#welcome to my trash brain

[sleepydepresso]

Hi, Hello! Just posting this little brain rot of mine. It's just an interaction with Mob Howdy and barely polished anomaly oc. I'm thinking Home is not the only anomaly that likes to mess with mortal puppets. Yeah, something like that.

And also... I'm not really a writer(so, sorry for all the wrong grammar). But writing is the only mods of manifesting those ideas. Too bad I can't draw.

Tepid city air breezed their face as another fast car zoomed past, beating the red lights. They could only huff in annoyance watching the car from a distance.

What a welcoming neighborhood...

Shaking their head they carry on with their listless walk to satisfy their never ending wanderlust in this concrete jungle.

...

The bar's activity slowed down for the night. Finally, Howdy could ease some tension tightly knitted on his shoulders.

Every member of the family was all in their respective quarters, his boss was still busy in his office, and most of the patrons who visited the bar already got their fill.

He was left alone.

A rare instance of reprieve for his worn down body. A moment of solitude without hearing any orders from the others. Or to always be in high alert in case of an enemy attack. Or just be in the presence of his boss.

Howdy dimmed the bar light a bit... sometimes he wondered if he was supposed to be a moth with how lights attracts his attention.

But he couldn't remember anything.

Empty...

With how his body never runs out of stuffings pouring out from every rips on his felted skin, was how much of hollowed out his mind came to be. No thoughts, nor will to fill the silence of his mind. Not even a smidge of memories to echo in the basin of his head. Nothing.

"... the bar close?"

Howdy's body reverted from tensing his shoulders again, then he open his lone eye looking down.

This person was clearly not a citizen of this city or the neighborhood if they just enter this bar without any hint of fear in their lax poise. Their round black tinted spectacle big enough to cover their eyes, giving him the impression that they might be blind, but with the way their head angled to look up at him, this person was clearly not.

Then their lips stretched, too fluid, too practiced... a polite smile for casual courtesy.

"Can I have a drink or are you closing up?"

Howdy conclude this stranger was one of those ignorant fools. People who didn't know any better and the one's who perish so easily.

The rug and glass he's been polishing carefully placed under the rack counter.

"The bar will close at four in the morning. What can I get you?"

"You don't mind if I stay for a while? Give you company?"

Howdy stare at them, rare curiosity stirring to wakefulness. Their odd inquiry struck him.

"No, I don't mind." Not that it mattered.

"Still better to ask, right? Even though I barge in here." A chuckle flutter from them, light and friendly.

The stranger took off their jacket and neatly place the dark clothing on the backrest of the barstool, an obvious sign they would stay for a long duration.

"Can I have whiskey on the rocks, please." They finally ordered after getting situated on their seat.

With practiced ease Howdy moved in such precision, even in simple tasks he prefer executing in perfection, being vain through and through.

He pushed the coaster along the glass of amber liquor on top to his lone customer.

"Anything else?"

"An ashtray, please if smoking is allowed of course."

Humming, he grabbed one of the ashtray stacked under the counter. He stood back to his usual position, still like a statue reverting to his usual trance of mindlessness.

"How long have you been in this neighborhood?"

"Been here ever since I could remember." Which he only assumed when he couldn't remember anything in his past... at all.

The stranger accepted his answer.

Silence slowly build up again after his reply. The stranger must have given up engaging him to a small talk.

"Mind sharing few things I should keep tabs with. You know—things that lurks in the dark?"

The hands tucked behind him move, discreetly pulling his ice pick, while he grabbed another glass and rugs refraining to his previous task.

"The only advice I can give you is to relocate. Look for another city to settle."

"Oh, that's a bummer." The stranger winced when they pull the glass away from their lips. Either from his answer or the strong brand of whiskey he serves them, he didn't know nor care. "Uhm, can I have an ale for this?"

When Howdy bent to open one of the drawer grabbing a can of ale his lips twitch a little before straightening again to a line. Then he place the can of ale to the only customer in front of him.

He might or might not purposely grab the tampered bottle of whiskey he purely reserve for special customers.

"So—" they started while busy pouring the ale. "Base from your answer every neighborhood in this city is claimed as a territory by mobsters. Of course, of course big cities always infested by those kind of groups, organized crimes and all." After filling up their glass with ale, he watched them taking another try of the alcohol now diluted in ale.

The hold he had on the ice pick behind him tightened, realizing that the person in front of them was more than what they appear to be. Blatantly speaking of their awareness of what occurs within the shadow.

"Anyway I just got here and you're the first actual person I interacted... God I need to socialize more."

Howdy went silent again. But the silence didn't live long when the stranger threw another inquiry at him.

"You don't talk much don't you? That's unusual for a bartender."

"No, I don't. And my boss didn't include entertaining customers to be part of my job. I only serve drinks, maintain the bar, and collect what is due." He said while looking down at them.

The first impression Howdy had from the stranger gradually changing the more he heard them talk. The person in front of him was not the usual fools prancing in the bar with arrogance, murderous intent, or hidden motives.

Howdy don't speak much. Having little to no will or opinion of his own, losing the voice of reason a long time ago, he doesn't indulge such interactions in form of conversation. It's his way to cope.

But his curiosity wiggling within the chrysalis of his remaining smidge of awareness, safely cocooned by fear. The terror of starting all over again empty and feeling lost, haunted by the feelings, of new stuffings weighs heavier, new stitches and grafted felted skin he couldn't even begin to recall having.

"Really?" Incredulity was thick in their tone. A sigh sounded almost like a whine break through them. "Man, you made one of the most fun job in the world tedious." They sigh again as if the knowledge burdened them a lot.

Unfazed, Howdy put down the glass he polished and proceed to fill another glass of whiskey for the sole customer. Without uttering any words he replace the empty glass with the one he just pour. Howdy leaned a bit lower, towering the stranger with his presence.

"It's on the house. An apology for not reaching the standard of an ideal bartender."

He pulled back, returning from polishing the glasses. Now he waits and watch.

"Wait? Did you just? Are you trying to pull—" they paused, even gasped in exaggeration.

That's the first. Most of the time Mr. Beagle would react violently since his apology always falls flat and bordering to being condescending. Apologizing became his habit of speech from the deep-seated regret anchored in his chest from the very beginning of his servitude to the family. And it's still a mystery why Howdy had this overwhelming regret weighing his unfamilliar body down.

The stranger start scratching the back of their head looking sheepish. "Sorry, my bad. I shouldn't have said something like that. Still, thank you for the free drink." Then they pulled up a smile cheery and carefree.

Every movement on his body came into an abrupt halt. There's an ache flicker in his chest. The pain awfully similar when his boss used his body as a pin cushion whenever his boss was having a terrible mood.

The sensation of thin cold metel puncturing his felted skin, digging deep in his stuffings. But instead of sharp coldness, the pain felt searing, burning in the depths of his emptiness. It's familiar yet still distant for all the consuming free space of his mind. Too soon and too fast the ache dissipate like the swirling smoke floating trails in the air.

The stranger blew a lungful of air to their side, he didn't know if it's a habit or on purpose to avoid the smoke going over his direction.

"You know I don't usually accept things from stranger, especially from a stranger that's obviously dangerous. It's something that really against the rule of my existence." A chuckle rippled between, while they pour the ale on the alcohol. "Also there's no such thing as free in this kind of industry."

There's an obvious shift in the strangers demeanor. Their laid back posture broadened into a poise that holds confidence. The curve of their lips no longer raised softly like a waving flag in the air, their smile now dipped with a sharp edge on the corner.

Holding the glass a bit higher the stranger tipped the glass towards his direction, a gesture of silent toast, before taking a drink.

"So, tell me. What do you want in return?" They asked.

A bit of a static like noise buzzed in his head while a thought slowly formed.

"..." The buzzing in his head grew louder and louder that the grip he had on his ice pick tightened into a breaking point. The wood handle starts to crack.

"What do you mean?" Howdy's curiosity finally found a crevice to the hardened cocoon. The buzzing in his head soothe a little bit.

"As straight forward it can be. What do you want? Can be anything." The stranger's voice also shifted into something eerie, where their words held uncanny meaning behind them.

Anything that he wants?

But Howdy doesn't have desire or the feeling of needing one. He doesn't have anything that he wants.

"Nothing."

The lights flickered before one of the lights nearby explode.

The stranger went still for a while, almost like they ceased to exist. Then he saw their shoulders hitched from the sudden jolt. A loud sigh rolled out from them.

"Well, this is a first. Sorry about the lights, you caught me of guard there." The stranger looked finicky, there's an obvious tremble in their wrist as they reach for their smoldering cigarette. "Are you sure you don't have anything you wanted to ask for?" They ask.

There's a stir of his intuition that he's doing something wrong so as usual he apologize.

"My apologies, but I don't have anything to ask for."

The stranger just nodded in return. "Guess I'll just save this debt for later. Maybe when I come to visit again you'll know what you want." Their smile reverted back from being soft and carefree.

"Debt?" He asked.

They stared up at him again, the intention for eye contact was there even if the tinted glasses covering their eyes.

"I strongly don't like owning something from people whatever it comes from small gifts or gestures. And like I said there's nothing free in this world. So, I owe you something in return."

Although he understood their reasoning, he couldn't help but think of them as dumb. Wasn't it foolish to give a man like him some sort of favor to ask in return, like a leverage when they meet again.

To give Howdy something he could own for himself, to make a conscious decision and choice. With this knowledge he didn't know what to do or feel about it.

But the word 'debt' tickled the emptiness inside of him. It reached the bottom of the abyss which he never knew existed when all he could ever see before was darkness. There lies an end that had been shrouded all along by the absence of light.

Light and debt almost sounded the same in his brain now.

His antenna twitch a bit. "I see. So, am I to expect some more visits from you for now on."

"Yes, but please don't take too long to think about something that you want." They said in an exasperated tone, he even noticed the wince they tried hiding behind the glass as they take a drink.

Howdy waited for the empty glass to slide in front of him, but the stranger started fumbling through their jacket, they pull a wallet. They placed their payment instead.

"I admit my impression of you isn't a pleasant one or the interaction I'm looking forward to end my night...but it's an interesting one." The lone customer's chuckle bounce through the quietness of the place.

