cover.

“She was hiding inside,” your captor called out, shoving you forward a few steps. You stumbled, caught yourself just before you hit the edge of the pool.

“She know where it is?” one asked, barely glancing up.

“She will.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart thundering so loud you swore it echoed off the water.

One of them walked up to you slowly—taller, older, colder-looking. His boots stopped just short of your bare toes.

“You got about ten seconds to tell us where Smurf keeps her stash,” he said. Not yelling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he wasn’t asking—he was waiting.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Wrong answer.

The one who’d dragged you out stepped behind you, grabbing your arms tight and jerking you back against him. The edge of the pool was at your toes now. You felt the chill of the water in front of you, the way your balance shifted just slightly.

“Think again,” the tall one said.

Tears burned in your eyes, but you blinked them back.

Someone would come.

You twisted in his grip, heels slipping on the wet tile, arms aching from how tightly he held you.

“Please—please, I don’t know anything!” you gasped, trying to plant your feet, but he kept pushing you closer to the pool’s edge.

The taller guy just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I swear to God, I don’t—Smurf doesn’t tell me anything! I just—I’m just Pope’s girlfriend!”

“Which means you know something,” the one holding you growled, yanking your arms up hard enough to make your shoulders burn.

“I don’t!” you cried out, voice cracking as panic bubbled up into your throat. “I don’t even live here—I didn’t even want to be here, I just—they told me to hang out! I was by the pool!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been hiding like a little rat,” the man sneered into your ear.

Your breath caught. “I was scared,” you whispered. “You broke the door down—I thought you were here to kill someone.”

Another guy—shaggy hair, wide eyes like he was hopped up on something—laughed darkly from the side of the yard. “Might still happen, sweetheart, if you don’t start talking.”

“I don’t know!” You squirmed in the first guy’s grip, finally throwing your elbow back into his ribs. It wasn’t much, but it caught him by surprise and he grunted, stumbling just a step.

You broke free for half a second—just long enough to bolt toward the other side of the pool.

But the tall one was fast. He grabbed a fistful of your robe, yanked you back so hard your legs gave out.

You hit the ground on your knees, palms scraped raw from the stone. Before you could move, a boot shoved your shoulder, forcing you to stay down.

“Try that again, and I’ll throw you in face first,” he warned.

Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks now. You shook your head, voice high and broken. “Please—I’m not lying—I swear to God, please just let me go! I didn’t do anything!”

No one answered. The only sound was the water lapping gently behind you, and the soft clink of something metal being tossed into the grass.

They weren’t hearing you.

They didn’t care.

And Pope… Pope wasn’t here to fix it.

You curled in on yourself, trembling. You’d never been this scared in your life. And if they decided to stop being patient?

You didn’t know what would happen next.

Your wrists were burning.

The zip ties they had grabbed bit into your skin as one of them yanked your arms behind your back, cinching them so tight you cried out. “Shut up,” he muttered, like your fear was an inconvenience.

The others had gone quiet. Focused.

The tall one paced near the pool, agitated, eyes scanning the yard like he was waiting for something to appear. The guy who tied you up shoved you down roughly back onto a lounger, rope around your ankles now too. You kicked, once, but it only earned you another curse and a warning glare.

You were helpless.

And then… movement.

From the corner of your eye, past the broken slider door and toward the far patio table, you saw J—slow, careful, almost crawling—edging toward the backpack he’d left out there earlier. It was half-hidden under a chair, just slouched enough that no one had noticed it yet.

But you knew what was inside.

His gun.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in a silent gasp as you watched him stretch a hand toward the strap, his body low, fingers just brushing the zipper. He was so close—

A shout cracked through the night like a whip.

J didn’t freeze.

One of the guys—shaggy hair, twitchy—was already rushed toward him, tackling him towards the pool. J tried to dive away, but the man cracked him across his ribs, sending him sprawling across the stone with a sharp grunt and into a chair.

“Don’t!” you screamed from the lounger, struggling against the ropes. “Stop it! He’s just a kid!”

“Yeah?” the tall one snapped, stalking toward J now with ice in his voice. “Then he should’ve stayed hidden.”

The man in the brown jacket went to grab some leftover rope as two of his men continued to beat up J. They ignored your cries, focused on getting the teen who knew much more than you did.

J coughed, curled on his side, one arm over his stomach. He looked at you—eyes wide, scared, like he was sorry. Sorry he got caught. Sorry he couldn’t stop this.

And all you could do was watch, wrists bound, robe soaked with your own tears, knees bleeding from the flagstone.

Inside the house, somewhere deep, a door creaked. Maybe Nicky was still hiding—maybe she’d heard it all.

God, you hoped she stayed hidden.

J was already coughing, barely able to get to his knees when they grabbed him again.

You tried to scream—tried to tell them to stop—but your voice was hoarse, useless against the chaos unfolding feet away from you.

The tall one grabbed J by the collar and hauled him. His shoes scraped across the tile, hands clawing at the man’s arm, but he was no match. Not like this. Not when he was winded and scared and outnumbered.

“J,” the tall one growled, voice calm in that cold, terrifying way, “who else is in the house man?”

“No one… just us,” J grunted, trying to gain his breath back.

Wrong answer.

“Go check the bedroom.” the man, who you assumed to be their leader, said as two of them left to go search the house again.

The silence was heavy, water sloshing up onto the patio as J’s body stayed on the stone. You curled instinctively, like maybe if you didn’t watch it would stop, but the zip ties bit into your skin again and you could barely even sit up, and it kept you in the moment.

The tall man knelt at the pool’s edge, grabbed J by the back of the shirt, and held his head. “Smurf isn’t here?”

“Sh-She went to meet you…”

You started sobbing quietly.

“She didn’t show.”

They didn’t listen to whatever the teen had to say, and two of them took J into the pool holding him up by his shoulders.

“Hey, Jay. Where does Smurf keep her money?” the bald man asked, brandeshing his revolver like it was no big deal. J could barely get his answer out before they shoved him under.

Your heart seized in your chest. “He’s not lying! He’s just a kid!”

They yanked him back up—J came out sputtering, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the deep, hair plastered to his face, chest heaving.

“One more time,” he asked, voice deadly quiet, “Where is Smurf’s money?”

J shook his head, water dripping down his face. “I swear to God—I don’t know—”

Back under.

The splash this time was smaller, like J didn’t even have the strength to fight it.

You were screaming now. Screaming and crying and twisting so hard your skin was raw from the rope, your knees scraped to hell from the concrete. “Please! He doesn’t know anything! Please don’t kill him!”

Finally—finally—they let him up again.

He floated toward the edge, wheezing, barely able to lift his head.

The tall one stood slowly, glanced over at you.

“You believe him?” he asked, wiping water from his hands.

You nodded frantically, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I believe him! I swear he’s telling the truth—there’s no money here! I-If it was, it'd be behind the dryer o-or shoe boxes!”

He didn’t move. Just stared at you for a long, uncomfortable second.

Then he said, “Maybe we’re asking the wrong person then.”

Your stomach dropped.

The twitchy guy who’d hit J first turned, stepping closer to you with a smirk, eyes running over your soaked robe, your trembling frame. They had dragged the poor boy out of the pool, beating him a bit more before turning their attention to you.

“Nah,” he said. “She looks like a real good liar.”

And then the tall one said it—flat, casual, awful.

“Next time, we start with her.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t even think.

Just cry.

You didn’t even realize how loud you were until the tall one’s eyes snapped back to you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Shut her up.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic curling deep in your gut.

“No—no, please, I didn’t—” You tried to scramble backward on the lounger, bound wrists twisting behind you, but you didn’t make it far. One of them—the twitchy one—grabbed your ankle and yanked you off the chair like it weighed nothing. You hit the stone patio with a painful thud, cheek scraping the ground, knees buckling beneath you.

“Get off me!” you cried, kicking, writhing in the ropes. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

But he already had both hands on you, dragging you toward the pool.

“Guess she wants to take a swim,” he said darkly, like it was funny.

“No! Don’t—please, please don’t—!”

You thrashed harder, your robe getting twisted, legs scraping over the edge of the concrete just as your toes touched water. Cold. Too cold.

J was still wheezing, choking on his own blood, on the opposite side, watching in horror as they pulled you closer to the deep end.

“Leave her alone!” he tried to shout, voice wrecked from coughing.

The tall man didn’t even look back. “She wants to run her mouth, she can hold her breath.”

And then you were in the air—ropes tight, arms behind you, no way to break the fall—

Splash.

The cold hit you like a brick.

You sank instantly, robe ballooning around you, legs kicking uselessly as your wrists stayed locked behind you. You tried to swim, tried to surface, but the water kept dragging you down, twisting your body as you fought against it.

Your lungs burned.

You broke the surface once—gasped—only to be shoved back under again.

You didn’t know which of them did it. A hand on your head, a push between your shoulders. You couldn’t see. Everything was bubbles and blur and cold, cold, so cold.

Your scream was just a gurgle under the water.

You were going to drown.

And they didn’t care.

You came up again, coughing violently, gasping through sobs, and someone finally pulled you toward the steps, dumping you like trash onto the slick tile. You coughed, spit, choked on your own breath as you curled onto your side, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Now shut the hell up,” the tall one said, calm again, like none of it meant anything.

Behind him, J was still slumped on the ground, bleeding, soaked, and shaking.

And you—barefoot, half naked, shivering, and drenched—lay there helpless, your body shaking so hard it barely felt real.

You didn’t say another word.

The cold, sharp air felt like it might never leave your lungs. You shivered uncontrollably on the edge of the pool, the water dripping from your hair, your robe clinging to you like a wet sheet. The ropes around your wrists bit deeper into your skin, but you were too numb to even notice it anymore.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t see her at first, just heard the shuffling footsteps—slow, dragging, someone stumbling.

“No one else in the house huh?,” the tall one said with a grin, eyes flicking over toward the door.

And then, like something out of a nightmare, Nicky was shoved into view.

Her face was swollen, bruised, blood streaking down her cheek from where someone had hit her. She was tied up too, wrists bound, her own robe in tatters from the way they'd manhandled her. She could barely stand, her knees buckling as they shoved her forward, her eyes red from crying, hair in disarray.

“No—no…” you whispered, horrified. Your voice cracked like glass under pressure.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t even try to. She was too dazed, too hurt, and when they shoved her to the ground next to you, she just crumpled, hands still tied, trying to curl into herself as much as possible.

“Nicky, please,” you begged, trying to push yourself toward her, but the ropes kept you in place, your body too weak to get far.

The tall one crouched down in front of J, who they had just pulled out of the pool one last time, was still trying to sit up from where they’d dumped him on the ground after you’d been thrown in the pool. He was shaking now—no longer the kid who thought he could hide a gun, no longer defiant. He was a ragdoll, eyes wide with fear yet dropping with exhaustion as he looked back and forth between you, Nicky, and the crew.

“Think I came all this way for twenty-five grand!?” the tall one said, eyes cold and calculating, smacking J in the face with the money you told them where to find. He drew another gun from his jeans, “Last goddamn time! Where’s the real money?!” The gun was aimed right on J’s face, locked and loaded and this guy wasn’t afraid to do it.

J’s lips parted. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was worse than anything else. “I told you I don’t know, I swear!” the blonde boy promised, desperate and pleading. They stepped on his bad leg, the one he hurt in the church hiest, as you and Nicky screamed in pain for him.

Nicky flinched when one of the men reached down and grabbed her by the arm, lifting her up roughly. She winced but didn’t cry out, just staring at the ground, her whole body shaking.

“Get her out of here?” the tall one said again, voice flat.

J didn’t respond. His hands were shaking, too, but he wasn’t answering.

The crew didn’t wait.

One of them grabbed Nicky, taking her god knows where after she left your sight as the two men kept arguing over the fucking money. J’s scream was guttural, and he collapsed back to the stone, curling in on himself, chest heaving with pain.

You gasped, heart hammering in your chest as you fought against the ropes, but you couldn’t do anything.

J tried to speak, but it was barely a whisper. “Smurf’s got a storage unit on Freemont!”

The tall one stood back, his eyes cold, hands in his pockets. “What’s the number!?”

J said he didn’t know but would take them as long as they didn’t take Nicky, begging them to stop before pushing him into the pool one last time. His body arched, another groan escaping his throat as he struggled to swim, just as you had. He wasn’t able to defend himself, wasn’t able to do anything but take it.

You could feel the heat rising inside you, your stomach twisting in knots. You wanted to scream, to help him, to do something—but you were just tied up, helpless, watching him be broken apart in front of you.

They left after that, leaving you on the floor barely conscious. Taking Nicky and leaving J to drown in the pool his grandmother owned. You tried to crawl toward him, wrists bleeding from the ropes, but your vision went white, then black, then nothing at all.

The Jeep rolled to a slow stop in the driveway, headlights washing over the front of the Cody house. The gate was open. The porch light flickered. One of the patio chairs was overturned on its side like it had been thrown or tripped over. Something about the stillness was wrong. Off.

Pope stared at the front door—it hung open just a crack, too quiet, too deliberate. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as his instincts kicked in. He killed the engine and reached down beneath his seat, pulling out his gun. “Stay in the car.”

Smurf started to follow, her hand already on the door handle, but Pope turned to look at her sharply, eyes already storm-dark. He told her to stay put.

She didn’t listen.

“I said stay in the car!”

By the time he was creeping up the walkway, gun low and steady, Smurf was already on his heels. Her voice was low but sharp, cutting through the heavy silence—there was no way in hell she was waiting in the damn car while something had clearly gone sideways.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the house, the sight hit them first—The living room was a mess. Chairs overturned. A shattered lamp across the floor. One of the barstools broken in half, splinters fanned across the tile. Picture frames cracked and crooked on the walls.

Pope’s eyes swept the scene, methodical, calculating. Smurf stepped over a smashed photo of Baz and Julia, heart hammering in her chest as her gaze caught the trail—scuffs on the floor, a faint smear of blood.

Pope moved room to room, clearing each space like the soldier he was, finger resting steady beside the trigger. The whole place was silent. Empty. But it wasn’t abandoned. Something had happened here. Something bad. And it wasn’t over yet.

Smurf made it to the back of the house first. She reached the sliding glass door and stopped cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Outside, under the cold glow of the moon, two figures lay in the stillness. One, half in the pool—barely moving. The other crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll. She bolted, flinging the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. “Pope get out here!”

And he was right behind her, and when his eyes landed on the scene, he didn’t hesitate. J was slumped at the edge of the deep end, one arm hanging limply into the water, lips blue, chest barely rising as he coughed out water. His skin was soaked and pale. They ran for him, dropped to thier knees, and hauled the rest him out in swift motion, dragging him onto semi-dry ground

You were collapsed on the pavement not far from him, your wrists still bound, rope burns angry and raw. Your clothes were damp and ripped in some places. Your head lolled to one side, blood matting the edge of your hairline. You were breathing—but it was shallow, strained, like your body was hanging on by a thread.

Andrew dropped beside you, hands still as he checked your pulse, pressed his fingers against your clammy cheek. There was blood, but it wasn’t fresh. Whoever had hurt you. Tied you up. Left you here like garbage. His jaw clenched as he tore the ropes free with his knife.

His own heart was racing now—not out of fear, but rage.

Behind him, Smurf was crouched next to J, trying to keep him awake, her expression darkening with every slurred word that came out of the kid’s mouth. Something about a storage unit. Fremont. Smurf’s name. Nicky. And a man—Javi. He’d given them what they wanted. It still hadn’t been enough.

Pope was tense, but not from the sudden adrenaline rush. From fury. From failure. From the sight of you lying there like that, and J barely clinging on.

Smurf pulled off her coat and draped it over J’s shoulders, and You flinched slightly as Pope tried to move you, a broken whimper escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake.

The air felt thicker now—like the violence hadn’t left yet. Like it was still sitting heavy over the house, waiting to be answered.

You woke to the low hum of an air conditioner and the faint scent of bleach and detergent—clean, sterile, unfamiliar. The world came back in pieces. The pressure in your skull. The aching pull of your muscles. The bruises blooming beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light of a shaded living room. You were lying on a couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, the cushions dipping slightly beneath your weight. Your old clothes were gone. Replaced with a big, worn t-shirt that didn’t belong to you and a pair of sleep shorts. The fabric was soft. Smelled faintly like soap and someone else’s cologne.

Specifically the someone next to you.

You turned your head—barely—and saw Pope, sitting silent in the chair beside the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet. His eyes were fixed on the floor, brow furrowed, that same stormcloud expression carved into his face like stone.

There was a first-aid kit on the table nearby. A bloody rag beside it. A bottle of water, half-drunk. And your wrists—carefully wrapped in gauze. Clean. Tended to.