He watched them gather their things and put on their jacket before looking back up again. The sunglasses never move or even mede a slight slip on their eyes, defying the motions and gravity.

"Make it worthwhile, ok." They said meaningfully like a reminder. "Have a good night and see you soon."

Howdy watched the odd customer walked out of the bar. The first customer who manage to walk out without the trembles of fear or tails tucked between the legs. Out of all the customers made out of the bar alive or not, they might be the first that would definitely visit back.

He was sure they'll come back, he mused to himself as he looked up to the busted bulb. This particular customer was definitely an anomaly.

...

Well, fuck. Now they're stuck here until they deal with that bartender. Great. When they ask for something different for fun they didn't mean this.

But, oh well it happened. Might as well go along with it. Go with the flow.

They sighed and just continue walking away from the bar without any place in mind.

[aughtpunk]

That Time a Published Author Told Me to Un-Queer My Novel

So, I don't think I ever shared this story on Tumblr before.

As you may know I've spent the past ten years turning my old Welcome to Night Vale fanfic into a stand alone novel called Echo of the Larkspur. Now, I haven't been working on it ten years straight. I'd pick it up, do a bunch of editing and rewriting, submit it to agents/publishers, get turned down, put the book away, wait 2-3 years, dust off the book, re-edit and rewrite, etc etc. A cycle that repeated itself far too many times that I would like.

Well, during one of these cycles when I was in the 'get rejected by every agent and publisher I submit to' stage I asked the writing group I was in what I was doing wrong. Because at this point I had reached a hundred total rejections and I was starting to suspect that the issue was with me.

One of the members of this writing group, a male author who was traditionally published, offered to read my first chapter and give his advice on how to fix it. This was, in retrospect, a mistake. But I was desperate. I sent him the first chapter and waited for his response.

Folks. The email he sent me changed my life.

First he said that agents wouldn't publish my novel because it was Sci-fi with hardcore gay erotica in it. This is curious because while the book certainly is queer, at no point in the conversation with this man did I say it was hardcore erotica. Nor did the first chapter feature any. It's almost as if he assumed that just because something was gay, it had to be hardcore erotica. Interesting.

He went on to say that a Human/Robot pairing was weird and that there was "No Way" my story could seriously address the issues of a relationship like that. Once again, he only read the first chapter. He just...assumed I wouldn't think of that? And that my book wouldn't cover it?

The author then said “I also felt that the LGBTQ inclusion really seems to cloud things.” Direct Quote.

And then this is when he said my favorite quote of them all:

The idea of a book being a sci-fi with romance AND a mystery is a Modern Art Marzipan Owl. It's just too confusing! No one can handle a story that is a mystery in a sci-fi enviroment AND has a romantic subplot! THEIR BRAINS WOULD LITERALLY EXPLODE!

Thankfully he had a solution to my book problem. His answer? Turn the book into an Action Spy Thriller and turn S.A.G.E., a robot that identies as a gay man, into a sexy lady robot who needs a MAN to teach her what it means to be human.

(I assume the male lead will teach the 'confused' female robot how to be human via his penis.)

Now my favorite part about this advice is that at no point did he outright say "Remove the gay part". No, instead he sneakily changed the robot love interest into a female robot as if I wouldn't notice. Just sort of swept away the gay bits as something totally unneeded and just mucking up the narrative. Also that's not the plot of my story, I have no idea where this virus thing came from.

(Also note that the female robot can't be robotic-like at all. Must preserve the average straight-man sex drive at all costs I guess)

He then finished his email basically saying that I should remove everything that 'traditional publishers' don't like (aka the queer parts) and make it easier for 'your average reader' to digest and my book will be good as published!

When I said this email changed my life I meant it. Because it made me realize I'd rather be self published and unknown than traditionally publish milquetoast trash like he suggested. Like holy fuck. If I removed all of the "Difficult" to digest stories out of Echo of the Larkspur then there wouldn't be a book left!

So here I am. Self publishing my Marzipan Modern Art Owl of a book. I know it'll never see the inside of a bookstore or top the charts on Goodreads but hey, I'd rather it speak to one person than have a thousand people get excited for the part where the male lead teaches the lady robot how to be human (via his penis).

If a Queer Sci-fi/Romance/Mystery novel sounds like your jam then consider preordering it!

Looking for something to read now? Can't afford the book? Willing to read in exchange for an honest review? You can join my ARC book readers here!

[sweet-beezus]

Hiya!

I'm Sham, they/them, and I'm an ✨artist✨

Welcome to my b(l)og, I hope the water's nice :)

I mainly post OCs and reblog fun posts that I can rotate in my brain, fanart is extremely rare 'round these parts unless I'm reblogging some.

☆HUGELY anti-generative AI, I do not consent to my work being used to train any model and will block you if you so much as ask.

I'm a full time employee, so I'm usually INCREDIBLY busy nowadays! Alas, that means very little posting unless I find some funny posts to banish to my blog. I post and queue things at odd hours, so I may jumpscare you!

If you want tags to peruse, I have a few that might interest you!

▪︎#sham's art <- my art tag

▪︎#sweet memery <- my meme tag

▪︎#shamsbabs <- tag I use for bunching my OCs together, they are also tagged by fandoms and individual names!

▪︎#trope scope <- writing tropes that really get my brain factory gears grinding

▪︎#sham's favs <- thins it out to the things that make me giggle and live rent free in my brain, mix of both tags like a nice soup, though nowadays I tag anything as a fav... Might need a new tag-

#sham's inbox / #sham's trash posts <- for previous asks and my own silly posts, though these tags gather dust more frequently, since I never have an original thought other than about my OCs...

▪︎#other's art / #friend art <- art appreciation tags :)

I also have sideblogs!

@shams-kiddies <- OC art sideblog, it's better organized than my main in terms of tags

@the-mighty-phoenix <- Iliana centric sideblog, I thought about using it as an RP blog but it's now just another art archive

I have other sideblogs, but I'm not quite ready to share them yet, so stay tuned I guess-

☆My ask box is open, but anons are off! I will be deleting donation asks and messages, unfortunately my platform is not large enough to spread awareness nor do I have enough time to fact check each blog or enough money to donate. I hope you understand! ❤️

If you have any silly questions about my OCs feel free to shoot them my way! I revisit a lot of my OCs in a random rotation, so there's plenty to ask about and I love to yap about them. :)

DMs are currently closed due to spam, so it's only that silly ask box for now! I'll reopen them later when I have the capacity to chat!

☆Currently, I am not accepting commissions, since I have a busy work life and chronic pain (plus I don't even have a commission sheet set up, alas-), however I'm open to art trades and conditional requests if my burnout and schedule allows!

For a more competitive art trade experience during the month of July, you can find me on Artfight as ShamSpam!

I recently started moving over and archiving some of my writings to Ao3, you can find them here!

And for a currently WIP archiving of all my OCs (aside from my sideblog) I have a Toyhouse!

That's all for surface level stuff, I'll leave some more in depth looks about me and my work under the cut :)

I have no concept of a consistent social life or media presence, so I just post whatever and whenever I want to, usually mid afternoon for me because that's my time to Survive™ my day to day stressors. Whatever hits my dopamine reserves just right will probably end up here!

If Tumblr dies, I'm going down with it, I will not be joining any other social media sites!

I am a self taught artist who only really picked up on certain techniques and styles in recent years, and every day is a new day to learn, so I practice all sorts of things when I can.

I mostly indulge in art and writing of my OCs, and the occasional fan art here and there when I'm in a particular mood, and everything (I would hope) is made with the love in my heart for my creations, from the 6+ hours of work on a digital piece to maybe a 10 min sketch of my OCs smooching from the confines of my canvasses.

We can ignore the musician part for now, at this time I haven't really delved too deep into making my own tunes aside from some really rough drafts, but eventually I will! I am a sucker for orchestral pieces, but I need to relearn music theory-

I have a few fandoms and things I like to participate or indulge in from time to time, so if you're curious here's a list!

Music Artists:

▪︎Josh Groban

▪︎Thomas Bergersen

▪︎Marcus Warner

▪︎Celine Dion

▪︎Phil Collins

▪︎Ricky Montgomery

▪︎Citizen Soldier

▪︎Marianas Trench

▪︎Other varieties of orchestrals, whenever they crop up

▪︎The classics from an edgy teen's childhood (Linkin Park, Evanescence, Disturbed, etc. also including Christian rock, it was unavoidable you could say-)

▪︎Also classic artists from before my time (Journey, Michael Jackson, The Bee Gees, ABBA, etc.)

▪︎Folk-y music, nothing specific in terms of bands so far, just whatever hits my brain just right

▪︎Very weird pickings from a variety of places, I'm honestly too tired to list most of them because I'm in and out of listening fixations like a pendulum- Usually it's a select handful of songs that don't have a tremendous impact on my liking for the artist, y'know? Aside from vibes-

Current Brainworms (fictional media):

▪︎The machinations of my own mind (my OCs <3)

▪︎Kingdom Hearts (KHUx era mostly and, again, my OCs)

▪︎Mystery Case Files

Things I Revisit Periodically:

▪︎Sonic the Hedgehog

▪︎ARGs/analog horror

▪︎Okami

▪︎Persona 5

▪︎Ghostbusters

▪︎Wizard101

▪︎Splatoon

▪︎Ace Attorney

▪︎Doctor Who

▪︎ABZÛ/The Pathless (later Sword of the Sea and Journey, potentially)

▪︎FNaF

▪︎The Dark Crystal

▪︎Various musicals (feel free to ask which ones! This includes concept ones too, there's way too many for me to list tbh)

▪︎Lego games (my childhood <3)

▪︎Celtic mythology (or mythology in general, I'm just obsessed with the Celts for some reason)

Misc. Items That Are Ever Present But Not Constant:

▪︎Sea creatures

▪︎Pond life

▪︎Dungeons and Dragons

▪︎Emotional catharsis

▪︎Tragedies

▪︎The concepts of grief, loss, and love

▪︎What the Tumblrinas call Whump Tropes™, I suppose

▪︎Phoenixes (for some reason)

▪︎Red pandas

▪︎Moss (especially in ball form)

▪︎Religious imagery/history (mostly the Mormon church, but others creep in periodically)

▪︎Tarot cards

▪︎Vincent Van Gogh

▪︎Ravens

I have SO MANY OCs I could talk about for hours, so if you ever see one that interests you don't hesitate to send me an ask about them!!

And I think that's all for now, I'll probably add stuff on if I ever remember anything I need to add-

Anyway happy browsing!!

[yeetmyboi]

My lil brain cell just had a little thought about freshly being Simon’s wife and you get invited to your first outing with the bois and their birds and Simon gets to see a side of you he absolutely loves.

Like maybe it’s a small outing just for everyone to meet and get to know each other. You get nervous about meeting so many people at the same time, let alone some of Simon’s close friends and coworkers.

Perhaps you’re a bit self conscious about being a bigger gal, but it all deflates when you see you’re not the only one. Price’s wife, just as plush, is very welcoming and friendly. She pulls you into a tight hug, ‘welcoming’ you into their little ‘wives’ club and immediately introduces you to Johnny’s and Kyle’s significant others.

After the first hour, you find yourself feeling a bit silly about being so nervous and start loosening up. It all reaches a head when Johnny suggests a cheeky game of softball or kickball. (And of course it’s these trained special forces men vs their cute wives, duhh).

You’ve played sports in the past, finding you had a bit of a competitive streak. So, you’re not surprised that it resurfaces during what should be a relaxed game. Even the other wives get into it, playful trash talk and teasing ensues.

At one point, you hit the ball and manage to steal not just one base but two.

Simon can’t help but grin. He likes seeing the determination on your face. The look that he swears could move mountains.

Absolutely goes feral seeing you dive to avoid Johnny’s attempt to tag you out and touch base. Gray dust and gravel covers your outfit as you pluck yourself back up.

The whole thing turns him on. Seeing his soft bird have a sharp edge to her, a bit of grit to her softness. The duality of it all is enough to give this man something else to distract him for the rest of the get together

Definitely something he’s gonna have to show you the second you two are alone in the parking lot as the others leave.

Just a thought lol 🤭🤭

[crazziforazzi]

Fighting for the love (of the game) -Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The chemistry is back

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Now that we all calmed down from Azzi's hard launch, I am here with the next one. Let me know what you think. :)

Word Count: 5.9k words

Masterlist

Azzi POV: 

The next couple of days passed in a blur of alarms before sunrise, aching legs, and the relentless intensity of a WNBA training camp.

It was the kind of grind Azzi had been warned about, the kind that tested not just your body but your focus and willingness to learn and adapt. Mornings started with weight room sessions that left her arms shaking, and by the time they hit film study and tactical walk-throughs, she had to force her brain to keep pace. Team drills moved into individual work blocks, then half and full-court scrimmages before it was time for recovery filled with tough massages and ice baths.

The next day, repeat.

There were no days off, no time to get used to the style and physicality of the WNBA. Everyone was expected to be ready.

And Azzi absolutely loved it.

She could feel herself improving every hour. Her reads were cleaner, her release even quicker, her body slowly adjusting to the pace. W was faster than college, yes, but it wasn’t a completely different game. It just required a higher level of belief in her own shots. Luckily, Azzi had learned to believe in her shots during her last college season.

She had walked through enough fire to know she belonged here.

What did surprise her was the welcome. She had expected the vets to keep their distance, wait until she proved herself in real action before bothering to care. But it was the opposite. From day one, most of them embraced her, quick to recognize what she brought to the court. And Kelsey Plum, especially, didn’t leave any room for confusion: Azzi was her rookie.

It wasn’t something they talked about. But it became early on that Plum had picked Azzi. Their dynamic fell into place fast. It was teasing and full of tough touches, but underpinned by respect. Plum stood next to her during drills, she called her out with just enough sharpness to push, but not critique and she always made room next to her during warmups, without saying a word.

Azzi wasn’t naïve.

The league didn’t hand out mentors. Veterans chose their rookies when something clicked, either because they saw something in them, or because the rookie was persistent enough to force the bond.

One afternoon, Azzi overheard her near the weight room, talking to one of the assistant coaches. She wasn’t eavesdropping, not really, but her own name caught her ear.

"Azzi has got so much potential," Kelsey was saying, voice low but certain. "She is smart, she reads fast and gets her shots off even quicker. I like her. She listens and accepts feedback. And she is so fucking sweet, it's sickening. I'll have to work on her trash talk."

Azzi flushed but didn’t interrupt. She just kept walking, heart a little louder in her chest. Still, a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. She couldn’t resist a little jab later that day.

After threading a bounce pass between two defenders for a clean assist, she caught Kelsey’s eye and said with mock innocence, "So… ready to call me your favourite rookie?"

Plum groaned, dramatic and loud. But Azzi didn’t stop there. She jogged back into line for the next drill and added with a singsong voice, "You know, I read somewhere that vets who hype up their rookies perform better themselves."

Kelsey straightened, side-eye sharp. "You are reaching, Fudd. You are not hopeless, but you have a long way to earn my favourite title."

Azzi grinned. "Understood, cap. I will try harder."

"You are exhausting," Kelsey muttered, totally deadpan.

"But adorable," Azzi chirped.

"That’s the problem," Kelsey grumbled as they jogged into position. "You are way too nice to be this annoying."

And just like that, the dynamic was sealed.

Azzi’s sweet confidence and determination made it impossible to stay annoyed at her for long. She would nudge Plum during water breaks, flash her dimples after backdoor cuts, and toss exaggerated "Thank you, cap!" shoutouts whenever she got fed the ball perfectly. 

Plum gave her hell for it often. But when Azzi wasn’t looking, her eyes always softened. And when Rae teased Kelsey about being "Team Princess," during recovery that day, Kelsey just rolled her eyes.

"She is a menace," she said, then added quetly. "but a good one."

And then there was Paige.

It was strange at first, how easy it was to pretend they were just teammates while playing. How well they both performed that part. But only when it came to the court.

Because Paige had a way of being obvious without meaning to.

She didn’t speak to Azzi outside of basketball. Didn’t try to corner her between drills or sneak in small talk in the weight room. But she showed up in ways that mattered. In ways that told Azzi more than words ever could.

One morning, Azzi had muttered under her breath half-jokingly, half-genuinely annoyed about how much she hated Gatorade, calling it too sugary and artificial. "Why is coconut water never an option?" she’d said, eyebrows raised, not expecting a response. She had assumed it was just another locker room throwaway comment. They all did that sometimes.

But after practice that day, when she returned to her station, there it was.

A single, chilled bottle of coconut water, tucked neatly beside her bag. Not one of the usual brands either, the one she actually loved. There was no note or explanation.

Azzi had blinked at it, stunned. First, she thought maybe a staff member overheard her and decided to be nice to the rookie. But when she tried to find more later on,  scouring the canteen, the vending machines, even asking the nutrition rep, she came up empty handed.

And then the next day, it happened again but this time she caught Paige stepping away from her locker.

Azzi didn’t know how she had gotten it. Or how she even remembered the specific kind but she clearly did. And that small action meant more to Azzi than she dared to admit.

Then there was the way Paige passed to her in scrimmages.

Not just the passes themselves, though those were perfectly placed and timed, but the trust in the way she did it. The way she anticipated Azzi’s cuts and shifted to give her a touch more space to shine.

Paige played like someone who remembered every inch of Azzi’s game. Like someone who had studied her for years.

Which, of course, she had.

And Azzi tried to tell herself it was just that. It was familiarity, teammates with history. But it didn’t feel like just that. Not when Paige looked at her the way she did when she thought Azzi wasn’t looking.

It started small. A glance in the mirror in the weight room. Staring a second too long across the court during drills. The burning feeling of eyes on her during film sessions when she was sitting somewhat in front of Paige. 

At first, Azzi thought she was imagining it. But on the third day, after a long scrimmage and an even longer lift, Paige sat down across from her during a recovery session, quietly, getting her knees wrapped.

Azzi didn’t look up at first. She was half-listening to Rae telling a story across the room about her off-season. But something in her chest tightened. That pull.

When she finally looked up, Paige was already watching her. And this time the look was nothing casual or vague. It was that look.

The one Azzi had seen in high school, when they were both just kids with big dreams and a shared passion for basketball. The look that made her commit to UConn. The look that made her believe she could come back from every injury. The look that lit a fire in her right before their final March Madness together only a bit over a year ago. The one that had made her swear she wouldn’t let Paige Bueckers leave UConn without a Natty, even if it meant breaking herself apart to win it.

Azzi swallowed hard and looked away. Because back then, she knew exactly what that look meant. But now she could not tell and she did not let Paige explain. So now Paige kept her distance, but she also kept showing up. Again and again.

But the moment that truly shifted something in Azzi happened on a Thursday scrimmage,. They were pushing hard all day and by their third set of 5-on-5s, and Azzi was just done. She had missed two open threes, back-to-back, then tried to thread a pass that got picked off.

One of the older players, a third-year guard who hadn’t said much all week, scoffed and muttered under her breath, "What a first pick, huh?"

It wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough for Azzi to hear. For Paige to hear. For Cameron and Plum, too.

Paige stopped dead in her tracks.

"What did you say, Wilson?" Her voice wasn’t raised, but it was sharp, controlled. The voice of a leader.

The older guard blinked, taken aback. "I was just…"

"No. Say it again," Paige said, turning fully toward her now. "Because if we are going to start policing each other’s mistakes three days into camp, then let’s make sure we are holding everyone to that standard. You want to run back the last five possessions? Or just hers?"

A long silence stretched between them. The gym felt quieter.

"We are not doing that," Paige said, voice a touch less sharp, but still serious. "That’s not the culture we are building here at Sparks."

The older guard mumbled something like an apology, eyes on the floor, and Plum clapped once, sharp. "I hope everyone heard that. Let’s go."

Azzi hadn’t moved but her skin felt hot. Her hands curled slightly by her sides. She didn’t look at Paige, not until the next timeout, when she jogged past and, without glancing at Azzi, tapped her hip twice. It was the same two taps they have used at UConn, their silent way of saying: I’ve got you.