He’d done it. You could tell.

His head finally lifted. Eyes meeting yours.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Not coldly—but intensely, like he was trying to figure out if you were real or maybe just what to say.

Your throat was dry. Scratchy. Every part of your body screamed in protest, but you managed a slow breath. You swallowed, trying to sit up slightly, and he was there in an instant—hand on the couch cushion near your arm, grounding you, steadying you without touching.

He didn’t ask how you felt. He didn’t need to.

The silence between you said enough.

You blinked at him, struggling to find the words. You remembered the pool. The ropes. The last thing you saw—J’s body going under, your own lungs burning, your screams swallowed by the water.

But you were here now.

Alive.

Pope leaned back slightly, never taking his hazel eyes off of you. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gravely.

"You’re safe now."

It wasn’t a comfort. It was a promise.

And in the look he gave you, you knew—someone was going to pay for what happened, every second of it.

The silence lingered, stretching long between you.

Heavy.

You kept your eyes on him, chest tight and aching in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries. There was this pressure building inside you—like your ribs were made of glass and every breath was another tap against the surface. The weight of it all pressed down until it cracked.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it. A choked breath caught in your throat. And then, without thinking—without asking—you pushed the blanket off and slid off the couch, barefoot and trembling, legs unsteady beneath you.

Pope moved instantly, as if to stop you from falling, but froze when he realized where you were going.

You stepped between his knees and just… folded.

Dropped down into his lap like gravity pulled you there, like it was the only place you could go. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face against his shoulder and finally let it go.

The sob came out broken and raw, like it had been hiding deep in your chest, waiting for the moment you were safe enough to let it out.

And Pope didn’t speak.

He didn’t stiffen or push you off. He just wrapped his arms around you, slow and solid, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling the back of your head like you were made of something fragile. He held you like that was his only job now. Like that was all he could do.

Your body shook with each breath, each silent sob that spilled into the fabric of his shirt. You weren’t even sure what part of it broke you—J being thrown into the water, the ropes cutting into your skin, the helplessness, the fact that no one came until it was nearly too late—or maybe just the simple weight of surviving it.

Pope stayed quiet. Solid. A wall at your back.

He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He just held on tighter.

Eventually, your cries softened. Still trembling, but quieter now, worn out from the storm. Your arms loosened, head still pressed to his shoulder, breaths coming in uneven little gasps.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whispered against him, the words barely audible.

Pope didn’t answer right away. But you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed in through his nose like he was trying to keep it together, too.

“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re here.” In that soft, impossible voice of his—rough and raw and honest—you could feel the edge of something else underneath.

You stayed like that for a long time, curled against him in the quiet. The sounds outside the windows were distant—cars passing, wind through the trees, the faint hum of someone’s music down the block—but none of it touched you here. Not in this little pocket of stillness, where Pope’s arms stayed around you like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together with his own hands.

Your breathing slowed eventually. You felt the exhaustion in every limb, every bruise, but you didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. The silence between you shifted—less sharp now, more full. Safe.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke again. "I thought no one was coming."

Pope’s hand moved slowly along your back, not soothing exactly—more like he needed the contact too. He let the silence linger a moment longer before he answered.

"I should’ve gotten there sooner."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something unspoken. Not guilt exactly—something deeper. Regret. Rage. Fear. All the emotions he felt so intensely.

“You got there,” you whispered. “You found me.”

That mattered. It mattered more than he probably realized.

He looked at you for a long second. You could see it then—the way his jaw clenched, the slight shake in his hand as it rested against your hip. He hadn’t stopped replaying it.

Finding you like that.

Finding J.

“I didn’t know what I was gonna see,” he said finally. His voice was low, hoarse. “When I walked in.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging again. “They were gonna kill him. And they were gonna take me and Nicky too. I—I thought—”

Your breath hitched and his hand was already on the back of your neck again, grounding you, pulling you gently forward until your forehead rested against his. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say anything romantic or comforting. Just held you there, close.

“The guy…” you breathed, “he kept asking about the money. Smurf’s stuff. I don’t even know what the hell they wanted from me.”

“You didn’t tell them anything,” Pope said, more fact than question.

You shook your head. “Didn’t know anything important enough. I just… took the beating.”

His grip on you tightened for a second, like the thought of that was too much. Like he needed something to break. But then he took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You did good.”

You looked at him—eyes puffy, cheeks streaked with tears—and almost laughed, but it came out cracked and sad. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You survived,” he said. “That’s everything.”

And you knew, in that moment, that if Pope had gotten there even five minutes later, he would’ve dragged bodies out of that pool himself. Not to save them. But to make sure they stayed under.

You let your forehead rest against his again, breathing in his warmth, the steady thrum of his presence. Not perfect. Not even close. But steady in the way only Andrew “Pope” Cody could be—quiet, fierce, unmovable when it mattered.

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere right now.”

His arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time. And his voice was soft enough it barely reached your ears.

“You are when you’re with me.”

mercvry-glow 2025

#animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom x reader #animal kingdom x you #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew cody x you #pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew pope cody #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Pope Cody

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sirxaibs · 23 days ago

Note

Can I ask for Sale Fisher x fem!reader that's popular? And could you PLS PLS PLS don't make her mean? Like, I want her to be popular becouse she's one of those poeple that just sthraight up go talk to anyone.

And maybe Sal's friend group thought that shes propably a bitch, but like.

'She sat at our table?.....and didn't make fun of us?.....in fact she gives compliments that don't feel backhandead?......wtf?'

⬆️just an example, you can do whatever with this.

Sorry for possibile grammer errors or speeling mistakes, english isn't my first lenguage. Thank you and I hope you'll have a nice day ♥️

Hey! I THOUGHT THIS COULD BE SO CUTE!! so Ive seen many fics on this and i wanted to take a different approach. I hope you enjoy it. I love Sal and I hope this isn’t too crazy. I wrote a version yesterday and made everyone a little too mean and I don’t believe any of them would be assholes. So! Hopefully this satiates y’all.

masterlist

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ Your legs ache from practice, the soles of your sneakers sticking a little to the hallway tile with each step. You smell faintly of sweat and cherry body spray, the cheer uniform still clinging to your skin like it’s part of you now tight pleats, school colors, and all. You could’ve changed, sure, but exhaustion said no. So here you are, hair in a high ponytail, shoes untied, carrying a stack of junk mail and a single envelope that doesn’t belong to you.

You look at it again under the flickering hallway light, flipping it over in your fingers like it’ll magically reroute to the correct mailbox on its own.

SAL FISHER

UNIT 402

You know the name. Everyone at school does. The kid with the face cover. You’ve never spoken to him he doesn’t really hang around the same kind of people you do but he’s always there. At lunch, in the halls, sometimes sitting out near the tree line when no one else is around. You didn’t peg him as the chatty type.

You stare at the letter like it might bite you. Then sigh. “Why not be a good neighbor,” you mutter, dragging your legs toward the elevator.

The ride to the fourth floor feels longer than it should. It shudders a little on the way up. You keep your eyes on the numbers. Three… four. The doors open with a ding that sounds half hearted.

You’ve never actually been up here.

The fourth floor feels… worse. Everything smells faintly of dust and something like mothballs and metal. You don’t know why, but the lights here feel dimmer. You walk slower, steps echoing.

You find the unit: 402. You raise your hand to knock. There was a pause for a few seconds.

A man stands in front of you, tall, a little disheveled, and definitely not Sal. His presence is immediate, like he fills the space just by being in it. You blink.

“Oh hi! Sorry,” you start, holding the envelope out, “I was just dropping this off”

“He’s in his room,” the man says before you finish.

You freeze. “Oh, no, I wasn’t trying to bother him, I just thought I’d–”

“Just go on in. Down the hall, last door on the left.”

You blink again. You’re not even sure he’s looking at you. Just staring somewhere past your head, like he’s already decided this conversation is over.

“I mean, I could just leave it here”

“Last door on the left.”

He steps aside, just enough for you to enter. You do, but not on purpose. Your legs just move. You step into the apartment, and it’s… weird. Not gonna lie, being in any strangers apartment never really felt cool. You walk toward the hallway, clutching the letter, mind screaming at you to stop being so polite.

“Damn old people,” you think, jaw tightening. “I just wanted to drop something off, not go all this way”

The hallway feels longer than it is. The floor creaks behind you, or maybe above you. You don’t look back. You keep walking. Last door on the left.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ You knock lightly once, twice then pull your hand back like the door might burn you. A pause. Then the knob turns. The door creaks open slowly, revealing a familiar figure just behind it. Blue pigtails. The mask.

Sal Fisher.

He stares at you. You stare back. Neither of you says a word. And because silence is somehow gnawing at your neck, you blurt, “Hi! Um, I think our mail got mixed up I swear I didn’t just barge in.”

You thrust the letter forward like it’s a peace offering. “This was in my mailbox. For you. I thought I’d, y’know, be neighborly and return it. I didn’t open it or toss it or anything. Your dad sent me over this way”

He takes the envelope slowly, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. His gaze flicks down to it.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice is quieter than you expected. Almost gentle.

You nod. Then freeze. Then nod again. You’re still standing there, very much in his doorway, very much uninvited. His room is in full view behind him. Posters of metal bands you’ve only heard mentioned in passing. Skulls, red and black ink themes. A guitar in the corner. Tiny, vaguely creepy figurines lined up on a shelf.

“Your room’s so cool,” you say before your brain can stop you. You lean forward just a little, peering past him. “Seriously. This is like… Sid and Nancy level. How do you even find posters like that anymore? Oh my god is that an actual cassette player? That’s so sick.”

You wince as the words leave your mouth. “God, sorry, I’m not trying to be weird. I mean that in a good way. Promise.”

Your voice is speeding up. You’re spiraling. And you know it.

Sal just keeps watching you like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or a very strange dream. A cheerleader. In his doorway. Talking about cassette players. You finally cringe so hard your whole body folds in on itself.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, backing toward the hallway. “Sorry for the whole… I don’t know what that was. I was just trying to be a good neighbor and it turned into, like, a monologue of whatever the fuck.”

You turn halfway around to leave when you hear

“You wanna take a look around?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Sal is still standing there, holding the envelope like it might vanish. His posture is stiff, like he’s surprised the words came out of his mouth, too.

You blink. “I mean… sure?”

He nods. “If you’re into the posters, Do you dig that kind of music?.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Well I wouldn’t say it’s exactly my style but I’m a all things can be redeemable if you give it a try”

He jerks his head toward the room. “why not give it a try then”

You’re already stepping inside before he finishes, smiling wide. “You had me at ‘cool’ and sealed the deal with ‘band.’ Show me.”

The second you cross the threshold, it’s like entering another world. The bland apartment hallway behind you disappears into a mess of amps, guitars, wires, dark posters, and the faint scent of incense and old vinyl.

Sal gestures toward a small desk setup with beat up speakers and a laptop. He grabs a pair of headphones well worn, slightly cracked along the band and offers them to you.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s good,” he mutters. “Honest opinion’s fine.”

You shoot him a thumbs up and take the headphones like they might unlock the secrets of the universe.

He clicks play.

The drums hit first loud, fast. Then comes the guitar: raw, rich, angry. A distorted voice cuts through the noise melodic under the layers of whatever was happening, but clawing to be heard. Your eyes go wide. You start bobbing your head slowly. Then more. A grin creeps up your face, shoulders bouncing slightly as the music crashes through your ears. You grip the headphones tighter, fully in it like you’ve been dropped into a private punk rock concert in a dream.

When the song fades, you pull the headphones off with a breathless laugh. “That was… so good,” you say, eyes lit up. “Like, very loud but in the best way. I felt like I could punch God in the face. I loved it.”

Sal’s ears what little you can see of them turn just slightly pink. He shifts, crossing his arms. “Yeah?”

You grin. “What, because I’m in a cheer uniform, you think cheerleaders don’t have rage?”

He laughs softly. It’s warm. Unexpected.

You glance at the clock and groan. “Ugh. I should probably head back and pretend I’m responsible or whatever. Homework calls.”

You hand the headphones back, your fingers lingering a second before letting go.

“Thanks for showing me that,” you say. “Seriously. its super sick.”

Sal shrugs, casual, but he still won’t quite meet your eyes. In his head, he’s screaming. Because what the hell. A cheerleader just walked into his room, complimented his taste in music, vibed to Sanity Falls, and then thanked him like he did her a favor.

Respectfully and he does mean that. you’re hot. this whole thing feels like a glitch in the matrix. Like someone else’s life. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Uh. Anytime.”

You flash one last smile before turning to leave. Sal Fisher stands frozen in his room, A pretty girl was in his room.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ the clatter of trays, bursts of laughter, the shriek of a chair scraping too hard against the linoleum. Sal sat across from Larry, Ash, and Todd, picking at the edges of his sandwich more than actually eating it. His thoughts weren’t really on food. Not when they kept drifting back to the night before.

Cheerleader. In his room. Pretty girl. She liked his music.

“Hey,” he said finally, pushing his tray forward and folding his arms on the table. “Do you guys know that new girl who lives on the third floor now?”

Larry paused mid bite, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Third floor?”

Ash glanced between them, already suspicious. “Wait. Are we talking about that new girl? Y/N something?”

“Yeah,” Sal said, tone casual like he wasn’t rehearsing the question all morning. “she dropped something off last night. Just wondering if you knew her.”

Larry barked a laugh. “The cheerleader? Yeah, she’s definitely one of those girls.”

Sal blinked. “Those?”

“You know,” Ash chimed in, leaning her chin on her hand. “Perfect hair. Always smells like a mall. Probably part of one of those fake bestie cliques that post about how much they loveee each other but secretly hate one another’s guts.”

Larry nodded, already back into his food. “Plastic. The kind that calls everyone ‘babe’ but doesn’t know your actual name.”

Todd, sipping from a thermos, finally looked up. “You guys don’t even know her.”

Ash raised an eyebrow. “And you do?”

“I’ve had class with her. She’s… quiet,” Todd said thoughtfully. “Pays attention. Says thank you when someone passes her a worksheet. She helped a freshman with their locker on the second day.”

“That’s your bar for decency?” Larry said, skeptical.

“I’m just saying, you’re judging her and like Sal was new too once,” Todd said. “You don’t know anything real about her.”

Ash groaned. “You don’t need to know someone to know someone, Todd. Some people just radiate mean girl energy. Trust me.”

Todd narrowed his eyes. “That’s a shallow assumption and you know it.”

Ash muttered something about “cheerleaders being a plague�� under her breath, and Larry snorted.

Sal, who had gone unusually quiet, finally spoke again. “She’s not like that.”

All three of them turned to look at him.

Larry’s mouth slowly curved into a smirk. “Wait. Hold up. Why are you asking about her, dude?”

Sal looked down, then up, tone clipped. “I told you. She dropped off mail. That’s it.”

Ash crossed her arms. “why did she just come all the way up to your place to give you a letter?”

Sal shrugged. “Her mailbox got mine by accident. then stayed for a bit”

Larry leaned forward, grinning. “What, did she get lost on the way out?”

Sal blinked. “She liked my music.”

Ash scoffed. “What, like out loud?”

Sal nodded. “Yeah. She tried my headphones. Even headbanged a little.”

Todd smiled slightly. “That’s kind of cool.”

Larry shook his head like he was witnessing a miracle. “Okay, wait a minute. A cheerleader, listened to screamo music, and didn’t run screaming for the suburbs?”

Sal shrugged again. “She said it made her want to punch God.”

Ash froze, lips parting in a mix of confusion and, for the first time, mild interest. “Okay… that’s actually kind of hardcore.”

“She said my room was cool,” Sal mumbled, mostly to his tray.

Larry threw his hands up. “Okay, what the hell, Sal. Are you telling me you Sal ‘I sit by myself and listen to death metal’ Fisher just casually had a cheerleader in your bedroom?”

Sal didn’t reply, but his fingers drummed on the table a little too fast to be casual. Larry leaned in. “Dude. You got a cheerleader in your room. Are you sure this wasn’t a dream? Like a fever dream after one too many gas station burritos?”

Todd tilted his head. “Or maybe… maybe she’s just a person. Like the rest of us. Who happens to like punk and be good at flips.”

Ash scowled. “God, Todd, you sound like a teacher.”

He shrugged. “Just saying.”

Larry still wasn’t over it. “Next thing you know she’s gonna show up in all black with eyeliner and join a band.”