Azzi exhaled and nodded at her. And when Paige turned away, she finally let herself smile for the first time since camp started while thinking of Paige.

This silent communication spoke volume to her even if she did not fully understand what it meant now.

Because Azzi had spent nine months believing Paige had moved on. Believing that if someone could disappear from her life so completely, they must have made peace with it. And Azzi had tried to make peace, too.

But now, after the last few days, she wasn’t so sure. Because this didn’t look like peace. Now she wasn’t sure if Paige wanted distance at all.

And that changed everything. It suddenly didn’t feel like a closed chapter. It felt like something still alive and very much real.

And Azzi tried not to think too much about it. She needed to focus. She buried herself in film, in drills, in lifting heavier and pushing harder than anyone else in the room. 

But Paige kept being there. Not loudly, not intrusively, but there. And Azzi felt herself cracking in ways she didn’t know how to name yet. Because she had loved Paige, deeply, no matter how hard she tried not to. That part she had accepted.

But what she hadn’t prepared for at all was this confusion. The way Paige’s quiet presence and care had unsettled the carefully constructed box Azzi had placed her love in. 

And the hardest part was that Paige wasn’t even asking for anything. She wasn’t demanding anything. But the way she looked at her, with a softness that didn’t belong to strangers or exes, it made Azzi’s chest ache in new but familiar ways.

It felt like the beginning of something… or the haunting of something they’d never finished. And Azzi didn’t know how to handle that. She couldn’t afford to misread it, not while knowing that they were supposed to be teammates for the next three years. 

She needed to focus. She was here now for herself. Every step, every shot, every rep had to be about the team and playing her best. Not about Paige Bueckers. 

But she also knew one thing for sure: she couldn’t stay in this limbo much longer.

She needed to talk to Paige. To understand what the hell this was. Because if Paige was only here to be kind, to show support and nothing more, then Azzi needed to build her walls higher.

But if she wasn’t? If Paige still loved her too?

Paige POV:

For the first time in a very long time Paige actually had fun playing basketball.

Training camp was relentless, sure, early mornings and aching muscles, but for the first time since her own draft night, Paige didn’t feel like she was trying to earn her place. She already had one.

She felt it in the way the Sparks coaches spoke to her, direct but trusting. They didn’t coddle her, but they didn’t micromanage either. When she spoke up, they actually listened. When she messed up, they corrected it and moved on without making it a whole thing. And that, honestly, meant everything to Paige right now. 

In Dallas, every play had felt like an audition that came with the pressure to live up to being the first pick without the structure to succeed. Here it felt like leadership wasn’t just something they expected from her, but also it was something they helped her grow into with confidence.

On the court, she was really starting to feel like herself again. Not just running plays but calling them. She was the one pointing out defensive gaps during drills, the one calling for a reset when the pace got messy. And when things broke down, everyone looked to her and not because they were unsure, but because they expected her to take control.

On the second day, she called for a double drag, and without hesitation, the team ran it. Cameron made a sharp cut, Rae caught the skip pass, and the play landed clean. The bench clapped, and Coach Roberts gave her a small nod with a smile.

Her court vision wasn’t something she had to prove or explain anymore. They trusted it. They trusted her.

Off the court, Paige was also slowly reclaiming pieces of herself she hadn’t even realized had gone quiet. It started small, like grabbing the AUX cord one morning in the locker room and queuing up her warm-up playlist, a carefully curated mix she’d made weeks ago. Drake, SZA, a few throwbacks that got Cam humming under her breath.

The next day, people waited for her to connect to the speaker without saying a word. And just like that, she became the unofficial DJ of the Sparks.

Later that afternoon, as they were packing up to leave the facility, Cam nudged her lightly. "Hey," she said, voice casual. "Wanna grab dinner tonight? I feel like we never really got a proper catch-up since you got here."

Paige blinked, surprised not just by the invitation but by how much she wanted to say yes. So she did. They ended up at a cozy new Italian place a few blocks away. They spent two hours over pasta talking about everything from Cam’s injury and how it shifted her relationship to the game to Paige’s time in Dallas and how isolating it had been.

It was honest and felt like the beginning of a friendship that always had the potential but never the time or proximity to be explored before.

Then came Kelsey the next day. During cool-down, while most of the team was sprawled on mats and wiping sweat off their faces, Kelsey tossed her a water and said, "I’ve been thinking… you and I should sit down. Start shaping what we want this team to feel like. Not just how we play together, but how we build a culture for the whole organisation. Then maybe we loop in Fudd and Brink, build it out from there."

Paige had braced herself for some power-play from Plum, expecting maybe a little resistance from her, knowing how they had to share the point guard position and Paige was not shy about wanting to become a leader on this team.

But the pushback never came, instead, Plum looked at her with that confidence of someone who knew her worth and wasn’t afraid to share the weight. She looked at Paige as a partner and not a rival.

But then, of course… there was Azzi.

After that first day, after Azzi looked her in the eye and said she wasn’t ready to talk, Paige had gone home with that heavy, deep ache in her chest that only heartbreak brings. The clear hurt in Azzi’s eyes, the break in her voice when she said not yet… it knocked the wind out of Paige.

She sat on her balcony for a long time that night, still in her practice gear, shoes kicked off, fingers absently playing with her bracelet that she started to wear again after draft night. She hasn’t even showered yet, just stared over the ocean, replaying the way Azzi’s shoulders tensed, the quiet catch in her throat.

Eventually, she picked up her phone and opened her old UConn group chat. Typed out a single line:

PAIGE 8.19 p.m. What do you do when the person you love says she is not ready to talk?

She didn’t even need to name her. They all knew. The response was immediate.

NIKA: OH. MY. GOD. WE’RE TALKING ABOUT IT NOW?! KK: wait AALIYAH: Fucking finally.

She had kept it mostly to herself until now, the real reasons behind the trade, what had really gone down with Azzi.

It wasn’t because she didn’t trust her friends; she just hadn’t been ready to say it out loud. Not until now, not until the first small rejection following her first attempt of rebuilding her life with Azzi. Now Paige found herself sitting alone in a too-quiet apartment, needing something to hold onto.

So she told them.

Not the whole thing, but enough. She talked about draft night and her conversation with Geno. How the trade actually went down and finally the moment in the locker room with Azzi that day.

She typed it out slowly, awkward at first, but her friends didn’t miss a beat.

Nika cursed in all three languages she knew and threatened to book a flight straight to Los Angeles from Seattle. "You are both idiots, but do not doubt that you are her idiot. Play the long game, that worked out well the first time for you. You know that she sees more than she says. If she is not ready to talk yet, show what you want with your actions."

Aaliyah called her dramatic, then dropped a 2 minute-long voice note breaking down how she needs to remember that emotional timing is important and how Azzi had always needed space to sort through things on her own before she was ready to talk about it. "Just because you’re ready to run in headfirst doesn’t mean she is. Let her get there on her own, P."

KK sent a string of chaotic gifs, then followed up with a single, soft message. "She is still talking to you, that has to mean something. Be patient, P. You two could never stay away from each other too long."

They were right. Of course, they were.

Later that night, Paige sent Azzi one last message. Nothing overly dramatic, just a quiet promise that she wouldn’t push, that she would wait. And one more thing she couldn’t keep in:

How proud she was of Azzi.

Because that was the truth, Azzi had been brilliant on her first day. She was more confident and fearless than Paige had been in her own debut. Paige hadn’t had anyone in Dallas to believe in her, but she would be damned if she didn’t become that person for Azzi, regardless of their official connection at the moment.

After that, Paige went to bed a bit calmer with a clear plan in her mind. Because as long as Azzi hadn’t shut the door and lock it… she wasn’t going to walk away. Not again. Not this time.

So the next day, Paige shifted her focus.

She didn’t seek Azzi out, didn’t hover or linger or press for more than what was being offered. When Azzi looked tense, Paige gave her space. When their paths crossed, she kept it professional.

She didn’t want to make it feel like a chase. She didn’t want Azzi scanning the gym for exits or feeling cornered during cooldowns. That was the last thing she wanted.

She let Azzi come to her in her own time. And in the meantime, Paige did what she’s always done best, spoke with action.

And within a couple of days, she started to notice the shift. They were small, quiet changes in Azzi’s behaviour that maybe no one else would have caught. But Paige did.

It began with the coconut water.

Every day since that first delivery, Paige made sure there was one waiting in Azzi’s locker before practice. She never said a word about it, but she noticed immediately that Azzi stopped hesitating at the cooler to pick up something.

She knew that a bottle would be waiting for her at the same place each day. And each time she found it tucked neatly into the same corner, she’d glance across the room toward Paige. Just a quick glance and then a small smile, a gentle one.

At lunches, it became even clearer.

They usually sat in clusters, scattered around the cafeteria tables. One afternoon, there were two open seats, one between Kelsey and Paige, and another down at the far end next to Rae. Without hesitation, Azzi slid into the spot beside Paige.

They didn’t speak directly, but Azzi didn’t avoid the group conversation either. She laughed when Julie told some ridiculous story about her rookie-year. She added a comment here and there, light and easy and when Paige commented on the story herself, Azzi did not tighten up, did not freeze. She even laughed at one of her jokes.

Paige didn’t press, but she couldn’t help the way it warmed her, the way Azzi didn’t flinch from sharing space with her anymore.

And then when it came to the court, Paige never held back.

Whatever careful distance she tried to keep off the hardwood, whatever emotional restraint she practiced in the hallways and locker room, all of it dropped the second the ball was in play.

Paige didn’t overthink it, she just played from her heart.

She knew Azzi’s game as well as her own, maybe better, and nothing about that had changed. She read her timing instinctively, cleared space for her cuts without thinking and adjusted her pace to open the floor. Not to impress her or to prove a point, just because that’s what you do for your teammate as a point guard. 

Especially when your teammate has the fastest release in the league, a shot repertoire that borders on Steph Curry's, and her name is Azzi Fudd.

Even Kelsey took notice of that. When one day Azzi dropped four straight threes in a 5-on-5 scrimmage, Plum pulled Paige aside with a crooked grin and a low mutter. "Her release is so damn fast. I get why you wanted to play with her as soon as possible again," she said, half admiring. "We have a real chance for the playoffs with her." Paige just grinned and nodded proudly.

But what mattered more than anything though, was the fact that after a few days it didn’t feel one-sided anymore. Azzi started meeting her halfway.

After plays, the familiar touches returned. High fives, quick shoulder bumps, those little physical acknowledgements that used to be second nature became part of their on-court communication again.

And when Paige threaded a no-look bounce pass through two defenders to hit Azzi perfectly in stride for a fast-break layup, Azzi turned on the jog back and gave her a grin so bright and unguarded that it almost made Paige stumble.

It was the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in months, the kind that made her chest tighten in the best and worst ways.

And just like that, the rhythm they once shared began to resurface. No big declarations, no long conversations. Just the feel of something familiar settling back into place.

Then came the moment Paige didn’t plan for.

They were deep into a half-court scrimmage. Azzi had just missed two clean looks and turned the ball over once in the span of a few possessions.

Nothing that couldn’t happen to anyone, especially during such early stages of the season. But one of the second-unit guards, Wilson, muttered under her breath as she passed by. Something about Azzi not being first-pick material.

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. Paige heard it and Azzi did too.

Before she could even think about it, Paige shut it down. She did not make it about Azzi, she did it professionally, as a leader. She made it about the culture they were building in the Sparks, where blaming each other will not stand as long as she is part of that team.

Kelsey backed her immediately and just like that, it was handled. No drama, but also no doubt that Paige was already shaping the tone of this team. And no one questions her right to do it.

But even as the play resumed, Paige was still buzzing from the adrenaline of it. And as they fell into defense, her body moved before her mind caught up. She stepped just close enough to Azzi to brush her fingers twice against her hip. It was their silent way of saying: You good? I’ve got you.

As soon as she did it, her stomach dropped. She hadn’t meant to do it. It wasn’t a message or a move, it was pure reflex. 

She held her breath, waiting. Azzi looked at her and nodded as a confirmation.

Paige exhaled slowly, the tightness in her chest loosening just a little. She turned her focus back to the play, but something had shifted.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was chasing something that had already slipped away. 

She was fighting for the love of the game and the love of Azzi Fudd.

Azzi POV - 7th day of training

The locker room buzzed with that warm post-practice energy.

Cam was stretched out across the middle of the floor, humming along to Paige’s playlist as she twisted her back with a dramatic groan. Rickea was on her knees, half inside her duffel bag, cursing out loud about a missing compression sleeve.

Azzi was still laced into her sneakers, hair damp and tied back, perched on her chair with both feet flat to the ground. She was relaxed, chatting easily with the two of them about their plans for tomorrow, their first day off since training camp started.

"I might go check out an apartment," she said, wiping sweat from her brow with her wrist. "There’s a spot near Playa del Rey that was recommended to me."

"Come to the Lakers game with us after," Rickea said immediately. "Half the team’s going. We get tickets, and I have the cutest outfit picked out already."

Azzi laughed. "Might be up for it. Depends on when I am done with the apartment."

Before anyone could add more, a loud clap cracked through the room.

"Okay!" Kelsey’s voice rang out, grinning like she’d just pulled off a heist. "Everybody, listen up for a second."

Azzi turned instinctively towards her.

Paige stood beside Kelsey, arms crossed, still slightly flushed from practice. Her smile was soft but confident, and Azzi’s heart did that thing it had started doing again lately. 

"This is serious business," Paige said, voice low and mock-serious. "Don’t make us regret this."

Kelsey jumped in.

"Team dinner at 7 p.m. tonight at High Rooftop Lounge in Venice. The night is covered by your very generous point guards.” She pointed at herself and then at Paige.

The room exploded. Cheers and claps from everyone. Cam yelled "I knew I liked y’all!" and Rae threw her hands in the air like she was celebrating a bucket.

Azzi laughed, caught off guard by how easy the joy felt.

She turned toward Paige again, only to find Paige was already looking at her. Their eyes met. No smirk this time, just a soft look on her face. The one she used to give when everything around them was chaotic and Paige just needed to check in, to make sure Azzi was okay in the middle of it all.

Azzi held her gaze, didn’t look away this time. She tilted her head just slightly. Are you sure about this?

Paige, as if hearing her thoughts, just gave a small shrug. And then the smallest, softest smile. It cracked something open in Azzi's chest.

Because this wasn’t the Paige she had watched spiral in Dallas. Not the Paige who stopped texting back, who shut down, who let their relationship wither in silence.

This was her Paige.

The one who planned things for her team, who lit up a room with her humour and sassiness. Who always, always made sure that Azzi was part of the decisions that mattered.

That version of Paige had vanished under pressure and expectations in Dallas, but now... now Azzi felt like Paige was slowly finding her way back. Maybe not entirely just yet, but she was slowly growing into herself again. And Azzi was not entirely sure how to handle that.

By the tame Azzi came to her senses, Paige had vanished from the post-practice locker room chaos for a second, and Azzi found herself glancing around unconsciously.

Then a towel flew past her head.

"Fudd," Cam said with a knowing look. "You just drifted off hardcore."

Azzi blinked. "What?"

Cam nodded toward the benches behind her. “Don't panic. She is right there.”

And there she was. Laughing mid-conversation with Kelsey, tugging off her tank top. Azzi could swear she was intentionally doing it in slow motion, backlit by the harsh locker room light like she was starring in some absurdly hot Gatorade commercial.

Azzi’s brain short-circuited for a beat. Mouth slightly open. Eyes not even trying to be subtle.

She didn’t realize she was still staring until Rickea muttered, "Oh no. You got it bad, girl."

"Shut up," Azzi said instantly, yanking the hood of her sweatshirt up like that would somehow hide the blush crawling up her neck.

"You are smiling," Rickea sing-songed.

"Shut. Up."

Cam just chuckled from the floor. "We are not judging. We are just… observing the thirst."

Azzi dropped her gaze, hands fumbling with her shoelaces, but it was no use. Her pulse was racing, stomach fluttering like a middle schooler with a first crush.

And when she looked up again, Paige was already watching her.

Their eyes met across the room, and it was immediate. Paige knew exactly what she’d done. That tank top didn’t come off by accident, not like that, those muscles had no business getting so tense all of a sudden. That angle that highlighted her cheekbones while she turned to Plum before...it was all intentional. Paige knew what Azzi noticed, what made her stare.

And Paige was leaning into it now, subtle but smug, like she was testing the waters with a show she knew would land.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, barely a reaction, but enough.

You are pulling this now?

Paige just raised an eyebrow, gave a tiny shrug, and let that crooked half-smile spread across her face, the one that used to unravel Azzi way too easily.

And it was working again.

Azzi looked away fast, forcing her eyes down to her shoes like they might ground her. But her skin was still humming, her pulse still too fast, and no matter how she tried to downplay it, she couldn’t forget that look.

Whatever this thing between them was now, it wasn’t harmless anymore. It wasn’t just old chemistry sparking for a second before fading back into memory.

It was live and charged. And Paige knew exactly what she was doing.

Azzi stood outside the facility, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the other hand shoved into the pocket of her hoodie. Her legs were toast, the kind of deep, satisfying fatigue that curled into your spine and didn’t let go. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, ankles creaking, trying not to groan out loud.

Her phone buzzed. Uber: three minutes away.

She sighed and leaned against the sun-warmed wall, letting the light hit her face for a second. Inside, she could still hear the hum of teammates lingering still. She could’ve stayed too, but her social battery was done. She just needed a few minutes of silence alone to let her body settle before the team dinner.

Her heart too, if she was being honest.

And then she heard footsteps. Not rushed but definitely not casual either. It sounded familiar.

She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The sound gave it away, like someone walking toward her while second-guessing every step. Only one person would approach her like that right now.

She opened her eyes anyway. Paige. Of course it was Paige.

She was walking toward her, slower than usual, changed into grey sweatpants, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, cheeks flushed like she’d spent the last five minutes arguing with herself.

Her fingers were doing that thing again, rubbing nervously against each other, fidgety and restless in a way Azzi had only ever seen in a handful of moments.

When Paige had tried to ask her out that first fall at UConn. When she’d asked her to be her girlfriend. When she’d asked her to be her date to the draft.

It was Paige’s tell. The giveaway that something mattered too much and she couldn’t mask the nerves.

Azzi stayed still and just watched her.

Their eyes met halfway through the walk. Paige slowed, realising she was caught in the moment but did not retreat. There was a quiet dare in her eyes. A flicker of that same smugness from earlier in the locker room, but it was softened now, threaded with something gentler. Hope, maybe. A bit of fear too.

Azzi didn’t smile right away. She just held her gaze, unreadable but open. Paige offered a sheepish, hopeful smile in return.

"I feel like I should be better at this by now," she said, her voice light but tight around the edges.

Azzi tilted her head, her expression unreadable but not unkind. "Better at what?"

Paige shrugged, still fidgeting. "Just… not overthinking everything with you."

Azzi didn’t reply right away. That landed heavier than Paige maybe meant it to. But she didn’t flinch, she just waited.

"So," Paige tried again, clearing her throat. "This might sound dumb, but… I was thinking… if you want… I could give you a ride to dinner tonight. I know you’ve been Ubering to practice all week, and I’m already picking up Julie. I think your place isn’t far from hers. So it just kind of makes sense." A pause. "Not like a thing, unless you want it to be. Or not. It doesn’t have to be anything. I just figured—"

She stopped herself, eyes widening at the mess she had made out of her own offer.

Azzi blinked. "You ramble more than you used to."

Paige gave a weak laugh, ears turning red. "Yeah, well. You make it hard to think straight."

Azzi’s lips twitched. That one snuck under her defenses.

"I’ll be ready by 6.15 p.m.," she said simply, pulling her phone from her pocket. "I will text you the address."

Paige froze but her whole face lit up, she made no attempts to play it cool. "Wait, seriously?"

Azzi gave her a slow nod. "Seriously."

"Oh. Cool. Yeah. Great. Perfect." Paige nodded too fast, then caught herself, hand flying to the back of her neck. "I’ll be there."

Paige stepped back, still fidgeting with her sleeves. “Okay. See you then.”