Sal didn’t say it out loud, but a flicker of a smile played under the edge of his mask at the idea. He kinda liked that you were so different. the juxtaposition of your looks and what you seemed interested was very cool to look at.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ You strolled through the crowd with your cheer squad flanking both sides laughing, gossiping, spinning their hair around fingers like it was a competitive sport. You listened absently as one of them launched into a dramatic retelling of how her ex “accidentally” liked her finsta post at 2 a.m.

You weren’t really paying attention. Not because you didn’t care, though the first time she talked about it had you engaged. but because your eyes had already locked onto something else across the cafeteria. A short blue haired guy sitting at a table near the back with a group of kids you’d only ever heard about through whispered rumors and cruel nicknames.

There he was. Sal Fisher. without really thinking without asking yourself anything at all you broke away from your group mid laugh. Just veered straight toward him like your legs had made the decision before your brain did.

“Wait, where are you going?” one of your friends asked behind you.

“BRB,” you called over your shoulder. “I want to bother someone.”

Across the cafeteria, at a table meant for the misfits, Sal was in the middle of pushing peas around his tray when a sudden blur of cheer uniform and bounce came into view. He looked up.

You stopped right beside him and sat down immediately grabbing his arm, breathless and grinning. “Okay, so, I’ve been thinking about that song you showed me all night. Like, literally, I couldn’t sleep. I need more. You got a playlist? A mixtape? A USB drive from hell? Gimme.”

For one perfect, cinematic second, the entire table was silent. Larry dropped his fork. Ash’s eyes nearly bugged out of her skull. Todd blinked like you had just walked through a wall.

Sal just stared. “You… what?”

You nodded eagerly, lowering your voice like it was sacred. “You ruined all my playlists. I need more of that noise in my life.”

He blinked again. “You sure?”

“You say that like you thought I wouldn’t.”

“I–” Sal started, then stopped, looking absolutely stunned.

You turned to the rest of the table, realizing they were still staring at you like you’d just sprouted devil horns and declared yourself prom queen of hell. You raised a hand sheepishly. “Hi. Sorry for interrupting. I’m Y/N. just moved this year.”

Ash looked like she was physically holding herself back from combusting. Larry was still open mouthed, and Todd was watching with the kind of intrigue usually reserved for alien encounters.

“If you’re anything like Sal,” you added, offering them a genuine smile, “then I’m sure you’re all cool as hell.”

Larry looked to Sal, eyes wide. “Yeah, he’s crazy cool. Though he did learn from the best” Larry awkwardly replied while pointing himself

Ash leaned toward Todd. “I think i’m on drugs, what’s happening” Todd just smiled quietly.

You turned back to Sal, who was very much glitching out in real time. “I’ll give you my number later,” you said with a wink. “Text me a playlist. Or this time I’m breaking into your room.”

Sal opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded once like he was in shock. “Okay.” And then you were gone, skipping back to your friends, who were whispering furiously and shooting glances like you’d just fraternized with the enemy.

“what was that?” one of them hissed.

You smiled, tugging your ponytail higher.“you’re the one who told me to make friends here, thats all i’m doing.”

Back at the table, Sal stared down at his tray like it might give him answers.

Larry leaned in, whispering, “Bro. Are you a witch? Did you hex a cheerleader?”

Sal just shook his head.

“I think,” he said slowly, still stunned, “i think its jover for me.”

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ You weren’t quite sure how it happened. One second you were joking in the hallway with Sal about your shared hatred for lukewarm cafeteria pizza, and the next you were in his room, cross legged, spinning slowly on his desk chair while he nervously adjusted the volume on his old stereo system.

The room was quiet, save for the soft murmur of some obscure post punk band playing from the corner. You didn’t recognize the lyrics, but it felt like something you wanted to memorize.

“You know,” you said, glancing around, “I kinda expected more skulls. Or like… weird taxidermy?”

Sal laughed soft and surprised. “Yeah, you’re not the first to say that. I think Larry was disappointed when he first came over and didn’t find a Ouija board or something.”

You gave him a playful squint. “Wait, you don’t have one?”

Sal grinned slightly behind the mask. “Okay, I do. But it’s under my bed and mostly for decoration. Larry gets carried away.”

You hopped off the chair and crouched, peeking under the bed like you were on a mission. “You’re telling me there’s a haunted board game down here and you’re not showing me?”

“It’s not haunted,” he replied, clearly amused. “It’s just from a yard sale. Probably cursed with suburban angst at most.”

You laughed, brushing your fingers over a dusty shoebox. “Still cool. You’ve got good taste. I mean, look at this stuff.”

Posters of bands you’d never heard of were plastered across the walls, scribbled notebook pages taped in between like patchwork wallpaper. An old lava lamp flickered halfheartedly in the corner. There were stacks of CDs, cassette tapes, and one particularly weird clay sculpture that looked like it might’ve been made in a sleep deprived art class.

You plopped onto his bed and tilted your head. “This one’s my favorite,” you said, pointing at a crooked drawing of a girl with hollow eyes and messy hair. “She beautiful.”

Sal stepped closer, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. “That was… something I did when I was like, thirteen. Supposed to be a ghost from this dream I had. I kept seeing her for weeks after.”

You looked at him, expression soft. “You see ghosts a lot?”

He hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Sometimes. Not all the time. But yeah.”

“Damn. That’s metal.”

Sal let out another laugh, more comfortable now. “That’s what I told my therapist.”

You leaned back on your elbows, smiling at him from his own bed like you’d done it a hundred times. “So, what else are you hiding in here? Secret dungeon? Portal to hell?”

“Uh,” Sal said, eyes glinting with something playful. “Larry stole all the portals to hell. I’m more of a secret music archive guy.”

You shot up. “Prove it.”

He smirked and crossed the room to a cabinet by his desk, pulling open a drawer to reveal a mess of burned CDs, USBs, old MP3 players, and one tiny cassette player with a sticker that said “Play if you hate the world.”

You gasped like he’d opened the Holy Grail. “Sal. This is the coolest shit I’ve ever seen. You better send me everything.”

He knelt beside you, pulling out a CD with careful fingers. “This one’s the first mix I ever made. It’s super rough.”

You took it from him reverently. “I love rough.”

Sal’s ears went pink. “I, uh, that came out weird.”

“Yeah,” you teased. “but cant a girl say how she feels.”

You glanced at him, and he was already watching you, like he couldn’t believe you actually said that. Like you’d disappear if he blinked too long.

“Hey,” you said, quieter now. “You’re kinda talkative tonight.”

He shrugged, brushing some hair from his face. “You’re easy to talk to.”

That made something flicker warm in your chest.

“Same,” you murmured. Then you nudged him with your shoulder. “Do you like me here?”

Sal tilted his head, mock serious. “People probably that I’ve summoned a demon cheerleader to possess me.”

You grinned. “Yeah? Hope they’re right.”

And he laughed again. You liked that sound. You wanted to hear it more.

You and Sal stayed like that for a while, just talking. The kind of conversation that meandered and curved around strange facts and half finished thoughts. He told you about a ghost that used to knock on his closet door when he was little. You told him about the time you accidentally summoned a raccoon with a ritual you found on Tumblr. Somewhere between laughter and another CD recommendation, you spotted a small, beat up notebook tucked between the mattress and wall. It looked old, like something with secrets.

“Ooooh, what’s that?” you asked, already reclining across the bed to reach it.

Sal looked up, immediately alert. “Wait no, that’s!”

Too late. You stretched out, reaching over him as he sat back against the headboard. Your fingers brushed the edge of the notebook only for your balance to shift, the mattress dipping under your weight.

Thump.

You landed right on top of him. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were nose to nose, your chest pressed against his, hands awkwardly splayed on either side of his shoulders. His mask had tilted slightly, and you could see just a glimpse of the scar beneath it before he quickly adjusted it. His breath hitched so did yours.

Your eyes met.

Sal’s eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours like he was scanning for some kind of signal. You suddenly became very aware of the warmth radiating off him. Of the way your knee was pressing slightly between his legs. The room, the music, the whole world had gone still.

“Uh,” he said softly, like he was trying not to spook you.

You blinked. “Sorry. Um. .”

“it’s okay,” he said, voice an octave higher than usual. “Totally. You’re all good trust. Yeah.”

You were about to say something maybe a joke, maybe not when the door slammed open with the force of someone who had never knocked in his entire life.

“Yo, Sal HOLY SHIT”

You scrambled off like you’d been hit with a taser, rolling off to the side and nearly falling off the bed. Sal sat bolt upright, stiff as a corpse.

Larry stood in the doorway, a soda can in one hand and a box of cookies in the other, blinking like he was trying to make sure what he was seeing wasn’t a hallucination.

“Dude,” he said, utterly stunned. “Did I interrupt something?”

Sal buried his face in both hands with a groan. “Larry.”

“No, because this is like… well im not going to say. You’re on the bed, she’s on top of you, the music’s playing do you guys want me to turn the lights down? Light a candle or something?”

You threw a pillow at him.

Larry dodged it “I can come back later. Like, waaay later.”

“You weren’t even supposed to come now,” Sal hissed, his voice muffled behind his hands.

Larry grinned. “I felt a disturbance in the force.”

You sat up and crossed your legs, trying to fix your hair and your dignity. “Hey Larry, how’s it going?.”

Larry raised his brows and backed toward the hallway with exaggerated steps. “I meet you once and you’re already over my man right here”

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall with the sound of crinkling cookie packaging trailing behind him. Sal finally peeked up at you, his face still a little flushed. “…Im sorry about that.”

You smiled, brushing your hair back. “Im not too worried, He seems like a nice guy.”

Sal blinked, then laughed “I think I like having you around,” he murmured, almost too quiet to catch.

You grinned, nudging his knee with yours. “Then send me that damn playlist before I tackle you again.”

“…Not the worst threat I’ve heard,” he replied.

And the music played on.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆You sat criss cross on the grass with your cheerleader friends, your lunch mostly forgotten as you braided strands of your best friend’s hair while another girl animatedly recounted some drama from first period.

“…and then he said, ‘It’s not cheating if we were on a break!’” she shrieked, clutching her phone like it was sacred.

Everyone groaned, gasped, or fake fainted in synchronized horror.

You laughed, tossing a piece of grass in her direction. “He used the Friends defense? God, we need to start handing out red flags on flashcards.”

You were comfortable here. It was loud, messy, dramatic but it was yours. And they loved you because you weren’t just part of the cheer squad, or the new girl, but because you talked to the theater kids, the band nerds, the weird guy in the dinosaur hoodie. You didn’t care about cliques. You liked people. People were weird and interesting.

Eventually the bell rang and everyone stood, gathering their things in a flurry of hair and perfume.

“I’ll see you after school!” someone called. You waved, backing away toward the building with your backpack swinging behind you.

And that’s when you heard it. “Pick it up, you little freak. Or do you need your mommy to do it for you?”

You rounded the corner and froze. A smaller kid, maybe a freshman, was scrambling to pick up their books, hands shaking as a taller guy stood over him. Shaggy hair,, fists clenched like he wanted someone to look. A few papers blew past your feet. You didn’t step in. You knew better. You weren’t built like that couldn’t throw a punch or bark louder than a threat. And you knew the look of someone who’d use that.

But still… once the kid grabbed his stuff and scurried off like a spooked rabbit, you found your voice.

“Hey.”

The guy turned to you, annoyance etched into every line of his face. “What?”

You took a slow breath and tilted your head. “What’s your problem?”

He blinked, like you’d just asked him the square root of an existential crisis. “You wanna go?” he said, stepping toward you with all the bravado of someone who’d been fighting shadows his whole life.

You didn’t flinch. Just crossed your arms and stared. “You seriously pick fights with kids who can’t fight back? What, did your cereal bully you this morning?”

That got him. Just a flicker but it was there. A crack in the tough guy mask. He scoffed. “Don’t act like you know me.”

“I don’t,” you said honestly. “But I know whatever that was back there? Thats fucked, stop being a dick and maybe your mommy would do something about it.” His jaw flexed like he was holding back a hundred things he didn’t know how to say. “I’m not scared of you,” you added softly. “But you being a dick is pointless.”

He stared at you for a long time. Long enough that it should’ve felt uncomfortable. But instead, it felt… tense. Not dangerous. Just tight. Like something holding its breath.

Then, just before turning, he muttered, “Tch. Whatever.”

You watched him go, the anger in his steps still there but dulled, somehow. Like your words had wedged into the gears of whatever rage machine he operated on. You found out later from someone in gym class that his name was Travis. Just Travis. No one knew his last name, just that he was trouble, had a rep, and probably didn’t have many people who called him anything else.

Ash had seen it.

She’d been leaning against the side of the vending machines, chewing on the straw of her empty smoothie cup, eyes darting around the quad like they always did. She wasn’t looking for drama, not really, but if it stumbled into her path, she sure as hell wasn’t going to ignore it.

She watched the whole thing Travis towering, spitting venom, and you standing there, not brave enough to throw hands, but bold enough to ask why. Not backing down. Not even flinching.

When he walked off, still pissed but quieter somehow, she tossed her smoothie into the bin and strolled over like she wasn’t deliberately inserting herself.

“What was that?” she asked, casually, like she’d just seen you pet a lion.

You turned, slinging your backpack higher on your shoulder. “What was what?”

Ash raised a brow. “With Travis. You said something. He didn’t hit you. That’s basically a miracle.”

You shrugged, still feeling the adrenaline buzz in your ribs. “I don’t know. Just… couldn’t walk past it.”

Ash snorted. “People walk past him all the time. He’s an ass. A racist, sexist, homophobic caveman with fists for brains. Trust me, most people are glad to stay out of his way.”

You chewed your lip. “Yeah. I guess. I just. I don’t know. People who are assholes need someone to speak up.”

She tilted her head, considering that for a beat. “You ever get into fights?”

“God, no,” you said quickly. “I’d die.”

Ash smirked. “That checks out. Still, you didn’t run. Didn’t go fake sweet or start crying to a teacher. You just… confronted him. That was kind of bold of you new girl.”

“Thanks?” you offered, unsure.

She walked with you now, matching your steps as you made your way down the hall. It was quiet, the rush between lunch and next period tapering off.

Ash glanced sideways at you. “Y’know, I pegged you as another one of them.”

You didn’t need to ask who them was. You’d seen the way she looked at your cheer friends. Glitter and high ponies didn’t mix with combat boots and smudged eyeliner.

You smiled softly, still looking ahead. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

She didn’t say anything for a second. Then: “Turns out you’ve got more bite than you let on.”

You turned to her, surprised. “You saying that like it’s a good thing.”

Ash shrugged. “Might be.”

That was it. No over explanation. No emotional dive into friendship territory. Just the Ashley Campbell version of a peace offering. She didn’t invite you to hang out or trade numbers. She didn’t ask personal questions or gush. But the next time she saw you in the hall, she nodded at you instead of looking through you.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ The bell had just rung, and the hallways were alive people yelling across rows of lockers, someone dropping a textbook with a dramatic slam, and the smell of cafeteria pizza already creeping in. You scanned the crowd like a bloodhound on a mission.

Sal Fisher. Quietly standing near the usual corner with Larry, Todd, and Ash. He had his hands in his pockets, head tilted as Todd went off about some new theory, probably ghosts or government tech. Ash was chewing on a straw and nodding vaguely, while Larry interrupted every other word with “Nah, but listen what if?”

You didn’t even think twice.

“Hey!” you called, bounding over like a cartoon character with too much energy and absolutely no sense of personal space. “There you are, Blue.”

Sal looked up right as you reached him. “Blue?”

“You’re wearing blue,” you said, pointing at him. “And your hair’s blue. You’re very committed to the aesthetic.”

He tilted his head. “I wear black more than anything.”

“Technicalities,” you said, grabbing his sleeve. “Come on. We’re doing something.”

Larry raised a brow. “Is this a kidnapping?”

“Definitely,” Ash answered flatly.

“Wait, what are we doing?” Sal asked, laughing under his breath as you pulled him gently away from the group. “Do I get a say in this?”

“You get to walk or be dragged, your call.”

“That doesn’t feel like much of a choice,” he muttered, but he let you lead him anyway.

“Where are you taking him this time?” Todd called out with actual concern.

“To the moon,” you replied without turning around. “Or maybe just the vending machines. We’ll see.”

Ash cupped her hands around her mouth. “Bring him back in one piece!”

Larry shouted after, “AND IF HE COMES BACK MARRIED IM ATTACKING YOU FOR NOT LETTING ME BE BEST MAN!”

You groaned and shot them a look over your shoulder. “Y’all are so dramatic.”

“We’re dramatic?” Ash asked, gesturing wildly. “You swooped in like a caffeinated falcon and stole our boy mid convo!”

Sal laughed beside you, his eyes squinting just slightly with amusement behind the mask. “You kinda did.”

“Okay, but be honest,” you said, bumping your shoulder into his. “You weren’t even really paying attention to Larry’s alien rant.”

“…It was about space cats this time.”

“See? I’m rescuing you.”

He chuckled again, a little softer this time. “Then thanks, I guess. You know, I’ve started looking forward to these.”

You slowed your pace, peeking at him from the side. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a bit bashful now. “You’re crazy and I am definitely living for it.”

Your smile tugged wider, warmth blooming in your chest. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You need better friends,” he teased.

“I have you,” you shot back.

And that quiet moment hung between you both for just a second comfortable, kind of sweet, a little electric.

Back at the hallway corner, the trio watched you both disappear down the hall. Ash crossed her arms, a curious look on her face. “Im glad to have found out she’s not just some glitter clone.”

“Nope,” Larry agreed. “She’s cool. Like, actually so cool.”

Todd smiled faintly. “And Sal likes her. That much is obvious.”

Ash gave a small nod, the corner of her mouth twitching up. “Yeah. He really does.” for once, none of them said anything snarky.

#sal fisher x y/n #sal fisher x reader #sally face x reader #sal fisher #sally face #larry johnson #ashley campbell #todd morrison #video game x reader #interactive novel #reader insert #tumblr fyp

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magicstormfrostfire · 1 month ago

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Cardigan AU sequel fic started!

Mothballs ch.1 is up!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64474450

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sth #sonic fanart #silver the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonadow #magicstormfrostfire #sonilver #sonadilver #cardigan au

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pirateunderapineapple · 5 months ago

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Agathario Ao3 FanFic Recommendation Post

IT IS HERE, IT IS QUEER!

Okay so, I'm trying to gather all of the fics that i have either bookmarked ( so multichapters that i'm following ), and also i'll be going through my ao3 history (oh it's a dark place) to check for either completed works or oneshots etc. They will not be in order of how much I recommend them obv, just in random (except for a couple that you must read or i'll stab you). I haven't found the authors on tumblr but if anyone knows them feel free to tag them, I want all them to know how much i love them hehe This is how it's gonna go: I'll leave you the name of the fic and the author, their summary of the fic and maybe a personal comment, sounds good? Disclaimer: these are fics that i have read and enjoyed so i would like to recommend to other fans as well. If anyone has any other recommendations feel free to add them to the list, i think everyone will appreciate it, myself included! OKAY HERE WE GO

-MULTICHAPTER-

Unraveled by EchoesInTheMargins Summary: The thought of being with a woman had once seemed impossible to Agatha Harkness—a door locked tightly and never to be opened. After all, she was 48 years old, for Christ’s sake.

Then, without so much as a warning, Rio Vidal, a first-year associate, strode into her perfectly controlled life and blew Agatha’s closet door off its damn hinges.

PC: I mean, I trust that everyone knows this one by now and I don't even need to recommend it but just in case! THIS IS A MASTERPIECE! The epilogue was just posted and honestly I can't even describe how I feel about this fic. I would wake up for uni at 7 in the morning and the first thing I did was check if there was an update. How to not keep a secret by disaster_top Summary: Agatha liked to keep her work and personal life separate, which was why even a decade into working as a detective her coworkers had yet to know who she was married to. And unfortunately, her wife had no interest in keeping things that way.

PC: every chapter in this one is kinda like an oneshot, but same universe etc. I really, really love their freaky dynamic ( they're the definition of they much eachothers freak) in this one and I strongly reccommend it!

It’s Bloody and Raw (But I Swear it is Sweet) by Adimnos

Summary: “I don’t believe you. You prefer me—“

“Compliant?” Rio stood slowly, her eyes never leaving Agatha’s face. The action put her inches away, her body heat radiating out, searing Agatha’s skin. “Obedient?”

Agatha’s hips shifted against her will, her lips parting slightly. She closed her eyes against the heady mortification that razed through her chest. She felt Rio move closer and she parted her legs without thought.

Rio stepped between them but didn’t touch, hands settling on the desk inches from Agatha’s hips and hands.

“You always were such a brat.” Rio’s breath was hot against Agatha’s ear, her voice throaty and raw and filthy. “You never knew how to do what you were told.”

Or: After five years away, a still-grieving Agatha is dragged back into the FBI and the arms of her ex-wife. PC: this is art, it's just sto intense, so well written. pure, pure art. i'm thrilled whenever there's a new chapter

Sugar and Honey by visadero Summary: “No way,” Rio said, crossing her arms defensively. “Good for you, get that bag, but I’ll figure something else out.”

Jen’s laughter bubbled up, bright and teasing. “Sweetheart, you’re so sheltered. These women aren’t crusty old grandmas in rocking chairs. They’re powerful, rich, and they smell like Chanel, not mothballs. Some of them are absolutely stunning.” She tilted her head, studying Rio as if sizing her up for auction. “You’d clean up if you stopped being so stubborn. They’d eat you alive—and pay you for the privilege.”

OR: Struggling bartender Rio stumbles into a sugar baby situation with CEO Agatha Harkness. She can't figure out what the woman wants from her, or why she's letting herself go along with it. PC: I really loved this one and I have to add that this fic is actually part of a series, the second work being Honey and Wine , which is basically Agatha's POV i think (sugar and honey is Rio's POV). I haven't got around to reading the second work cause i wanted some time to have passed so as to not remember every detail of the fic. I think i'll be reading it in the next few days tho so can't wait!!

death's doorstep by villhag Summary: One day, Wanda’s spell fades, and Agatha Harkness is awake again.

Pissed off and powerless, she casts a spell to take her somewhere, anywhere but Westview—and it takes her to the last place she wants to be.

Death’s doorstep. -- Agatha and her ex-girlfriend, Death, have a very tumultuous sleepover in Hell. PC: the ending we deserved, thank you author

A Kingdom by the Night by visadero Summary: “You’re early,” Agatha managed, feigning a flicker of annoyance, though her pulse quickened. "I missed you.” The words were simple, almost soft. Her dark gaze held Agatha’s, steady and unyielding. "Agatha huffed, “Is that so?” She turned away, trying to mask the slight flush rising to her cheeks. "I’d think the Queen of Shadows wouldn’t be so sentimental.” The woman’s lips curved ever so slightly as she closed the distance between them. “Think what you want. But here you are." / or : Hadestown came on shuffle, thought about the Hades/Persephone Rio/Agatha parallels and things spiraled wildly out of control PC: this one had me reaaaaally invested

Something Wicked by motherconfessor Summary: While an apprentice witch, Agatha grows frustrated when she's not permitted to learn magic.

Until someone makes her an offer that she can't refuse PC: love, LOVE, LOVE

You'd have to stop the world by Echolux Summary: In the events leading up to Jen and Alice’s wedding, their respective best friends Agatha and Rio have to work together despite their… creative differences.

Oh, and then there’s this: Rio doesn’t fall for straight women. Agatha's not a lesbian. And one of them is lying. PC: This one was one of my recent discoveries and I wish I hadn't gone through it so fast. I appreciated so much the way this author approached the characters and their relationship, it was so pure.

The Ethics of Attraction by Sunshinesongbird Summary: Agatha Harkness prides herself on being a no-nonsense ethics professor, keeping students in line with sharp lectures and sharper looks. But when Rio Vidal—brilliant, sarcastic, and infuriatingly captivating—decides to test those boundaries, Agatha finds herself facing dilemmas that have nothing to do with her syllabus. As playful banter gives way to undeniable attraction, the two must navigate the fine line between rules and reckless abandon. In this classroom, the lessons go far beyond ethics.

THEY ARE BOTH CONSENTING ADULTS THIS IS A DOCTORATE PROGRAM NOT UNDERGRAD THANK YOU!

PC: hehe loving these dynamics

you'll just have to taste me (when she's kissin' you) by agatharioluvr Summary: "You alright, buddy?" She asked, and Nicholas stared up at her, star-struck. "Sorry about that." "It's alright, I caught it before it could hit me!"

Agatha stared at her in disbelief - seeing Rio right in front of her, a little sweaty and breathless; it was unbelievably attractive. Rio looked over at her, smiling that fucking smile of hers, before turning back to Nicholas.

"Well done, little man." She laughed and ruffled his hair a little as he smiled up at her. "I like the jersey - you keep the ball, we've got plenty more."

With that, Rio nodded a farewell to Nicholas and ran back onto the court, signalling for the assistant coach to grab a new ball to use. Nicholas held his new gift to his chest tightly, squealing with delight at the fact that he'd just talked to his favourite player of all time.

OR, Agatha's son idolises a certain star basketball player, Rio Vidal - and maybe she does too...

PC: I actually recently discovered this and read it all in one sitting. Honestly, I think i'm digging the athlete!rio fics a little too much!!

The Green Witch by MickeyJrWrites Summary: Agatha takes her kid to a market where he instantly becomes attached to the sweetest farmer, Rio Vidal. It's a romcom involving carrots and celery. PC: Just cuteness overload and rio calling nicky papito like IM DYING

honey come put your lips on mine (and shut me up) by tinyteamug Summary: “Do not,” Agatha said to herself from her spot in the media booth, “you absolutely do not need to defend your honor against-”

Rio dropped her gloves.

“God fucking damn it.”

The Sharks’ forward had barely gotten her own gloves off before Rio’s fist connected with her jaw. The crowd erupted.

“I am going to kill her,” Agatha announced to no one in particular, already mentally drafting press releases. “Should’ve kept managing curling teams. Nobody ever gets punched in curling.”

OR: Gently feral hockey star Rio and long-suffering publicist Agatha who definitely doesn’t get paid enough for this shit PC: Like i said, athlete!rio is my thing...

break me, shake me, devastate me by saturnreturn Summary: Rio, owner of Westview’s local floral shop “Wisterical,” finds herself with an early Christmas present when her hag of a landlord, Evanora Harkness, keels over. With the biggest pain in her side gone, she’s expecting a relatively stress-free life from here on out.

That is, until the daughter. PC: This doesn't have many chapters yet but i think it's really got great potential!!

hand in unlovable hand by villhag Summary: “You know, it’s kind of illegal to drink here. School property and all.”

It might as well have been the voice of God. The quip came from above; Agatha seeing her shoes before she saw the rest of her. White Nikes, splotched with dirt and grass. Ribbed socks pulled all the way up over gray sweatpants. A dark green sweatshirt. Salem Elementary Soccer embroidered on the front. All culminating with a tan neck, jet-black hair, and a very annoying—should she say condescending—smirk.

Someone had been stupid enough to encroach on Agatha Harkness’s domain. -- Agatha is a widely-despised soccer mom. Rio Vidal is Salem Elementary’s new coach.

Chaos ensues.

PC: same as the previous one honestly

Time Warp by 324b2fun Summary: When Agatha signs on to do a long-awaited sequel to one of her beloved movies, she thinks it'll be an easy check and a chance to reminisce on her youth. Little does she realize her past has come back to bite her in the ass, primarily in the form of one Rio Vidal. PC: I love this fic and especially the flashback chapters

Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light by motherconfessor Summary: “Lucky gal,” Agnes said. “The only way––” and she tried to say Ralph. That had been his name, hadn’t it? The idiot of a man whose house she’d taken over. Instead, what came out, tugged by the spell was, “Rio would remember our anniversary is if there was a beer named June 2nd.” - When Wanda's spellwork traps another person in its bindings, Agatha makes a deal that all she needs is seven days to get what she wants.

But seven days is a long time to be stuck in a PG-13 sitcom. PC: agathario in wandavision universe just hits different

-LESS CHAPTERS/ONESHOTS-

anything, and I mean ANYTHING from this author : 324b2fun THEY ARE DOING GOD'S WORK periodt also like, usually when i like a fic i go and check the author's other works so i recommend you do the same

creator, you destroy me by velvetprayer Summary: Time, suddenly, means the moments in between her. PC: there is no need for introductions here i think... this fic was what gotta us all through the finale and i don't even have words to express my gratitude to the author.

i bite my tongue, it's a bad habit by tinyteamug

Summary: In the week since the bonfire incident (which she was absolutely not thinking about), she’d run into Rio approximately seventeen times.

Not that she was counting.

There was Tuesday, when Agatha had taken Nicholas to his first surf lesson. Rio had been teaching the advanced class, wetsuit clinging to her like a second skin, and Agatha had absolutely not watched her demonstrate proper form on the beach.

(“Your coffee’s getting cold,” Wanda had said smugly.

“Shit.”

“And you’re drooling a little.”)

OR Agatha has a mid-life crisis and bails for LA. That’s what people did, right? Terrible breakup, mid-life crisis, pack up your sixteen-year-old kid and move to California. Completely reasonable sequence of events.

Then start sleeping with the hot surfing instructor, royally fuck up keeping it casual, and try your damndest not to fall in love. Less reasonable sequence of events. But whatever.

i looked to the children (i drank from the fountains) by seabiscuit Summary: “Wait, you haven’t even heard my pitch,” She can hear William’s footsteps quickening behind her, “She’s gay, too.”

Agatha turns sharply on her heel, “How could you possibly know that?”

“I asked.”

“You asked?” Agatha slaps a hand over her face, covering her eyes, “Oh my God, Teen, one of these days you’re going to get slapped in the face, and you’re going to deserve it.” * Or,Agatha’s teenage neighbor tries to play matchmaker with her and the hot funeral director who just moved in next door. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

better in the dark by seabiscuit Summary: “I don’t have sex.”

Agatha’s face screwed up somewhere between delight and incredulity, “You don’t ever?” She scoffed, “As in you’ve never at all? How long have you been here?”

“Since the inception of life itself.”

“And you’ve never fucked?” The way she said it, it did sound a little stupid, “What do you do to pass the time?”

“I scare children,” Death shifted in her chair, still rubbing at the skin of one hand with the other. No wonder Agatha had nowhere to live, she thought. She was unbearable. “Amongst other things.”

Or, Upon meeting Death, Agatha takes it upon herself to educate her on some of the finer points of being human. PC: This is pure, pure magic.

death and taxes (a series) by paddingtonfan69 Summary: They’re staring at each other over the now evenly stacked forms at the table. Agatha’s mask has fully slipped and Rio is fascinated by what’s underneath it, an unruly sort of anger, a sharp passion. Agatha looks like she wants to tear Rio from limb to limb. And Rio, god help her, would probably let her.

“Moving on to property taxes…”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Agatha lets out. “Don’t you have a life?” — Rio is the best IRS agent in her field. Agatha refuses to pay her taxes. A love story for the ages.

PC: This story is so random but man I love it

when we kiss (i have anger issues) by lgbtimelord Summary: there’s no one agatha hates more than rio vidal

but there’s no one evanora hates more than the vidal family

so, when her mother forces her to go home for halloween, bringing rio as her pretend girlfriend is the best course of action to piss her off

PC: i remember enjoying this one

with your boots beneath my bed by dumblibramoon Summary: "Here,” Rio said, standing and shrugging off her flannel overshirt. Of course she was wearing layers. Of course.

“I'm fine,” Agatha said automatically, even as a cold shiver ran through her.

Rio just raised an eyebrow and held out the shirt. “You're dripping on my hay.”

“Your hay will survive.” But Agatha took the shirt, trying not to notice how warm it was.

Nicky desperately craved this dusty hellscape of a ranch for summer camp, and because Agatha's not about to leave her son alone with a bunch of horse people, she rents a cottage nearby. And here comes Rio, wearing an incredibly unserious pair of Wrangler jeans PC: just cute little lesbians

if i could take her down and run (then i'd call her) by dumblibramoon Summary: “You're late,” Agatha manages to quip, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

“A lady is never late,” Rio retorts, kneeling beside the fallen witch. Her eyes rake over Agatha's form, taking in the severity of the wound. “Looks like you've had quite the night, sweetheart.”

Agatha tries to laugh, but it comes out as a pained cough. “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.”

“Clearly,” Rio murmurs, her cool fingers brushing against Agatha's cheek. Agatha jolts quickly before listing back and slightly leaning into Rio’s hand. Goddamn, she was woozy.

Rio can sense when Agatha is anywhere near death (the physical kind). Featuring Agatha flirting with both her mortality and Death.

the way i feel about you baby can’t explain it by seabiscuit Summary: “She won’t even admit that she’s gay for a New York City Ballet dancer. You think she would go for you, Rio Vidal of Cobb, Oklahoma?” Jenn raises an eyebrow, “IT service provider who plays Elden Ring in her spare time.”