She turned to leave, and Azzi let herself look, really look. Longer limbs than she remembered. Broader shoulders. That golden ponytail catching the sunlight just right. She looked different now. But she also looked exactly like the girl Azzi used to love so fiercely she forgot to be afraid of it.

"Paige."

She turned on instinct, like she'd been waiting to be called back.

Azzi met her eyes, a little softer now. "Thanks for making me shine this week."

Paige’s face softened into something gentler. "You made yourself shine, Azz,” she said. "I just passed the ball."

And then she walked off, a little bounce in her step now, like she couldn’t help it.

Azzi didn’t move. Her phone buzzed again, Your Uber has arrived, but she stayed where she was, eyes still on the spot where Paige had just stood. Her chest was warm, humming with something she couldn’t name yet but didn’t want to shake off either.

Because that look Paige gave her, that little smirk, that hopeful hesitation, the way she’d lingered?

It didn’t feel like something ending. It felt like something beginning again.

[fligniuz]

a performance deserving of standing ovations

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you have some inquiries about your boyfriend’s habits.

word count: 2.6k • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @nephris , @mashkatzi

warnings : gender neutral reader; EXPLICIT; voyeurism; mutual masturbation; discussions of filmed sex and oral; probably poorly translated italian; starring luigi’s dislike of porn

notes : this is dedicated to @diors002 in spirit because i thought of her while writing this,, title from:

^ divider by cafekitsune

“So if you don’t watch porn, how do you get off?”

Luigi looks at you from over the lip of his laptop, eyes narrow. “What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t jerk off, either,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Seriously. What do you do?”

What kind of question is this?

“I have a broad imagination,” he replies, still typing away. “I just use my brain.”

“Are you sure you don’t have any of those hentai sex simulator games on there?”

Please. As if he’d be caught dead with that trash. He’s almost insulted that you would insinuate such a thing, even if you’re joking.

His face remains neutral. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” You crawl up onto the couch to sit beside him. “I’ve never known a nerd to not love hentai.”

If he weren’t smart, he would tell you that he’s not a nerd. Instead, he says, “I pride myself on being unpredictable. And hentai is too…It’s over the top. The girls are always voiced by someone who sounds five years old. Huge turn off.”

“Then why do you not like porn?” you ask, propping your head up on your palm. “At least it’s grown humans.”

If he weren’t busy, he would probably give you a lecture—but that would technically be mansplaining, he thinks, so better to leave that alone. Instead…

“This is a whole conversation we could have,” Luigi says, “and I would love to have it with you, baby, really, but my mind is a bit occupied with something else right now. I have my reasons. I’ll tell you that.”

He’s got reasons for everything. Sometimes it pisses you off that he’s such a good thinker. Right now, though, it intrigues you; what does he like to imagine when he’s touching himself? Does he think about you? Doing what?

These are questions you could answer with one question of your own:

“Can I watch you?”

He glances over, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. “Watch me what?”

“Jerk off,” you say simply.

Then he blinks. Stops typing. Flushes ruddy red in his cheeks and his nose. “I’m—That’s—”

God, he’s adorable.

“You don’t have to decide now,” you tell him, gently planting your hand just above his knee and squeezing. “It’s just an idea.”

Your boyfriend stumbles over his words for a moment, makes some funny choked noises—as if he wants so desperately to find the means first, but just can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Would you like that?” he asks finally. “Like—Watching me?”

Well, you asked for a reason.

“Yeah,” you nod. “But if you’re uncomfortable with it, I understand.”

His big hands linger over the keyboard of his laptop, tracing the ridges beneath his palms. It takes some significant willpower to push the image of his fingers in your mouth out of your head.

“Think about it,” you say, patting his shoulder.

You don’t know if he does. Not for a while.

You’re in his room looking for your phone charger when you get to find out.

First you hear his keys turning in the door, his gigantic feet shuffling against the welcome mat: “Our House is a Very Very Very Fine House”. They step closer, trailing off every so often when he peeks into a room in search of you—but eventually you hear them approaching right behind you, a familiar pair of lips finding your neck.

Typically Luigi is quite blunt. Today he has no qualms about being indirect with you.

“What’s up, babe?” you ask when he wraps his arms around your torso, face buried in the warm crease of your shoulder.

And then you feel him.

Luigi is hard. You can feel his cock pressing against your backside, straining through his jeans, shockingly intimidating even after all this time of waking up next to his morning wood.

“Baby, is that you?”

“You said you wanted to watch me,” he interjects, his voice a rough and gravelly murmur in your ears. His breath is hot against your throat. “Do you still want to?”

Is he kidding?

“Fuck, yeah,” you nod, hands meeting his. “Are you gonna let me?”

He doesn’t answer you with words. Rather, he pulls away from you to settle down in his desk chair, just opposite the bed you’re now sitting on. You have to swallow your moan when he starts to unbuckle his belt—arousal rushes through your nervous system at the sound of metal clinking and pure Italian leather slipping through each loop of his pants.

You smile at the imprint of his greedy sex in his boxers. “What got you this worked up, Gi?”

His eyes relax, those long lashes fluttering. “I was thinking about you at work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s palming his erection through navy blue cotton, leaning back against the headrest of his chair. “Can’t get anything fuckin’ done. You’re distracting, you know that?”

He says that like it’s your fault he can’t control himself.

“You drive me nuts,” Luigi continues, hand squeezing and stroking at himself. “I’d quit the fucking thing if it meant I could just keep you in bed all day.”

The sound of that is nice.

“What were you thinking about?” you ask.

He takes a moment, either to formulate a response or to relish in the feeling of his hand teasing his cock through the soft fabric.

“You remember our third date?” he asks, eyelids heavy.

Of course you remember. For your third date, on a mild day in early June, Luigi took you to Kauai so you could see the Nāpali coast. June was the best time to visit, he said—tourists come for the sunniest weather, so the intermittent months when summer is still settling in are the least crowded and most tolerable. The sun was setting by the time you had made it down near the shore, and the way those glowing rays hit your skin had him feeling things that scared him and exhilarated him all in one sweeping breath; he insisted on pulling out his phone to snap a few pictures of you prancing along the coastline, your hair blowing in the wind. Your eyes were wild with joy and you squealed in ecstasy when he ran over to scoop you up in his strong arms and spin you around. For your third date Luigi fucked you in his car, parked in a lonely dirt lot just a few miles out of Koke‘e State Park, with the windows rolled down so the salty air could stream through and cool your flushed, sweating, moving bodies, his hips pounding into you from underneath. You think it’s the day he really fell in love with you; you heard him groan the words into your ear, breath shaky and words choked, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” in time with his pointed thrusts.

You nod. “In your car.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the thumb of his left hand dancing along the waistband of his underwear. “Fuck, you were so pretty that day. Sun looks good on you.”

Yes, he had made that very clear to you. He told you probably fifty times on the drive back to his apartment, thirty of which were said just before he pulled over and took matters into his own hands.

“You think about that day a lot, babe?” you ask.

“I think about you a lot.”

“Tell me,” you say. “Show me that big cock and tell me what else you think about.”

He’s pulling his boxers down his thighs—they quickly join the pool of denim at his ankles. One hand just barely lifts his sweater up, revealing a hint of his chiseled abs. The big cock in question smacks against his abdomen, the fat head of it pink and oozing pre. Your mouth waters.

“Think about fucking your face,” Luigi mutters, words slurred and hazy with titillation. His slender fingers are stroking the head of his dick, smearing slick over himself. “When you bent over the console to suck me off…I wish—Wish we could’ve been in my bed, so I could’ve just used your gorgeous little mouth.”

You can’t change the past, but you can certainly imagine an alternate universe where that did happen. He can too. He’s using his thumb and two fingers to squeeze his weeping glans, coaxing more of his arousal onto his hand and spreading it down to the base of his dick.

“I enjoyed that,” you tell him.

“Fuck, I did too,” he says, nodding. “You’re lucky it was so late and nobody was around. You had your ass facing the window. Probably would’ve given anyone walking by a pretty fuckin’ sight.”

Luigi’s loose fist continues stroking his cockhead, curls pressed back against his chair. His throat is bared to you, Adam’s apple bobbing, and your teeth yearn to touch the sensitive, stubble-dusted skin there. Every so often his thumb grazes his tender slit and punches a delicious whine from him, a sound so precious you wish you could collect it in a conch, hold it up to your ear and listen until the Earth burns out.

“I think what’s in front of me is much prettier,” you purr, leaning back onto the bed casually.

“Should’ve seen yourself,” he says. “I’m so glad I got you on camera. My brain could never conjure up the perfection of you, baby.”

That’s right. The pictures he took of you at the Nāpali coast weren’t the only documentation of that night. There was more taken later, in his car, as he was driving his hips into yours with your hair fisted tight in his hand; this video was more explicit, more revealing, a landscape shot of you riding on top, him gripping your ass ravenously. A few times you had suggested watching this particular video together—perhaps past glimpses of your voyeuristic desires—but every attempt only ended in a recreation rather than a communicative, parallel experience.

His hand begins to move lower, spreading his pre down his shaft with long, languid strokes, cupping and squeezing his balls occasionally. If you listen closely enough you can hear the wet sounds of him touching his cock. His face is pink, blatant evidence of his arousal, if the sight of him playing with himself right in front of you wasn’t enough to prove it.

“You gettin’ hot, babe?” you ask him, tone sultry.

He nods frantically.

Smirking, you order, “take that sweater off.”

Luigi has always been a good listener. His dick bounces when he shifts to pull the offending article up and over his head, curls ruffled and stomach muscles twisting. With his torso revealed to you he settles back into the chair and moves his hand to his cock again, still focused on wetting his length sufficiently (which isn’t difficult, what with how much he’s leaking at the sound of you bossing him around.) His abs are flexed and his nipples are hard, begging for a tongue to tease.

“That’s a good boy,” you murmur.

He groans, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Listen to me, baby,” you say, reaching for the hem of your shirt. “Stroke that perfect dick and keep your eyes on me.”

Your boyfriend nods obediently, hand moving with intent over the entire length of his cock, balls and all. His lush lips are parted, breathing heavy and moaning when his slick palm passes over the underside—his pace is slow at first, working himself up to his climax with ease.