“Maybe.” Chirps Rio. Hope does, after all, spring eternal. * Or, Rio goes from IT service monkey to fucking her very beautiful, very poised boss in a very short period of time. And then, of course, there’s the aftermath. PC: ngl i don't remember much about this one but i remember liking it lol

She Gets The Job Done by visadero Summary: Cars don’t crash through fences for free,” Rio replied smoothly, shrugging. “But,” she continued, eyes glinting, “I’ll make you an offer. You cover just the cost of parts—let’s call it a grand—and I’ll throw in the labor for free.” Agatha frowned, knowing there had to be a catch. “And what exactly do you want in return?” Rio leaned back against the workbench, arms folded and expression deceptively casual. “Dinner with me.”

OR: Agatha is making her way cross country when she wrecks her car. There's only one shop in town ran by a deeply irritating and magnetic mechanic. She offers a discount on the work in exchange for dinner. Then she really puts in the body work (heyo). PC: this was a cute little piece

so maybe when you kiss me, i can let you see me cry by rainbowinbeigeboots Summary: Agatha reluctantly has her first sleepover

PC: my babies i loved them so much in this

witchcraft filling your void (a series) by wariangle Summary: Pulling the sheet to her, Agatha gets up, draws a hand through her hair. “Get up,” she says, loudly.

The woman – Rio, if Agatha remembers correctly, Jesus fucking Christ – only mumbles something in response and turns over, away from the noise. On her back, right below her neck, the black tendrils of a tattoo spiral across her shoulder blades.

Agatha’s too fucking old for this. “Get up,” she repeats. She’s been teaching for over twenty years; she knows how to make her voice carry in a room. PC: this series has 4 works with 1-2 chapters each, i just put the summary to the first one. I enjoyed reading it and had some laughs with my baby rio

por eso by stick2theplan

Summary: In the seventies, Wanda decided Westview needed some queer representation. If Agnes hated her husband so much, maybe she’d prefer a wife.

(In which Ralph wasn’t real.)

PC: didn't know if i should add this in the multichapter or not since it is about 15000 words only but in any case, READ THIS

Underneath The Tree by Cthulhus_Curse Summary: Rio is back in her hometown after years of disappearance. Having always been seen as the black sheep for going three decades without meeting her soulmate, she finds herself awkwardly going through the motions of a rather disastrous family Christmas. But when a rather hasty brunette runs into her in town, Rio finds herself happy to spend as much time getting to know her before returning to the cruel reality of the holiday season. — Or Soulmate AU. Everyone has a journal that allows them to write back and forth with their soulmate, but need to leave it to fate to let them meet. ----------- OKAY SO, these were the ones i could find, god this list is long, maybe in the future there will be a part 2, who knows i hope i have been helpful to yall and you guys give these fics and authors the love that they deserve! seeya my babes<3

#agatha all along #agathario #ao3 #agatharioao3 #rio vidal #agatha harkness #agatha x rio #marvel

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streamafterlaughter · 23 days ago

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Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter XVII: Am I Making You Feel Sick?

songs for this chapter: erase me by lizzy mcalpine, true hardcore (ii) by fiddlehead, strangers by ethel cain

chapter tags: hurt/slight comfort then more hurt haha hehe sorry!! angst, swearing, drinking, hurt feelings, insults, misunderstandings, everyone's kind of a dick in this one sorry??? | cw/dead dove, do not eat: mentions of suicidal tendencies/ideation such as intrusive thinking, making light of own death. bee has horrible coping mechanisms. also trauma! | fic tags: Angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | REMINDER: THIS FIC IS RATED EXPLICIT. 18+ mdni.

a/n:... tee hee? :p it's a long one buddies! strap in!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites unless otherwise stated. THIS WORK IS BEING REPOSTED TO MY AO3! Feel free to check it out! Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. I am satiated by reblogs and comments, so please! Interact with my work! It motivates me to write more, and it helps to know someone out there is reading.

taglist (open!): @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r @justalotoffanfiction @bl0ssomanddie @eddiesgirl1944

“Here it is!” You pull into the parking lot of the duplex, located only ten minutes away from your own apartment.

“Bee, you don’t have to come in. It’s gonna be boring, and probably kinda pathetic. Not like I can afford much on a prisoner’s salary.”

“Hey. You know, you don’t have to move out right away. I kinda like having you around.” You nudge your brother as the two of you climb the front porch steps. “Unless it’s what you want.”

“Crashing at my little sister’s place is kinda harshing my vibe, truthfully.” He snickers as he says it, unable to keep up the act. “Let’s just see it. Who knows, maybe it's a hidden gem?”

“What the hell, sure.”

—

It is not a hidden gem. In fact, the place is a fucking eyesore, far too visible for your liking. The wallpaper is ancient and garish, yellowed likely with the previous owner’s cigarette smoke, and peeling along the edges. The kitchen is tiled with fake linoleum, clashing immediately into the den’s unfinished hardwood. The appliances are ancient, from the mid eighties if you had to guess. Furniture was sparse and tacky, and the whole place smells like mothballs.

“Rent is twelve hundred a month.”

You gape at the landlord. “Including utilities?” The old, sweaty man shakes his bald head. “You can do whatever you want with it, but I’m not payin’ for it. Planner on takin’ that wallpaper down for years.” You try to catch your brother’s expression without giving yourself away. If you know Chris at all, he’s not gonna take this place. There’s no way.

“You know I’m a felon, right?”

The guy shrugs. “Me too, kiddo.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Chris!”

“Great! First, last, and security deposit can be paid to me on move-in day.” He offers his fat, greedy hand to your brother, and you have to fight the urge to swat it away. Chris takes his hand, shaking it once, and accepting the contract to sign.

“Chris. You really do not have to move out.”

“Yes I do, Bee. I love you dearly, but I need my space. So do you! We aren’t kids anymore, we can’t share such a small space without jumping down each other’s throats.”

You feel blindsided. Up until this very moment, you thought you’d been getting along swimmingly with your brother-turned-roommate. “Are you sick of me already?” You try to play it off, like you’re teasing him, despite dreading his answer.

“Of course not. But it’s not fair of me to not only walk back into your life after six years, but your home? The physical place where you exist? And, on top of that, I’ve had a roommate for six years, I could stand to have a place to myself.”

You sigh, surrendering your argument. “Okay, I get it. You need to spread out. But, you wanna live here?”

“‘Course not, but it’s what I can afford right now. I’ll work my ass off at the bar and fix it up next summer. Get you and your friends to help me out for pizza and beer.” You can’t help but smile at the thought: you, Steve, and Robin peeling off the old wallpaper while Chris and Eddie haul a gently used sofa inside to replace the stained and shredded couch currently sitting in the den.

“Remember, this doesn’t have to be your forever either. You can leave Hawkins.”

“Yeah, one day.” He muses, staring at the wall in front of you.

—

“Should we be drinking if we’re about to get called in to work?” You pick at the label of your beer bottle as your brother takes a swig of his own.

“Eh, does it count as work if I’m in the band?”

“You guys don’t go on ‘til ten, you’ll be slingin’ drinks with me until then.”

Chris shrugs. “One drink’s not gonna hurt us.”

You respond by taking a sip of your own, enjoying the hints of pumpkin in the seasonal ale. As soon as you feel it sliding down your throat, both your phone and your brother’s buzz.

“Welp,”

“Speak of the devil.” He shakes his head.

The Family Ties: mama (to you, crispy): Hi my darlings! So so sorry to ask you this… > Actually, no im not!... You put me thru a combined sixteen hours of labor… > Will you please come save your poor mother and help run the bar tonight?? > Kevin would also appreciate the extra hands…

You catch your brother’s gaze and snort. “This woman, I swear.” He quickly types out a response.

crispy: we’ll be there in 20 mama: thx =)

“You wanna drive?” You dangle your car keys in front of his face, and he attempts to snatch them from you, but you pull them away at the last second. “And let you pick the music? Fuck, no!” You cackle, skipping past him and into the driver’s seat of your car, immediately plugging your phone into the fraying aux cord, and shuffling your playlist.

“We cannot listen to this the entire way there, I’m begging.” The song blaring through your speakers is not Chris’s taste at all: a horribly depressing indie pop song usually meant for playing while staring out a train window while your mind goes somewhere else entirely. Before you can stop him, Chris snags your phone from the cupholder and taps the skip button. “That’s more like it! Knew you had it in ya!” The new track is louder, more drum heavy, and a lot more upbeat than the first, and you have to wonder why you’d put your whole library on shuffle and chance such a drastic contrast.

“My taste is vast and expansive, dear brother.”

“Gee, wonder where you got that from.” He means himself, you know that, but most of your taste in music has been despite your brother. Sure, you love punk music, but his musical knowledge starts and ends with “post-hardcore” bands. He’ll indulge you sometimes, letting you explain the story of Ethel Cain’s character to him in detail, but he’d never seek that out for himself.

You pull into the parking lot still bickering about who has better taste when you’re both silenced by the sheer amount of cars. “We are so fucked.”

“So, totally, fucked.” You nod, craning your neck to look for an empty spot. You pass Edie’s van in the back, pulled up to the stage door as Jeff is hauling in his amp. You pull up next to the vehicle. “Go help your friends, I’ll try to find a spot that isn’t a million miles from here.”

Chris nods, throwing your car door open and stepping out, greeting his friends and already lighting a cigarette.

Before you even put your car back in drive, the door is yanked open again, and Eddie slides into the passenger seat. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What’s up?”

You can’t help the scoff you let out. “I’m uh, about to go park?”

“Mhm, cool.” He nods, like he’s fascinated by this fact. “You gonna drive, or…?”

“Why are you in my car, Edward?”

“Pullin’ out the government name, huh? Well, ‘scuse me for intruding!”

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes, trying to stifle the smile threatening to break on your lips, and shift your car into drive. “Probably gonna have to park across the street.” You muse, still having no luck in finding an empty spot.

“You guys don’t have employee parking?”

“We’re a bar, not an office building. First come, first serve.”

“Damn, tough times.” His face stretches into a cartoonish frown, and you bite your lip to keep from giggling like a middle schooler. “Wait!” His outburst causes you to slam on the brakes. “Sorry! Thought I saw a spot but there’s a fuckin’ clown car parked there.”

“That is definitely Robin’s car.” You nod at the bright red VW Bug, decorated with bumper stickers reading “Baby on Board! (I’m Baby)” and “I Brake for Lesbians!”

“That… tracks, actually.” Eddie chuckles, and you nod. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

“No promises. Ooh, this guy’s leaving.” You flick your blinker on and slow to a stop, but before you can even get the chance to turn once the truck’s pulled away, the spot is swiped from you, a bright white BMW screeching into place.

“Oh, fuck you!” Your voice is rising above an acceptable level for inside a car, and you can feel your face getting hot as you let your foot off the pedal, rolling away from the spot that could have been, fuming.

Before you can stop him, Eddie rolls your window down and climbs halfway out, leaning toward the back of the car. “Hey, fuck head! We were here first!” He cups his hands around his mouth as he yells, loud enough to startle any passersby.

A familiar voice calls back, a few seconds later.“Sucks to suck, asshole!”

“Hold the fuck on.” You slam on your brake and throw your car into park, jostling Eddie around in the process. “STEVEN!” You’re also yelling now. “That was my fuckin’ spot, dick head!”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Bee, I had no idea.” His apology is weakened by his giggling.

You stand there, arms crossed as Eddie jogs up beside you. “No fuckin’ shit.” Eddie shakes his head, now also laughing. “Of course it was you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“You, with your fancy car and stupid hair, thinks he’s fuckin’ entitled to everythi-”

You wave your arms between the boys. “Okay, enough! Here’s what’s gonna happen. Steve, since you’re so fuckin’ good at finding parking, you’re gonna park my car. I am gonna take Jackass Number Two here–” You jab your thumb towards Eddie, “inside to start setting up. Then, I am gonna bring my ass behind the bar, and likely not leave that spot for the next six hours, considering the abnormally massive amount of people here tonight. Sound good?” They each mumble unconvincing noises of agreement. “What was that?”

“Yes, Bee.” They drone in robotic unison, a bit they’ve long committed to as a response to your scoldings.

“Great! Fantastic! Steve, I will see you inside. Eddie, let’s go, my brother’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed at you.”

“Shit. Must be Tuesday.” He’s still grinning, and you can’t figure out if he’s charming or irritating you. He yanks the bar door open, gesturing for you to go inside first, before skirting behind you like a dog on a short leash.

–

“Mom?” You call her as you yank your apron off the coat hook, tying it haphazardly around your waist before sliding behind the bar counter. “You doin’ alright?”

“Hi, honey! Yeah, I’m alright. Kev just happened to go on lunch five minutes before we got absolutely flooded with people.” She gestures to the crowd clamoring in front of her, and it’s then that you notice what you’re dealing with. These patrons are clearly all a part of the same subculture, clad in leather and denim, with long and unruly locks of unbrushed hair. Simply put, they all look like Eddie Munson.

“These guys all here for the band?” You shout over the noise of the music, paired with the unintelligible shouting of the customers.

“Think so! Chris was talkin’ about putting some of the songs on the internet. Maybe he finally did!” Your mom’s words give you pause, Chris never mentioned wanting to share the songs to you. It’s a second slap in the face when you’re forced to acknowledge that Eddie didn’t either.

“Good for them!” You plaster what you hope is a convincing smile, and direct your attention to the patron in front of you. She’s short, petite, and probably wearing twice her weight in metal chains clipped to her clothing. Ink covers both of her arms, and you fight the urge to study what the shapes could possibly mean as she orders a rum and coke. You make her drink quickly, without an attempt to make conversation like you normally would, considering the noise level. She slides you a twenty and smiles, snatching her cup off the counter before the condensation has the chance to sweat. As you continue making drinks, your eyes wander to the stage, where the guys are still plugging wires into various pedals and amplifiers. Eddie approaches the mic, where he says something unheard by anyone except him and their sound “engineer,” Gareth’s friend from college fiddling on the small sound board in the back of the room. Finally, Eddie gives a thumbs up, and pulls his in-ear speaker out to rest

on his shoulder before crouching to tape the setlist to the floor in front of him.

“Bee!” You’re pulled back into reality with your mother’s fingers snapping in your face. “Where’d you go just now? I need you here, making drinks with me! You can think about your boyfriend later.” The last part is said more lightly, and you feel your face flush.

“Mom, you can’t say that here. Every girl in this room wants that title, I sure as hell don’t need them thinking I’m standing in their way of that!”

“Hey, definitely not every girl. I already know a few of them play for the other team.”

You roll your eyes. “Should I let Robin know?”

Your mother’s response is cut by the piercing sound of feedback, stabbing through your ears like a kitchen knife. On stage, the guys wince, frantically searching for the source of the shrieking before yanking a wire, successfully silencing it.

“Sorry!” Eddie says sheepishly into the mic, evoking a buzz of awkward laughter from the front row. “We’ll be back, uh, soon!” There’s a scattered applause as Eddie hurriedly follows the rest of the band backstage.

“Bee!” You hear her call your name over the noise.

“Hey, Rob! See you found my parking spot stealer.” You nod to Steve, and he pouts at you.

“Oh, did he piss you off tonight too?” Robin elbows the boy in his ribs, causing him to wince in pain. “Because dingus here decided to invite his old buddies from Hawkins High School here tonight.”

You gape at her, then at Steve. “Come again for Big Fudge?”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the movement twice more before speaking. “Listen, it’s just a couple guys from the team. I will make sure they behave themselves.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.” You glance to the stage behind you, which is empty now, save for Kevin making sure everything is properly placed. “If Eddie finds out his high school fuckin’ bullies are here, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

“Oh, c’mon, give Eddie some credit.”

“Steve, do I need to remind you what happened when I got stood up? What do you think he’s gonna do if he sees the guy that used to shove him into lockers here? On the night his band plays!” You don’t know why you’re so pissed off, you’d never had a direct problem with Tommy. Carol Perkins, however, was someone you’re praying Steve didn’t think to include.

“I think he’d be a perfect gentleman!”

You snort, pouring a beer from the draft for a very thirsty biker. “Right, Eddie’s a gentleman and I actually can fly.” You nod as you speak, the sarcasm dripping from your lips like acid. “Let’s get real for a second. He’s gonna lay the kid out if he even catches a glimpse. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

But Steve isn’t looking at you anymore, he’s looking behind you, but when you turn around to see, there’s nothing there. “Hello? Earth to Steve?”

“What? Sorry, thought I saw someone.” You cock an eyebrow at him. “Must’ve imagined it. Anyway, don’t worry. I’m driving tonight, so I’ll be sober enough to keep everyone in check.”

“Oh, Stevie. Ever the babysitter.” Robin coos mockingly, patting his shoulder. “I, however, cannot relate. One dirty shirley, pretty please!”

“I wouldn’t have ever guessed.” You tease her, already preparing the drink she always orders. As you pour the sprite, the house lights dim around you, leaving only the overhead bar lights beaming through the dark room. The crowd gets impossibly louder, a cacophony of shrieks and shouted obscenities as the boys take the stage. Chris comes first, waving his arms to get the crowd hyped up, followed by Jeff swinging his bass around his shoulder. Of course, there’s a gap between Jeff and Eddie. You see Gareth on the side of the stage, shaking his head as he talks to someone you can’t see. From where you are, he looks… worried?

Finally, Gareth grabs the mystery person by the shoulders, spinning him toward the stage. Eddie walks out, barely registering the crowd in front of him. You lean over the bar to ask Robin, “Is he alright?” But she only gives you a shrug. Eddie approaches the mic, adjusting it to his height despite the fact that it had been perfectly set already. “What’s up, Hawkins!” He practically shrieks into the mic and is rewarded with the hysterical screams of almost everyone in the room. “We are Corroded Coffin, thanks for comin’ out!” He steps away, and Chris taps his sticks together to count them off. It takes all of a minute before something goes wrong.

You notice before anyone else, but Eddie’s a whole count off, coming in an entire measure too early. Luckily, you can tell that Chris and Jeff have caught it, and work with Eddie’s slip up.

It doesn’t stop there, though. You’ve never seen Eddie so… off before, definitely not while performing. He’s not giving the crowd the show he normally would, lacking the theatrical stage presence and banter between songs. There’s no personality, and it confuses you to watch. You’d assumed Eddie would be ecstatic by the turn out for his band, but to you he seems anxious.

“What the hell is wrong with Munson?” Gareth appears beside you, causing you to jump.

“What?” You shout over Eddie’s slightly off-key singing.

“He was freaking out before they went on, said something about the Dark Side being here? Some weird shit?”

Oh, no. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah, he was raving about how he’ll never be a ‘gentleman’.” Gareth raises his fingers in quote. “Do you have any fuckin’ clue what any of that means, or why he’d be so fucked up about it?” He looks at you with suspicion, like somehow he’d heard you say all that not ten minutes ago.

“Wh-” Then you pull your eyes from Gareth to look at Steve. “Fuck.”

“You need to fix whatever is going on there,” He points at the stage, where Eddie has seemingly broken a guitar string and is trying to play around it. “Because I tried, and he wouldn’t fuckin’ listen to me.”

“Shit, yeah. Okay. Give me a second.” You push away from the counter, over to where your mom is punching orders into the computer. “Mom, we need to shut this down.”

“What the hell are you talking about, honey? We’ve never made this much on a Tuesday in our lives.”

“Yeah, and we never will if we don’t do something right fucking now.”

“Okay, listen, sweetie. I know you don’t love Corroded Coffin, and frankly I don’t either, but they’re apparently very well liked–”

“Mom! Would you listen to this for a second?” You gesture for her to shut up and actually hear how the band currently sounds: Awful. Somehow Chris has lost the count, likely from the way Eddie seems to be rushing through their second song, singing way faster than the song actually calls for. “He’s crashing out, I need to talk to him before he embarrasses himself even more.”

Luckily, your mom has a heart, and seems to want to help you get Eddie out of this. “Okay. What can I do?”

–

When the second song comes to a clattering end, your mom rushes onto the stage before the band can dig themselves further into mockery. “Sorry, sorry!” She scurries up to Eddie and whispers something in his ear, her hand over the mic to make sure no one else hears. He nods, then moves forward.

“Hey, really sorry guys. We’re gonna take a beat for some technical difficulties. Talk, dance, drink amongst yourselves. We’ll be right back.” And just like that, the house lights are on, and the band is setting their instruments down before walking off stage.

You call to Kev. “Hey, you got this, right? My mom’s coming back, I gotta go take care of something.”

“Yeah, no worries! Go help your boyfriend!” He means it, you can tell by the grin on his face, but it doesn’t stop your flinching. You slide out of the bar as your mom returns, and weave your way through the sweaty crowd to get backstage. “Hey!” You call out to the guys’ backs as they enter the green room, watching as Eddie throws something at the wall. “Whoa, hold on!” You jog to catch up before Eddie can slam the door, shoving it open. “I need to talk to your frontman. In private.” The guys groan, but exit without more of an argument. You turn to Eddie, who’s practically shaking in front of you, fists clenched, jaw set.

“What the hell do you want?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem? This is who I am, Bee! You of all people know that, know where I come from.” His tone is drenched in venom, you can feel each word stinging behind your eyes. “I’m not nice. I’m not, how’d you put it? A gentleman?” You freeze. “That is what you said, right?”

“Is that what this is about?” You dare to take a step toward him. “Is that all you heard?”

“Why? Did I miss you hurling more insults at my character?” He’s practically shouting, and you do your best not to cower.

“No, but you might have missed some important context. For your information, Steve had informed me that your high school bullies are here. I told him not to be surprised if you lay them out for daring to show their faces on your band’s night. I never meant for you to hear that. I shouldn’t have said it.”

He doesn’t respond right away, studying the floor instead of looking at you. “Oh. That would have been some pretty useful context.”

“Mhm,” You nod, rolling your eyes. “Now you definitely need to go back out there and show that crowd who Eddie Munson actually is. Because whatever the fuck that was, wasn’t him.” He looks up to meet your eyes, but you avert your own to his shoes. “The Eddie I know is way more metal than that.” You can hear him chuckling, tension fading from the air. “I am really sorry, I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Especially that part. For the record, I think you’re pretty gentlemanly generally speaking.”

“Do you now?”

“You always open the car door for me.” You state mater-of-factly.

“That’s ‘cause it’s you.”

Before you can ask what he means, your mom calls from behind the door. “You almost ready to go? These guys seem like the type to get violent if they don’t get what they came for, and I can’t afford a new front window right now.”

“Yeah, we’re coming!” You call back, and turn back to Eddie. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Even if I’m not, I’d rather not owe your mom a new front window.”

“That’s the spirit!” You reach your arms over your head, exaggerating a cheerleader pose. Eddie scoffs, shaking his head as he walks past you, and out the door. You trail behind him, shaking his shoulders as the two of you walk back to the side of the stage, where the rest of the band waits for their frontman.

They redo their entrance, and luckily for everyone the crowd is willing to give them a second chance. Eddie’s second time approaching the mic is much more in character, addressing members of the crowd with points and devil horns, amping them up before snatching the mic from the stand.

“Let’s try this shit again, huh?” He growls, and the crowd goes completely nuts. Your ears ring with the volume, and you have to plug them until you’re safely back behind the bar. “My dearest apologies for… whatever the fuck that was!” Eddie exclaims, and it pulls a roar of laughter from the fans. “We are Corroded Coffin, thanks for comin’ out!” He starts in on their first song again, this time on the correct count. It’s like night and day, Eddie on stage now compared to before. He’s moving, thrashing around as he nails every chord he plays, vocals strong and perfectly pitched, without a single sign he’d ever struggled to hit them. You move despite yourself, swaying to the rhythm as you pour a beer every couple of minutes. Before you know it, though, you’re not taking orders because the whole room is on the dance floor, a circle pit forming in the middle as Eddie slices through a guitar solo. You can’t help but be entranced by his presence onstage, drenched in sweat and shining as a spotlight hits him, eyes squeezed closed as he screams into the mic, and you feel each note in your bones.

Sooner than you hoped, the show is over. Eddie’s shirt has been tossed into a gaggle of shrieking girls, and you watch as they pathetically fight for the piece of fabric. Eddie tosses his pick back, and Chris hurls his sticks behind it before waving as he exits the stage. Eddie lingers to hand the setlist to a particularly excited looking guy in the front row, dapping him up before needing to be pulled away by his friend. You can’t seem to unglue your eyes from Eddie as he walks off stage, sweat dripping down his bare back, jeans clinging to his slim waist as his hips swing side to side.

Someone clears their throat, snapping you back to earth. “Bee? You okay?” Robin is in front of you, with Steve next to her looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’ve been zoned out for like, five whole minutes.”

“I have not!” You huff, definitely guilty of the accusation.

“Uh huh. Okay. What happened?” Robin collapses onto the barstool directly in front of you. “I want details!”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you say to Eddie? I saw you go backstage.” You catch Steve sitting too, trying really hard to look disinterested, and still failing.

“He overheard us talking about Steve’s friends. Well, partially.”

“You’re telling me that shit show was because of us?” Steve chimes in, offended.

“More like because of me. He heard what I said about him being nice.”

“And that threw him so far off his game he had to start over.” Robin deadpans, blinking rapidly. Interesting.”

“It is?”

“Yes, dingus. Extremely.”

Steve huffs. “I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t, you’re a guy. Bee, you get it, right?”

“I mean, I think so? I get what you think you’re saying, sure.”

“I don’t think, I know!”

“Can someone please tell the stupid man what the hell is going on?” Steve is practically pleading with you now.

“Eddie’s in love with Bee.” Robin states, crossing her arms over her chest in challenge.

“He is?”

“He is not!” You might as well throw a tantrum, the way you whine the words at your friends.

“Why else would that affect him so badly?” Steve doesn’t have an answer to that. Neither do you. “See! Like I said.” Robin bares her teeth in a taunting smile.

“Get out of my bar.”

“What?”

“Leave! Last call! You’re cut off, whatever! Just get out.”

“I’m drunk! I can’t drive!”

“Steve, you too. Out.”

He gasps. “What did I do?!”

“You brought Little Miss Know It All over here.”

“See, Robin? This is why no one likes us.”

Robin rolls her eyes, sliding off the stool. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” She points at you, and you sigh. “I promise, no more very clear observations. At least for your sake.”

“Fine. I will see you tomorrow.” With that, you wave your friends away, and watch as they dodge leather clad arms on their way out the door.

–

The bar is trashed. Plastic cups litter the entire floor, along with peanut shells and assorted garbage. You huff as you walk around the bar with a trash bag, sealed into latex gloves as you pluck piece after piece of trash off the floor.

Your mom slides the cash deposit into a poly bag and sighs. “What a fuckin’ night, huh?”

You giggle at her candor, and Chris joins you with the mop bucket rolling behind him. “You guys are really gettin’ your voices out there.” She muses, scribbling a half dead ballpoint on the deposit slip.

“Yeah, we finally finished the music video we started before I went away. Posted it last week and I guess some really popular punk podcast gave us a shoutout. Super dope.” You’re happy for your brother, but something deep in your chest cracks as you picture him getting signed, packing up, and leaving you behind, and taking Eddie with him. Again. The edges of your vision blur the more the thought takes on a life of its own: Corroded Coffin to perform at Superbowl LXIII 2029, the biggest stage in the entire world. In other news, sister of Coffin’s drummer and washed up author and journalist, Bee Last/Name, was found dead in her apartment this morning. More at eleven.

“Bee, sweetie?” Your mom calls out to you, voice wavering with concern. “You alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” You physically shake the thought from your head and return to litter patrol.

“Chris, the boys still here?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Tell them to come help you.”

“Mom, they don’t work here.”

“I will give them each a beer.”

Chris lets out a loud “HA!” before disappearing backstage to grab his bandmates. When he returns, it’s with Jeff, Gareth, Gareth’s sound guy, three very pretty, very sweaty girls, and Eddie. “They all said they’d help for a free beer.”

Your mom shrugs. “Don’t go unionizing on me, this is a one time thing.” The group disperses, snatching spray bottles and rags and feverishly cleaning the tables and booth seats.

“Huh.” You take in your surroundings, hands resting on your hips. “Can’t even do my fuckin’ job without some bullshit.”

“Bee, they’re helping.” Chris attempts to console you to no avail.

“No, it’s cool. Can’t be in the band, can’t be the bus boy. Can I at least be the one that goes the fuck home?” You have no idea why you’re so on edge suddenly. You know it definitely is not because the same girl that ordered from you earlier this evening, the short one covered in tattoos, is about to climb Eddie like a tree. She barely reaches his shoulder, having to get on her toes to whisper something in his ear, causing Eddie to toss his head back with laughter. And you watch the whole thing unfold in your own mother’s bar. Nope. That definitely isn’t the reason.

“Yeah, actually. Bee, go home. You’ve done enough tonight.” The words don’t come from your mom, nor do they come from your brother.

They come from Eddie. He doesn’t even bother to look at you while he says them.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve had a long night. You should go home.” He shrugs, and you feel something in your chest crack.

“Fuck you, man.” You brush past him, into the back room to grab your keys. There are no footsteps following behind, chasing you down to apologize. You leave through the emergency exit, setting the security alarm off. In the now empty lot, you can see your little corolla across the street, illuminated by the lights of the overflow lot. Alone. You walk to your car alone, drive back home alone, and enter the apartment where you live alone. You don’t bother turning the lights on as you enter, tossing your keys and bag onto the front table before trudging to your room, tossing your beer-soaked clothing to the floor. Before you can think too much about it, you throw your fist into your bedroom wall.

“FUCK!” You retract your hand into yourself, cradling it with your uninjured one. The wall is fine, but one look at your knuckles tells you that you’ve mangled them at least a little bit. “Fuck. Shit, god fucking DAMN IT!” You’re in hysterics, hand throbbing as you frantically dig for your phone in the chaos of your discarded clothing. You find it, and immediately drop it on your bare foot. “Oh my fucking god, I’m gonna put a goddamn gun in my mouth.” The words tumble out, spoken for no one except the knick knacks on your bureau. When you’ve retrieved your phone a second time, you scroll through your recent messages and realize just how screwed you are.

You have somehow managed to piss everyone off tonight. Steve and Robin, for kicking them out. Chris just wants to keep the peace, and you can understand that. But Eddie…. You can’t see how that one’s your fault. You apologized, and you really thought everything was okay up until the end there. So, as if suddenly a fiend for self sabotage, and once you’ve wrapped an ice pack around your bruising hand, you send the text:

> i dont think being friends with you is working for me.

And turn your phone off before collapsing into bed.

43 notes · View notes

prettycalla · 5 days ago

Text

|| every time i fell ||

Pairing: Ralph Penbury/Reader

Summary: What started as a boring afternoon spent at a dressmaker’s shop soon became a lot more interesting after a chance encounter with a very eccentric gentleman.

Word count: 1.6k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, Ralph is his typical nuisance self, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.

(Me? Writing in past tense? Who is she. I have no excuse for writing this. The man has 3 minutes of screen time, and yet here I am. Anyway. The song Bruises by Chairlift is to blame for a lot of this fic - it has such a Ralph vibe.)

Masterlist || Taglist

If you were to make a list of everything that you would like to be doing on a sunny Saturday afternoon, spending it in a dressmaker's shop would be somewhere at the very bottom.

It was your great-aunt's idea. A letter had arrived, with an invitation to attend the Duke and Duchess of Such-and-Such's party to celebrate their Something-or-Other - you hadn't exactly been riveted by the details. In fact, it had sounded dreadfully boring, and you had made the mistake of saying as much within your great-aunt's earshot. As punishment - for it had to have been so - she had insisted that you must have something more fitting to wear. As if you weren't in possession of an entire wardrobe fit to bursting with variations of the exact same tea dress appropriate for such an affair.

Dear old aunty had an interesting habit of pretending that her hearing was playing up when people said things that she didn't like, and so here you found yourself, after much cajoling from your mother - who, quite frankly, would have done anything just to be rid of the overwhelming musk of lavender and mothballs that seemed to follow your great-aunt everywhere she went.

The woman in charge of the shop was a small older woman, who seemed to spend more time criticising your posture than she did anything else. You had endured an hour of this at the very least, when mercifully she was called away on some other business with another customer. Your great-aunt was busying herself with fabric swatches, carefully comparing the robin's egg blue chintz with the duck egg blue chintz, and so you were afforded a moment's peace.

You were considering how best to sit down and rest your legs without being stabbed by one of the many pins holding the toile draped around you, when a voice caught your attention from the other side of the fitting room curtain. It was a man's voice, clearly well-to-do in how he spoke.

"...must be here somewhere," he was saying, quietly, as if speaking to himself. He sounded rather distressed.

Carefully, you stepped down from the platform you had been perched on, creeping closer to the curtain in the hopes of hearing more. Surely you could be forgiven for eavesdropping when you were so terribly bored.

No sooner had you reached the curtain when it was pulled back rather suddenly to reveal the man on the other side.

"Victoria? Are you-"

He interrupted himself with an almighty shriek, immediately shutting his eyes when he saw you.

Rather than stepping back, as any sensible person would have done, he had instead spun around on the spot in a panic, pulling the curtain with him, so that he now stood inside the fitting room with you.

"O-Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry!" he said shrilly, voice muffled by the curtain clutched tightly in his hand. "I- I wasn't - I didn't mean to- That is to say- Have you seen my sister?