And when his beaming brown eyes meet yours you take off your own shirt, leaving it to pile with his on the floor.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” you instruct.

Luigi whines. “I want my mouth on your nipples.”

You moan at that. Your hands glide over your chest, groping at yourself and passing over the very nipples your boyfriend speaks of. With a tightened fist he squeezes his glans, sighing with delight as he watches you move under lidded eyes.

“Il tuo corpo è arte,” he mutters under his breath.

“Yeah?” you tease, as if you understand what he’s saying. As if your flesh isn’t burning with desire. “You thinkin’ about tasting me?”

As you speak your hands migrate to the waistband of your sweatpants, beginning to pull them down.

“Fuck yes,” he nods. “You know I always am.”

In the process of getting your bottoms off you wiggle your hips around playfully, grinning at the way Luigi licks his lips and pumps his cock with each inch of skin you unveil to him. Your thighs flex and your smile grows the longer you keep your lidded eyes glued to his flushed face, lip trapped between sharp fangs. You ache to feel the point of his teeth in your skin.

“Baby, touch yourself,” he pleads. “Per favore, I want to see.”

You tut. “Patience, sweet boy. Keep talking to me.”

“Fuuuck,” he moans, compressing his cockhead with two fingers. “I love how you taste, love all the noises you make, fuck, so fucking pretty…”

“Mhmm,” you hum, leaning back on the bed invitingly. You run your hands over your chest again and smile sweetly at him, crossing your legs, uncrossing them, crossing again. Egging him on.

The tendons in his wrist flex against his Fitbit deliciously. “I want to lay you down and just make you come until you can’t stand me. Così dannatamente stupendo. You are…Shit…Tu governi la mio mente.”

You have no idea what the fuck he’s saying or why the Italian is coming out so strong when he’s this worked up but goddamn, if you were recording this…Your brain certainly is, capturing every second of his fist rubbing his cock furiously and the slick sounds of it projecting throughout the room. His wide throat pulses when he throws his head back to whine, feet fidgeting as he works, and you bite your lip to suppress your own needful impulses.

When your hand sneaks between your legs he grunts like a rabid dog.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” Luigi nods, staring directly at you. “I’m gonna come, oh, fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

You nod with him, hand moving in sync, working yourself up quickly to see if you can meet him head-on. If he gets to watch you come while he’s climaxing you think he might explode. His veins throb as he speeds up his wrist and tenses his thighs, eyes glued on the pure arousal between your legs, spread open and on display just for him.

And then his face drops familiarly, eyelids stunned and lips parted, like he’s teetering on the edge, and you push him to the other side with a honeyed “I love you, baby,” and then he’s coming, splattering his hand and his sweat-soaked abdomen with himself. He keeps stroking the fat head of his cock for a few seconds longer and you love how he twitches and furrows his bushy brows, loudly finishing yourself at the sight of the mess he’s made for you.

“Wow, babe,” you chuckle. “You needed that, didn’t you?”

He flushes. “Whatever. You’re the one who wanted to watch, perv.”

Before he can reach for the tissues on his desk you hop up from the bed and crouch by his seat, grabbing his face. “You liked being watched. Didn’t you?”

“I—”

And before he can answer you, you reach down and scrape some of his orgasm onto your fingers, popping them into your mouth emphatically and giggling when his jaw goes slack.

“Well, did you?” you repeat with a wicked grin, licking some excess from between your index and middle finger.

His face tenses, then settles. “You’re insatiable.”

You shrug playfully.

Luigi points in your face. “And I better not hear about hentai simulators anymore. Help me clean up.”

il tuo corpo è arte = “your body is art”

per favore = “please”

così dannatamente stupendo = “so damn gorgeous”

tu governi la mio mente = “you rule my mind”

[uss-butterscotch]

Welcome to Part Five! We’re still in the Max interlude, so enjoy :3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

-

Eddie was counting his brief encounter with Max as a win. He figured, based on the argument he had overheard, and her seemingly general disinterest in almost everything, that she would be willing to give up Harrington’s secrets simply because she didn’t care enough to keep them. All he had to do now was formulate a plan to get her to trust him enough to actually talk to him.

The opportunity presented itself on a particularly brisk morning in mid-October. He made it out of the house in time to not be late to first period for once, and he noticed Max leaving out her front door at the same time, skateboard tucked under her arm. She started walking down the gravel driveway out of the trailer park.

“A little late to start walking to school, isn’t it?” He called after her.

She stopped, turning back to him.

“A little early to be harassing underage girls, isn’t it?” she shot back.

Eddie put his hands up in surrender. “Look, all I’m saying is, we’re going to the same place. If you want a ride, my passenger seat’s wide open,” he peeked into the window, “well, it will be as soon as I throw this bag of trash in the back.”

She glared at him for a concerning amount of time, then rolled her eyes and started walking toward the van. Eddie grinned and hopped into the front seat, throwing as much of the random stuff that was currently occupying the shotgun seat into the back.

When he started up the car, the tape he had left in the stereo began blasting through the speakers. Max, upon entering the van, immediately reached over and ejected it.

“Hey!” He said instinctively, “my car, my music.”

He reached to push the tape back in, but Max snatched it before he could. She opened the glove box and threw it in. “My step-brother used to listen to shit like that.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and put the van in reverse, pulling out of the trailer park. “He doesn’t anymore?”

“He’s dead.”

Despite the constant rattling and slight screeching that accompanied the van while it was in motion, the silence that followed was downright suffocating. Eddie remembered his conversation a few weeks ago with the freshmen of Hellfire. He felt like simultaneously the world’s biggest idiot and asshole.

“Oh shit,” he said quietly, “Billy Hargrove, right?”

Max just glared out the window, arms crossed.

Now don’t get him wrong, Eddie wasn’t glad the guy was dead, but he was glad he didn’t have to run into him ever again. He found it hard to imagine anyone having any sort of positive relationship with Billy Hargrove, but he thought it best to offer his condolences anyway.

“I’m sorry… did you uh, were you guys close?”

“I hated him.” She stated with almost a forced coldness. Like it was something she’d said over and over again.

“Oh.” Was all Eddie could come up with. Truthfully, Eddie could relate to the situation. Al Munson was a real shit show of a human and an even worse father, but now that he was gone, there were a lot of complicated and ugly feelings associated with the memory of him.

Of course, Eddie had had a few years and late night chats with Wayne to carefully tuck all of those feelings away somewhere he wouldn’t burn his mind-hand on them every day when he went to cook up thoughts. Okay that was a weird analogy, sue him, his brain was weird. Anyway, as he was figuring out a way to bring up the similarities of their situations, Max spoke up again.

“I wanted him gone for so long, I should be glad he finally is.” She bit her cheek, “I mean- I’m not glad he’s dead, but I am sort of glad it was him and not anyone else, you know? And I guess I feel bad about that.”

He saw her look sharply at him out of the corner of his eye as he watched the road. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

Eddie shrugged. “Maybe because I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened, so I can’t really give my opinion on it?”

Max nodded slowly. “Or,” he continued, “maybe you could psychically tell I’ve been there. Sort of.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him but kept quiet.

As the school came into view, he said. “Come on, you must know most people don’t end up in Forest Hills trailer park because things went spectacularly right in their life?”

She seemed to accept this line of thought, her expression less accusatory and more contemplative. He pulled into the parking lot. “I have a proposal for you-“

“Why the hell would I marry you?” She cut him off.

“There are other kinds of proposals, Red.” She rolled her eyes, but let him continue. “If you ever wanna have a ‘whose life sucks the worst’ competition with someone who might actually beat you, you know where to find me.”

As he shut the car off, she narrowed her eyes at him, not unlike Robin had the other day, trying to see if he had some other angle. And sure, he had come into the morning with one, but now that he had actually had a conversation with the kid, his main priority was to induct her into the society of lost sheep. Any clues he got from her for his side quest, would just be whipped cream.

After that, as the days got colder, they came to an unspoken agreement. On days that Max’s mom was too “busy” to drive her to school, she’d be waiting, leaning against Eddie’s van, Walkman blasting, until she could hitch a ride with him. Occasionally, if he had turned his alarm off and resigned himself to missing first period, she would bang on his window until he came out, irritated as hell, and got them both to school in record time.

He never tried to play any of his metal tapes again with Max in the car, but once he did steal one of Wayne’s Patsy Cline cassettes and loaded it in the day before. When ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ started up, Max jumped slightly in surprise that there was music playing at all. Then, when she realized what it was, gave Eddie an equally exasperated and irritated look.

“Do you really think this is what I listen to?” She asked.

“No, but was I right in assuming you have no negative memories associated with dear sweet Patsy?”

She continued glaring at him. Then sighed and shook her head and looked out the window for the rest of the ride. Resolutely ignoring Eddie’s ridiculous singing along.

Most days they didn’t talk about anything. Occasionally they would complain/gossip about their obnoxious neighbors.

On November first she seemed more sullen than usual.

“Who pissed in your corn flakes?” Eddie asked when she didn’t even take her headphones off like she usually did.

When she turned to scowl at him, he noticed the deep purple bags under her eyes.

“Didn’t sleep last night,” she grumbled and turned away from him, closing her eyes. He narrowed his own at her for a second before going to start the van.

Right before he did, the little dog in the yard across the way crashed into the fence and started barking loudly at nothing, as it was usually doing. What was unusual was the way it made Max jump, eyes flying open and sucking in a harsh gasp. She looked around frantically, her breaths quick with panic.

“Woah there, Red, it’s just Mrs. Dalton’s dog getting excited over a squirrel or something,” he said, hoping his casual tone would soothe whatever she thought was happening.

She looked sharply at him, then cleared her throat. She shifted in her seat for a second, then settled back again. “You have your like, game thing tonight, right? With Dustin, and Mike, and Lucas?”

Eddie grinned. “Absolutely. Every Friday night,” he finally started the car, “you thinking of joining?”

She made a face of disgust, “Hell no. Just,” she pressed her lips together like she was thinking, “do you- you’re not planning on using demogorgons or anything, are you?”