In spite of your shock, you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you.

"No, I haven't, I'm afraid," you replied. "Perhaps the lady who owns the shop would know?"

The man was still clinging to the fabric in his hand for dear life.

"I- I couldn't find her," he stammered. "So I thought perhaps- Well- I could-"

You fought back another peal of laughter. This poor man was truly absurd.

"You thought perhaps you could find her yourself?" you offered.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Yes, exactly. I thought if I just went around each fitting room, I would be able to find her myself."

"And do you normally walk in on a woman without knocking?" you asked, your tone lightly teasing.

"Well, I don't see how I could," he replied, as if completely oblivious. "How does one knock a curtain?"

You adjusted the fabric draped around you as it began to slip from your shoulder. Perhaps you should ask the poor thing to turn around so you could at least get a better look at him, you thought to yourself. He was already on the wrong side of the curtain, how much more damage could it cause, really? Besides, as pleasant as he was to look at from behind, you would really rather get a better look at his face.

"Would you mind awfully if you turned around?" you asked. "I don't particularly enjoy making conversation with the back of a person's head."

He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him swallow.

"Yes," he said after a time. "Yes, I suppose I could do that.

Slowly, he released his grip on the curtain, taking his time as he turned around. A smile pulled at your lips when you saw that his eyes were squeezed shut. He really was rather handsome, even with such a ridiculous expression on his face. He wore an ivory suit, perfectly tailored and pressed, with a bow tie that sat slightly askew against his shirt collar. His hair was immaculately styled into finger waves, with the exception of one little curl that lay against his temple. Held tightly in one hand was a boating hat.

"You can open your eyes," you told him lightly.

He immediately shook his head.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly- You're hardly decent, madam," he replied earnestly.

You raised your eyebrows in exasperation. Oh, the cheek.

"I beg your pardon?" you said in a raised tone. "Madam?"

He shook his head again, harder this time, that one little curl growing looser with every movement.

"No, of course, how rude of me. You aren't a madam, surely," he said quickly, then stopped, as if another thought had occurred to him. "Actually, I only caught a glimpse of you, so perhaps- Well, you might-"

"I would surmise that I'm only a little older than you, sir!" you replied, nonplussed.

He pulled a face, clearly regretting his words. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if to amend his words, then thinking better of it.

"Perhaps you might open your eyes and see for yourself," you said.

It took a moment for him to move, then finally, he opened one eye slowly, as if afraid he might see something he shouldn't; then the other.

He immediately broke into a wide smile at the sight of you, the tips of his ears reddening.

"Oh," he all but breathed. "Oh, I do apologise for my earlier words, miss."

He gave a theatrical little bow, and you found yourself once again laughing at the absolute absurdity of this man.

"I could have been completely naked, you know," you said, pretending to scold him. "Did you think of that before you peeked?"

His eyes widened as a shrill little squawk escaped him. Oh, you were having far too much fun.

“Y-Yes, you’re quite right, that would have been- That would have been...” he trailed off, as if struggling to find the right words.

“Awful? Terrible?” you prompted airily.

His poor hat would soon be in pieces if he didn't relinquish his deathly grip on it.

“Well, yes, I-I suppose, but none of those words would describe you at all,” he replied with sincerity.

Your smile faded a little. Here you were, trying to make the most of an…odd situation, and this strange man you didn’t even know the name of was trying to be charming. You weren't sure if he was even aware of what he was doing.

“And what words would describe me?” you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

How entirely unlike you - you didn’t even know this man’s name.

“O-Oh, well, pretty, I suppose,” he managed to stammer, his fingers fidgeting at the fabric of his trousers. “Your face, I mean- I can't see anything else- There isn't much else to look at- No, what I mean is, you're covered, so-”

If he kept this up, he was going to make himself faint. And what a scandal that would cause, as if things weren't bad enough as they were.

"You don't do this often, do you?" you asked, almost pityingly.

His shoulders immediately slumped at your words.

"What gave it away?" he asked with a nervous laugh.

You shook your head fondly, still smiling.

He opened his mouth to speak again, when the curtain was drawn back suddenly to reveal your great-aunt and a well-dressed, young woman you had never seen before.

"Ralph!" the woman said shrilly. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

Ralph spun around on his heel, frightened out of his wits.

"Victoria!" he exclaimed. "You said that I should meet you here."

Victoria scoffed, rolling her eyes with her hands on her hips.

"Yes, an hour ago!" she scolded. "My God, you would lose your head if it wasn't attached to your body sometimes. Honestly. Come along now, we're late enough as it is."

She grabbed his arm before he had a chance to argue, dragging him towards the shop door. He turned to you as he went, his smile wide as he waved.

"It was so lovely meeting you! Perhaps I'll see you another time," he called. "With more clothes on!"

"Ralphie!" Victoria snapped as the door swung shut behind them.

You had barely a moment to watch him go when your great-aunt was pulling the curtain over harshly, her expression aghast.

“Well, I never,” she blustered. “The nerve of that boy.”

You smiled to yourself as she continued to drone on about manners and decorum and the downfall of polite society.

You hoped you would see him again.

How pleasantly surprised you were to find that he had been invited to the very same party as you. Perhaps you would be able to introduce yourself this time.

Taglist 💖: @punkrockmlchael @glassbxttless @keaganz @peachyproserpina

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

#ralph penbury x reader #ralph penbury x you #ralph timewasters x reader #ralph timewasters x you #ralph penbury #ralph timewasters #angie writes #prettycalla writes

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mothballmilkshake · 10 months ago

Text

I wanted to share the art @ararouge made inspired by my fanfic No Rest For the Wicked: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55935631

Here is a snippet;

There were those who assumed the radio demon didn't sleep at all.

They were incorrect – he did sleep, albeit at somewhat reduced hours than what most would consider standard – but it was still a requirement.

So, on the occasions where it eluded him entirely, he was, unfortunately...

Not at his best.

On the first day, he was hardly different from normal. He had tried to sleep, of course, but somehow the crackling fire and gentle sounds from his false bayou didn't feel as restful as usual. Perhaps it was because he spent so little time in his own rooms these days – but Lucifer had been called away on business, a rare meeting with the other Sins and the Goetia families – so Alastor felt it would be rude to go to the king's rooms without him there.

He had stared at the ceiling for close to an hour, and every time he closed his eyes to attempt to rest, he only ending up tossing and turning, his thoughts focusing on a thousand different things at once.

Nothing important – just things.

#appleradio #radioapple #hazbin alastor #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanart #hazbin fanfic #mothball fics #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #alastor x lucifer #lucifer x alastor #radio demon #fluff #hazbin hotel fanfic

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29625 · 4 months ago

Note

I just saw your post, I’ve been absent from tumblr the last few days. What are your favorite headcanons about Slider, Mav and/or Slimav? (You don’t have to do all three-just whatever tickles your fancy)

I hope you feel better soon!

Hii!! Thank you for the ask!! In fact, you are the first person to appear in my inbox and pardon my overenthusiasm because that meant a lot! I’m recovering day by day. Haven’t been able to write a substantial amount, but I’m trying! I wholeheartedly appreciate your kind words! 🥹

Out of all the somewhat popular headcannons I’ve seen, I suppose Rick Rossovich himself saying Slider is a pleaser is by far my favorite. Like—I can totally see that. I can see he is just…tender at heart, and his whole jokester attitude has the undertone of a caring, soft side of his. I also base my fics on the idea that Slider loves cooking and his love language is food which is just…something else. I was so surprised to know that Kronk, one of my favorite Disney villains (?) growing up, was created based on Slider! Tender himbo attraction runs deep I guess

And now that I’m talking about headcannons, sorry if it doesn’t really fit your original ask, but here are some random assemblies of my own headcannons about Sli, Mav, and Slimav!! Sorry the list is kinda long—had so much fun responding to the ask and finally getting to dump all the small things I think about them! 😫🫶

• Slider is the oldest child, while Maverick is an only child. Slider is usually the one to back down first in fights, and Maverick is usually the one to apologize first.

• Slider is a Virgo (like Rick Rossovich is) and Maverick is a Leo.

• Slider is originally from Orange, California, around the Huntington Beach area (where a lot of my favorite punk bands are from), but moved to Staten Island, New York to live with his nana when he was in middle school.

• Maverick is pansexual, and Slider is gay.

• Slider peels potatoes before boiling them, while Maverick just dunks them straight into the pot. Maverick once teased him for being delicate for his looks, and Slider just shrugged and told him that he just cared about the “proper” way of cooking.

• They both can’t draw for shit. They always insist the other is worse, though.

• Slider’s biggest fear is betraying others, and Maverick’s is abandonment.

• They definitely have tried to switch their perfumes. Let’s just say it didn’t really go well. Cute if Maverick’s cologne with marine notes smells like a sharp, synthetic, windex type of mess on Sli (when on his skin, it smells of something young and dangerous) and Sli’s woody cologne smells like a burned moss with a tinge of heavy incense and funerals and mothballs (when he smells nothing but a cozy, warm, welcoming scent when it’s on his skin)

• Slider’s all time favorite album is The Cars (self-titled).

• Maverick’s all time favorite album is Next Position Please by Cheap Trick—trust me, “I Can’t Take It” and “You Say Jump” is just…Maverick. The smooth awkwardness with a hint of assertiveness and dominance is just so on point!! Go Pete go!! Go and cage your love in your arms to devour him with your hungry fangs goddamn!!!

• Slider’s “sad boy hour” album is Power Corruption and Lies by New Order. (And he has a shirt from their tour, which actually makes a brief appearance in the ch. 4 of Just What I Needed. Small detail much! I know! “Age of Consent” captures how much a pleaser Slider can naturally be, and “5 8 6” is underrated yet a perfect representation of early/pre-Slimav.)

• Slider sings while driving, even to the songs Maverick has randomly chosen on the AUX.

• They are both very messy planners when it comes to traveling.

• Slider’s enneagram is 2w3, and Maverick is a 8w7. Like I said, Slider is a pleaser—that appears to be a stand-offish jokester at first! And Maverick? Yeah, let’s just say, a maverick

• They are about 3-4 years apart; my headcannon is Maverick was about 25 and Slider was about 28 in TG.

• Slider is of Eastern German origin; his nana and his mother emigrated to the US right after WW2. He speaks German fluently, but thinks he needs to learn formal and written aspects of the language.

• Maverick used to work at a Latino grocery store in high school and picked up some Spanish. He was a cherished chico among the aunties.

• Slider played baseball and was an ace pitcher up until he moved to his nana’s place. He then got into bodybuilding in high school. He still likes to watch the games, as well as soccer which he got into in the 1991 World Cup (wherein the legendary “World in Motion” by New Order was born. We are playing for England—En-g-land‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🗣️)

• Maverick was a track and field athlete and played sprints. Unlike Slider, he’s a motor sports fan through and through.

• Despite their differences in tastes in sports, they enjoy snuggling on the couch, cheering like a kid (mostly done by Sli) and talking shit about the play even though he doesn’t know the rules (mostly done by Mav).

#slimav #send me asks #ask me anything #ron slider kerner #top gun fanfiction #slider x maverick #top gun 1986 #pete maverick mitchell #a bit overboard I guess #maybe #because I’m socially awkward and just. can’t hide my excitement #like the great poets Pointer Sisters said #Cheap Trick is just so Maverick coded #awkwardness backed by pride and maybe a hint of entitlement and a lots of fiery passion #headcannons #I didn’t list Sli as a sub and bottom because that is just a fact

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aphroditeinthesea · 1 year ago

Note

Hii can i please request a frank zhang x reader timeless fic. Lik they're adventures on an antique shop or them dancing with timeless a the backsound

“ timeless ”

frank zhang x reader 🐻

i hope this is okay bc if i'm being honest i mostly skipped frank’s chapters sorry 🧍‍♀️

tw none

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

“What about this one?” Y/N said, stopping in front of a shop with a wooden sign reading ‘Auntie Antiques.’

“An antique shop? You sure?” Her boyfriend questioned, squeezing her hand.

She grinned, “yeah, come on.” She pulled him through the creaky doorway into the dusty store.

As they entered, they were welcomed by the smell of mothballs and a elderly woman standing behind a counter, “good morning,” she smiled, “do you need help with anything?”

“Hi,” Frank replied with a mirroring expression.

“We’re just looking right now, thank you,” y/n added before tugging him towards a nearby table. “Look at these,” she gaped, grabbing at the old photographs. The first one she grabbed was of a girl in a sundress standing by a fence with a cow on the other side, the corner of the photo had printed July 1962, “these are so cool.”

The next photo was a couple, a woman in a calf-length dress and a man in an Army uniform, as she turned over the photo it had scribbled on the back ‘my love and me, April 10th, 1944.’

She giggled, handing it over to her boyfriend, “tell me this wouldnt be us 50 years ago.”

He took the picture from her hands, his cheeks warmed slightly at her comment. He admired the photo, looking between the girl in front of him and the one in the picture, “she kind of looks like you, too.”

Y/N looked at the picture, “yeah, she does actually.” She grabbed the the photo out of his hands, “that’s so strange.”

“Hey,” he interrupted, “what’s this?” He began walking over to a stack of chapter books that looked as though they hadn’t been even looked at since 1950.

She followed behind him as she loosely held onto his hand, “looks like some old books, sweetheart.”

He chuckled, “I know that, y/n/n.” He opened one of the books, so much dust blew off that they both broke out into coughing fits.

“What is that? A first edition Odyssey?” She choked out between coughs.

“It’s called ‘The Court Jester,’” he replied, flipping through the pages. He intently read one of the pages in the middle of the book.

“Frank?” she mentioned. No response. “Frank?” No response. “Frank!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he responded, still not looking up, “it looks like it’s about this princess who fell in love with a jester.”

“It was written in 1557,” the old lady suddenly appeared behind them, causing the both to jump. “This copies from 1712 though.”

“You just casually have a book from three-hundred years ago?” Y/N questioned, glancing up at her boyfriend.

“You know what?” The old lady spoke once again, “you can keep it.”

“What?” Frank asked, surprised, “we couldn’t.”

“Oh, no, no,” the woman grabbed the book from his hands and began looking throguh it, “ah, here it is,” she turned over to the very last page. There in the margins was written, ‘a jester and a princess, or I and thee.’

Y/N smiled, “so it was a gift?”

“From one lover to another,” the lady smirked, “I think another young couple should have it.”

“Thank you,” Frank held onto the book again, “we should be going.”

Y/N nodded, tightly grabbing his hand, “thank you, though. You have a lovely shop here.”

“I know,” the old woman said before walking through a door that seemed to lead to a closet.

As the two walked out of the store, y/n spoke again, “twenty bucks says that woman is 400 years old.”

#frank zhang x reader #frank zhang #frank zhang x you #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #camp jupiter

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blackiraven · 3 months ago

Text

This fic was written based on @apchipip idea. It was very interesting and pleasant to discuss this topic with you. And happy Valentine's Day to you, cutie goat /pat-pat-pat/🫳🐐❤️

Voices

His body, weak and exhausted from the many taming blows, was almost dragging on the slippery tiled floor. The trampled will simply got tired of resisting and resigned itself to the current situation in order not to be completely lost. The comfortable rags, painstakingly sewn with thick stitches over several nights, were disdainfully stripped off and disposed of. The naked soul, aching from pain and inability to defend itself, was wrapped in an orange robe. No matter how much you tear and burn this damned fabric, it always comes back in perfect condition, washed in a sense of humiliation. The bright, well-visible robe seems to grow its fibers into the skin, parasitizes, gives itching and obedience, while a brand-new patch with a name and a personal number is imperceptibly pressed to the chest. Stripped of his mask, Jonathan Crane was thrown into a restored cell and locked up alone with oppressive thoughts and dead silence. They didn't even give a welcome injection, after which you fall into the subconscious and instantly fly a few days ahead. With each return, the gray walls become a little stronger, colder, and the bed becomes harder and creakier. All that remained was a few hours to look for the most comfortable position possible and stare at the ceiling until my eyes watered from the blinding light, so that the modest Arkham expanses would dissolve and not be distinguished. Temporary blindness, instead of sleep, allowed him to rest and put the contents of his split head in their places, ignoring the mocking pain from bruises and abrasions all over his body. Another night has been added to the growing list of the most shameful moments that you want to cut out of life with a sharpened blade and forget forever. Not a word. He didn't deign to say anything, just left the battered Scarecrow on the threshold of the hospital like a used, irreplaceable doormat. Batman was more interested in other things than Crane's new perfect plan. But he will recover anyway, on his own, to spite the whole world, and will continue to bear a terrifying and harassing burden.

Somewhere on the opposite side of Gotham, other walls, more familiar, cracked and soaked in silent peace in the deep, viscous darkness, shuddered at the unexpected intrusion. The door slammed with a painful groan on its rusty hinges, and the dim light of a light bulb that hadn't been changed for several years scared away all the spiders that had settled in the corners.

"What makes a Scarecrow's home more comfortable? Dust…" the answer to the riddle thrown into nowhere happily pounced on the sudden guest, and already on the threshold Riddler had to shake off the shoulders of melting snowflakes and gray fluff joined in a death dance. The mothballing of this basement, far from the noisy high-rise buildings, irritated him, but at the same time, the drastic changes in the neglected interior would make Nygma really worried. No greeting or hospitality, just the light and gentle jingle of a bunch of keys, allowing to enter this place and keep head on shoulders. The stuffiness gently suffocated and warmed the frozen body a little. The disturbed old staircase creaked with displeasure from energetic footsteps, but it did not dare to confuse feet by high steps and throw down a familiar person. The switches clicked one after the other, and there wasn't enough light anyway, but Riddler was well-versed in Scarecrow's increasingly desolate lair. A small living room where he can let his bones relax on a wide sofa, take a nap in a plump armchair covered with blankets, watch the news with his participation, re-read a mini-library with battered books, or cook a meal in a corner kitchenette. Behind the next door, a spacious laboratory with an office lay waiting for the owner, there was no point in visiting there. Flasks with indelible layers of poison make Nygma shiver violently, and he wanted to shake out cramped workplace and arrange it according to his feng shui. A heavy bag with necessary things fell on one of the flimsy chairs. Instead of at least a minute's respite and pause after a long journey through the night streets, Edward joined the refrigerator, whose glow was the brightest and most piercing.

For almost an hour, a large kitchen knife was tapping on a wooden board, slicing fresh meat, vegetables and fruits into small pieces. Riddler was not going to take off his suit, because expensive clothes would quickly fuse with the dusty interior and lose their colorful appearance, therefore, an apron protected it from stains. The chopped mountain of food was distributed into small containers and finally decorated with beaten eggs and assorted nuts. If briefly cross out the fact that Crane is being forcibly treated at the moment, then Eddie can imagine that he is sitting in his office again and is about to crawl out of the work area into the living room. Humming a simple melody to himself and tapping his heel to the tempo, Nygma quickly recreated and played out in his head a domestic scene where John hung around in his usual manner, then sat down, then got up from his favorite chair, wedged his smoky coughs into the kitchen symphony and begged for a piece of apple or walnut with all his "indifference". Of course, Edward will agree to charitable donations to those in need, but always need to remain vigilant, otherwise he will gladly slip raw potatoes or unwashed carrots. The possible situation caused a mischievous smile and further provoked the temporary master of the kitchen. It's pretty boring to be here without such simple domestic moments, and because of the tingling chill of loneliness, it's impossible to lose the perfect villainous appearance. Only an airy laugh fluttered from Nygma's lips, his head drooped miserably after, emitting a trail of disappointed exhalation.

Edward carefully carried the resulting tower of filled containers outside, without even closing the front door behind him. Let the fresh air carry away the poisonous fumes of bitterness from the depths. A couple of steps from the Scarecrow's lair stood an old wooden building, creaking with every gust of wind and scaring away lost crooks. It's just as flimsy and abandoned. Perhaps a former barn or warehouse of a house that no longer exists. The boards were leaking, but they survived, but the concrete turned into abandoned ruins with one door leading to a perfectly hidden strange underground world. A new trail of footprints was quietly emerging on the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. The closer Nygma got to the annex, the louder the screeching and wheezing inside became, as if a feral man or a real beast were being chained there. The shadows flickering in the cracks between the planks listened, then fell silent as the heavy barn lock began to open with a suitable key. The doors swung open, releasing a strong stream of air mixed with down and feathers. Edward was joyfully greeted by crows who recognized him, which the Scarecrow gathered into a small flock as chicks. The large birds, who had become unwitting participants in the horror stories, cawed with outstretched wings and scratched the wood with their claws. The black beady eyes staring at the flightless individual were childishly begging for something tasty or to play with.

"What do birds become if a scarecrow disappears in the field? Pests." the short feathered performance did not impress Nygma at all. Shaking the stuck fluff out of his hair, he reluctantly entered the elite Gotham nest with a roof, lots of sleeping places at different heights, a dining area, a play area and separate exits for residents. Crane could only entrust his beloved birds to Riddler and sincerely ask him to take care of them so that they would not starve or get bored. But Nygma, who belongs to an unusual family, has always considered this poultry house to be just a waste of time and resources. They can hunt and feed themselves, but if someone catches a sick rat, the whole pack will have to be treated. It's too risky to use them in important plans, trained crows are only suitable for small tasks, and Jonathan seems to be unable to do without one crow on purpose. Just like Batman, he also drags all sorts of abandoned orphans off the street, just to infuriate the only genius of the criminal world. The aesthetic pleasure of these dependents remains beyond Edward's comprehension. Their special communication only irritates and digs into the selfish soul with needles of denied jealousy, assuring Nygma that at the first opportunity Crane would turn into an old raven and fly away with his chicks, leaving him on an adequate earth.

"Caw! Where's Edward? Where's Edward? Caw-caw!" while the incarnation of the evil stepmother filled the feeders and changed the water in the drinkers, he was always accompanied by a larger and furrier raven - the very first foster child and the second leader of the flock after the owner. Bird hovered next to him, then landed on the floor and strutted after him, the annoying question repeated and repeated in Crane's distorted voice, but lost in human indifference.

"That's Edward! Oh-oh. Here he is!" the raven tried in every possible way to get a little attention: he overtook Nygma and got into graceful poses, brought toys, jumped and clicked beak. The other birds supported their older brother with flapping wings and rhythmic clacking. In order for the feathered pursuer to finally fall behind, Nygma was forced to take a primitive children's toy consisting of cubes, beads, and ringing bells and throw it into the farthest corner. The excited stamping of thin clawed paws resounded loudly throughout the annex, and the pointed, shiny feathers rushed to the ceiling again. The leader had already flown back, returned the toy, and sat down with complete satisfaction on the perch closest to Edward. Even though he's pitch black, he's glowing with happiness. The increasing smell of meat announced the beginning of dinner, luring the crows to the feeders.

"Argh! Don't touch Edward. Don't touch Edward." Jonathan's stern voice poured out of the bird's throat. In flight, this phrase would pierce the heavens and fall like a crushing hail on the leprous city. Laughing cheerfully, Nygma crossed his arms over his chest and finally gave the main bird his look. Scarecrow is most accustomed to being surrounded, plastered with messengers of death, but Riddler's cleanliness of costume and presentable appearance are the most expensive. Therefore, the most important rule will be passed down from one generation to another. Such obedience and discipline already pleased Nygma and pleased his pride.

"Hmm, okay-okay. Such a persistent sycophant as the owner, isn't you?" nevertheless, he decided to give his touch to the poor raven, began stroking and scratching. The already desperate leader was terrified by the happiness that had fallen on his head and neck, then quickly began to beg for more, purring loudly and groaning. Because of the heavily fluffed feathers, it turned out to be a contented vibrating ball, in which a human hand was drowning. The outpouring of gratitude quickly and imperceptibly turned into absorbing arrogance. Riddler wasn't going to waste his time on an irrevocable basis, but for some reason, that's exactly what everyone in his inner circle was begging for.

"That's enough. I have a lot of work to do without that." the delightful caresses stopped, and the friendly lump of darkness returned to the outlines of the raven watching over the meal of his relatives. In frustration, he rubbed his beak against the perch and shuffled from paw to paw. Identical dialogues with them and Crane. Everything is stable. It's all the fault, of course, of their general banality and absolute stupidity, based on primitive needs, not at all the biased nature of Nygma and cloying criticism. The menacingly condemning look of the temporary guardian, or rather, the overseer of the nest, shamed the pack leader. Even unwanted leadership should be used somehow, at least for the sake of moral pleasure and fun. Yes, have fun! The unsurpassed mind of the Riddler instantly forged a new idea, which will take just enough time that he will spend in a piece of land that has disappeared from the maps. It's time to collect the debts, also with interest. For the harmful nature.

After a few quiet months, the abandoned place rapidly turned into an inconspicuous white background, the incessant snowfall covered the translucent paths and covered everything with a mesmerizing silence. And the first pattern on the painstakingly created canvas by nature consisted of deep dark holes darning a winding line. The sketch that had just begun immediately ended with a point gap leading under the canvas, straight into the basement with the dull colors hidden until spring. Shutting the door as quickly as possible, Crane shook off the melting scraps and tried to keep warm. He walked for a long time, not turning around and disappearing in periodic blizzards, washing fresh blood from his hands and leading him on the right path. The closer he got to home, the calmer they became, but the winter element still took their pay. He was trembling all over, couldn't feel half of his body and was almost faded, there was no time to take anything with him in the process of escaping. A slow, icy pain that you can negotiate with is much more pleasant than an angry hospital, whose jagged tiles dig into the bones. The remnants of John's strength brought him to the warm core of the dwelling. The sofa, which creaked after the final fall, confirmed that this was not a dream, but a real return. Fatigue hardened on his face, the viscous, spreading bags under his eyes seemed bottomless, his fingers trembled uncontrollably, his lungs still could not get enough of their native air. Finally, the escaped patient could exhale with relief, take a comfortable position and close his heavy eyelids.

But something was distracting him from going into prolonged hibernation. The ticking of the clock rushed to the corners and disturbed the silence. Is it working? Crane turned his head with difficulty and found the clock actually ticking in the kitchen. Dishes washed and put away, dust disappeared from the shelves. After all, Edward responded to the request for help and came here. Finding more and more minor changes in his territory, Jonathan couldn't help but smile a little. All this time, Nygma was belligerently taming the wild chaos: he cleaned up somewhere, put something in its place, dug up and threw out forgotten garbage, which made the already small rooms feel empty. Some of his things stood out in a special way, so bright, neat, and sterile. So there's a chance that Riddler will come back for his valuables. And his presence will fill every void and create a never-ending composition. A quick rhythmic step back and forth, the creak of disturbed furniture, active shuffling, the sound of objects being rearranged and the unintelligible grumble of colossal indignation. Only Edward is really interested in sorting through the rubble of a stained soul, and he does it painlessly. Crane calmly admits it. He even likes it when Nygma wanders and wanders, talks and talks, complains, swears, points his finger and proves once again that there is only trash and a mess around. Having caught the right moment, at the sharpest peak, John will simply agree and admit that "this useless rubbish" needs to be thrown away, which will surprise the active interlocutor and end the whole argument. Edward will be pleased to receive approval, but he will continue to sulk for a while, since he did not manage to fight longer. And after the bashing, when one is forced to rise to the surface, the second one will definitely make the most delicious coffee in the world. Delicate, with a bittersweet embarrassment, spicy love and sweet joy. The final sign of reconciliation will retain its excellent taste both in its cooled form and even after a couple of days. A real, sincere, emotional Riddler. Which only a Scarecrow deserves. And a Scarecrow who understands, listens, and accepts all reproachful arguments. Which only a Riddler deserves.

After resting for a while, John got up on shaky legs and went to search in the kitchen. First of all, he wanted to smoke. An ashtray, cleaned of a mountain of cigarette butts, also beckoned to itself. This process must have been torture for Edward. The search dragged on for a long time, but was crowned with success. The little revenge of Riddler who knows how to hide trophies has come true. If he had been here, Crane would have been as affectionate, flattering and annoying as possible, persuading Nygma to find a treasured pack of cigarettes with matches, theatrically admitting his confusion and stupidity. Taking pity, a great genius will still help his chemist-idiot get a lousy drug. Sometimes, outside of his native laboratory, John can get confused and lost. The results of the mixed chemicals rearrange everything in his head and rewind time in both directions. And Edward always dispels oblivion, remembers everything and finds it, takes out the right things from unpredictable places with deft hands that John want to kiss in gratitude and hide from prying eyes in cigarette smoke. After a couple of cigarettes, hands stopped shaking, and the smell of medicine was deservedly overthrown by tobacco. The sparkling ashtray in the center of the table was desecrated again with a feeling of regret. With each puff, a wave of realization washed over him that he missed Eddie very much… The hastily made coffee didn't match the ideal, but at least it maintained a semblance of life, warmed and diluted the gathering loneliness. A light neck and back workout advanced Jonathan's exploratory adventures around the house. The tattered, stretched, and devoid of demonic power robe was finally replaced by an old, terribly prickly, slightly moth-eaten sweater and unironed trousers. The most beloved unofficial piece of clothing smelled of cigarettes more strongly than the owner and always aroused an irresistible desire to hug, so that someone specific screamed in panic and resisted.

With a new lit cigarette in his mouth, fully protected from the cold, Crane crawled out of the hole into the blinding light. The rising wind whistled amiably and unceasingly covered the tracks of the fugitive psychopathic criminal. There was one last unfinished business. Need to check the birds. How are they? Did they miss him much? Even before the doors opened, the crows recognized their precious master and made an enthusiastic noise. Numerous croaks achieved to the city, and feathers flying in all directions marred the almost restored canvas. They ran around Jonathan like children, circling and hanging on him. Each bird, shaking with joy, received divine strokes, scratching and a parental kiss on the feathered crown from Scarecrow. Well-fed and warm, they felt good and just waited. The pack even managed to prepare a stimulating gift for new experiments, climbing into stone nests at night and stealing expensive shiny things. Edward appropriated part of the collected handful for his babysitting services. A large favorite flew right into the fear-spreading hands. Crane carefully, restraining the same seething feelings, pressed the raven to his chest, and the raven hugged the man with wide wings. The rest of the world outside the aviary seemed to disappear, shattered by the bird's voices, and the fragments finally faded to white nothingness.

"Oy! John!" but someone's existence was not going to be removed even into the imagination and spilled out in the form of uncharacteristic screams of a raven swarming next to the heart.

"John! Oy-oy! John!" the birds immediately repeated synchronously after the leader. Crane was taken aback and at first did not understand what was happening, twirling the funny talker in his hands like a broken toy. Is it really said by the birds, and not by the person waiting behind him?.. A different voice, not his, and so familiar.

"Ur-r! We missed you."

"We missed you! Ur-ur!" the blessed heads shook, the open beaks poured out new words.

"And who has been teaching you all this time?" a good-natured grin lifted the corners of his lips into a new smile. In response to the rhetorical question, the beady eyes innocently clapped and declassified the author of the little messages. Now they remembered Edward's voice and could remind their master of him every time.

"We love John. We love, we love!" the fluffed up crows with their tails and wings spread out merged into a large black mass chanting sweet words. The favorite climbed onto the human shoulder and encouraged his relatives. John put his hands on his hips and waited patiently for the birds to calm down. As soon as they learn something new, they will happily repeat it all day long. Indeed, children… Scarecrow could have ordered them to stop the farce, but they had been waiting so long, let there be a permission today. All these long days, the pack did not sit idle, and in their free time, Nygma lined them up and strictly trained them, rewarding with treats and a little affection. The silent big raven rubbed against Jonathan's temple and neck, pinched his cheek with the tip of its beak, rummaged through his hair and played with the arches of the glasses. It's a little ticklish and pleasant. The warm body was purring contentedly, and the feathers were getting softer and softer.

"Do you want to tell me something else?" he accepted the results of Edward's unsupervised influence and scratched his pet's back. The feathered neck twitched, distilling the accumulated air. Before the new surprise, the raven hooted and groaned for a long time.

"Idiot!" the loud mocking intonation of Riddler stunned Scarecrow and attracted a merry flock. The same handwriting with a filigree autograph. But such a pitch still surprised Crane. He looked at the feathered ringleader with mute indignation. The poor thing did not understand the whole weighty gist of what was said and stood proudly on his shoulder.

"You idiot! Idiot! Aha-ha!" the new word sounded melodious, sonorous and, obviously, the birds liked it more. Active repetition resumed. Along with Nygma's laughter. Subtle notes of humiliation were combined with an ardent playfulness, which is a sin to be angry at. From now on, it will always follow John. A punishment and at the same time a special sign of attention. It's like the signature "with love" at the end of a long-awaited letter.

"Oh, Edward…" was all he could say in unequivocal defeat. But after days and nights, Scarecrow will write his answer. With black feather and ink straight from the heart, purposefully copying the style of the first sender in order to light the fuse of the green bomb. Another game, incomprehensible to others, where new messages will fly to the recipients themselves.

#blacki's fanfiction #writers on tumblr #scriddler #riddlecrow #scarecrow #riddler #jonathan crane #edward nygma #bad english

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