Halfway through reversing out of his parking spot, he gaped at her in shock. “You know what a demogorgon is? I thought you didn’t play?”

“I don’t.” She snapped, “But I am friends with those nerds and they don’t shut up about it.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes at her and pulled out of the trailer park. “Why shouldn’t I use deomogorgons?”

Max’s eyes darted around in a way that was becoming all too familiar to Eddie, she was figuring out a way to say something without revealing details of a secret, and if he had to guess, it was the same secret that the others were protecting when they did it.

“It’s just that, well, do you remember when Will Byers went missing?” She eventually said.

Eddie nodded, and then apparently died and came back to life he thought. “Yeah, what does that have to do with my D&D game?”

“The night that he disappeared, they were playing D&D together, the guys and Will, and they were fighting a demogorgon,” she explained stiltedly, “and it was around this time of year, it just- it might bring up bad memories…” She trailed off and watched the trees fly past the window as they drove.

Eddie nodded and hummed in consideration. “Does it bring up bad memories for you?”

She turned back to him, eyebrows furrowed. “No. I moved here last year, I didn’t even know Will then.”

“Ah, so you look like death warmed over this morning for completely unrelated reasons.” He said sarcastically.

“Yes, actually.” She said, failing to elaborate.

Eddie raised his eyebrows, indicating she should go on.

She continued glaring at him, he figured she hoped he would back down eventually. Unlucky for her, he was the stubborn type. He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Max rolled her eyes. “Fine, if it’ll get you to stop making that face, I’ll tell you.” She sighed, “Today is the anniversary of the night my dead stepbrother attacked Lucas and almost beat Steve Harrington to death in front of us.”

Eddie should really learn his lesson about prying for more information than he was prepared for from Max. They sat in Eddie’s stunned silence for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“Right, yeah, Wheeler mentioned that, but he was pretty sparse on the details,” he decided to take the opportunity to learn more about one of the events he believed to be central to the mystery, “what exactly happened that night? Why were you guys hanging out with Harrington?”

She scoffed, sounding offended. “Did it maybe occur to you that I don’t want to talk about that?”

Eddie almost wanted to push further, but he remembered how successful that had been for Harrington. He glanced over to her to find her daring him to continue with her eyes.

Eventually, he clicked his teeth and shook his head. “Look, Red, I’m not gonna try to make you talk about anything you don’t want to. I’ll keep driving you to school in complete silence if that’s what you desire,” stopped at a stoplight, he turned to give her a meaningful look, “but, loathe as I am to admit it, I agree with Harrington’s sentiment the other night, whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t, that road never leads anywhere good.”

Her pinched expression didn’t falter. “And I’m supposed to take advice from the guy who failed senior year twice and sells weed to the losers of this town?”

Eddie shrugged, “All I’m hearing from that is that I have, at least a little more life experience than you, which I might have used to figure out some things about dealing with shit like this.”

“Shit like what?” She spat.

“Shit you don’t think you can talk about.” he said casually, purposefully in contrast to her building temper, “Shit that hurts to think about, even when it’s the only thing you can think about.”

They were quiet for a long moment before she eventually spoke up. Her gaze had moved from Eddie to the town of Hawkins speeding by out the window.

“I keep having nightmares.”

Part 6

[avifaunaa]

all i can do [ is love you ] [ w.m. & n.r. ] [ pt. 1 ]

Authors Note: hello and welcome to my new work! i hope you end up enjoying it! Also R's nickname by Kate and Ava is Bueller

Masterlist

PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: When you find a dog loitering around your apartment building, you’re quick to seek out his owners. As it turns out the owners are married couple Wanda Maximoff — CEO conglomerate — and Natasha Romanoff — owner of a nationwide personal protection industry catering to the elite. Their reward for returning their precious canine, Seymour? In-home 24/7 nannying for a dog and an offer: a pretty face to come home to and no more student loans.

Content Warnings: A small amount of veterinary jargon as this is R’s chosen career path and it will be a returning theme in this AU so please be aware of all that entails, mentions of R's past relationship, vague mentions of past abuse, the beginnings of a discussion surrounding a sort of sugarbaby / BDSM dynamic disguised as live in “dog sitting” but also dogsitting lmfao

Word Count: ~6k+

The wailing was drowning out your attempts at focusing on your assignment. You gave up after repeats of the same line on the screen of your laptop and shoved it to the side, just as the child-like screams got louder.

You went to your small living room’s window and peered outside from between your dark grey curtains. It was raining heavily outside to the point that you weren’t even sure it had been possible to hear much else.

Your eyes scan the expanse of the area outside of your window, thankful that there was some visibility through the glass.

A distressed blob, huddled underneath whatever dry patch remained beneath cardboard boxes piled up near the trash can set to go out tomorrow morning.

You make haste, darting away from your window and blasting through your front door and down the small set of stairs to the entry hall of your apartment building.

You snapped open the door and there he was, as though waiting for you. Pointed grey ears perking up and squishy face turning to you. He was sat haunched over with his back legs on either side, dark grey coat shaking and rippling from being soaking wet and cold.

He snorted out a huff that was followed by a rapid body shake and you rushed forward to him under the heavy downpour.

You didn’t put on shoes, your white socks stepping across the damp and frozen sidewalk until you crouched down.

He had a collar — thick and leather, braided with a Fi tracker and a rabies, microchip, and name tag. A loved animal if you’d ever seen one.

And one with the tendency to run awry, perhaps?

The minute you got to his level his nostrils flared and he jerked toward you. He scooted forward first and then he turned backwards against you to take cover under your body and rotating his head upside down to peer upward at you.

“Hi,” you whispered, “hey buddy.”

Friendly and rather willing to approach. Socialized. Your hand lifts to the front of him to rub his chest, testing what allowances this little guy would give you. He breathed steadily under your hands, but a shiver wracked his body despite how being pressed against you.

You needed to get a better look at him. Maybe he’ll let you pick him up.

You soothe him slowly, petting upward in gentle circles until you can grab at his collar and turn it until you can read his tags.

The rabies tag was shaped like a green bell and had the engraved information of the vet clinic pinched onto it. The name sparked familiarity in your brain and it clicked that you had shadowed that particular clinic early on in your veterinary study.

You shift the rabies tag aside until the heavy gold [ gold? ] tag settles cold and steady in between your index finger and thunder.

Through the heavy rain, you had to lean forward to get a good read of the name that was installed onto this obviously specially-made dog tag. Squinting slightly you were able to make out —

“Seymour,” you say aloud.

Seymour lets out a mournful throaty snort under your body. You flip the tag over and it reveals two phone numbers but no names.

The area code for the phone numbers is very upper New York — which begs the question:

“How the hell did you get so far down here, bud?” you asked, not expecting him to answer.

Which is good, because he had very little to say.

You scoop the frenchie up and he does nothing to try to stop you, going limp in your arms and watching his surroundings as you take him inside so that the both of you can try off and warm up.

And hopefully get ahold of his owners.

The first thing you had done when you’d brought Seymour into your home, the both of you dripping onto the scuffed and worn floorboards, was take him to the linen closet and get something to wrap him in.

He wailed immediately upon being constrained, violently thrashing in your arms as you tried to warm him up so you axed the towel to the floor by the kitchen counter and held him steady in your lap.

He snorted through his wrinkles and stared at you, brown eyes alight with challenge as if to say, do it again. I dare you.

Little bastard.

Instead of trying to towel dry the dog, you peeled his lips back so you could inspect his gums. They were a perfectly bright pink — no sign of paling on either end. And you were impressed with his teeth, spending longer than Seymour liked looking at them. Most small dogs were losing their teeth even early in age.

Speaking of teeth — you’d be surprised if he was older than three. But even younger small dogs had wear and tear of six and over in a lot of the cases you’ve seen.

You came to the conclusion that his owners were very much in love with their dog and took great care of him. And that’s when the frenchie’s patience wore thin and he scrambled away from you and shook his body.

And took a stance in front of you all too well.

“No,” you said to him, still with your knees folded underneath you.

Seymour did not blink, still holding his posture wide and lowering his head.

And then he slammed his front body to the ground, ass in the air.

You closed your eyes and counted to ten — because chasing a dog with the zoomies around your apartment was not on your list of to-dos for the day — before reopening them.

But when you did, he was a grey blur racing around your open-plan living room. He parkoured off your furniture, under your coffee table, nails scratching along your antique rug you found at the flea market for cheap.

It was then you came to the conclusion you would not capture him until he ran out of juice. You got to your feet, clothes sticking to your skin in the most unpleasant of ways, and went toward the closet to grab something else.

You had tried to lure him closer to the space heater you had for emergencies but he seemed inclined to snort his way around your apartment and try to get you to chase him in the process.

If he wouldn’t let you dry him off then there was also no possible way you’d get ahold of his tags again until he got it out of his system.

You allowed him to race around your place ass under his legs while you disappeared into your bedroom to get changed into something dry.

You heard the thuds of paws hitting the floor and rapid racing, along with frenchie-stamped breathing and snorting.

You only hoped that he didn’t tear your couch apart in the five minutes you took to change and dry your hair.

Soaked clothes were left abandoned in the hamper for later washing and replaced with soft cotton shorts and an AC/DC shirt you stole from one of your exes a few years ago.

You returned back out to find Seymour lying sprawled under the coffee table, breathing heavily and loudly. He smacked his lips when his eyes found you and he sat up, watching your movements.

“Hi, bud,” you said, padding toward the sofa and plopping down. It was an invitation that you hoped he’d take. You didn’t mind cuddling him and you’d get a chance to read the phone numbers on the tags again and call the owners.

He leaped up next to you and sniffed around before settling against you with a soft sigh.

You start by scratching him behind his ears and he wastes no time at all leaning into the free affection, almost puddling like melted chocolate along your crossed thighs.

“You’re so sweet,” you told him, moving the scritches underneath his collar. He let out of a noise of contentment and stretched further into your lap.

Phone in hand you punch the first phone number on the tag into your call line and bring it to your ear without stopping Seymour’s pets.

It rings for long enough that you worry it'll send you to voicemail and you'll be forced to try the second phone number. You were creating the perfect voicemail to leave for this person in your head when the line suddenly cut and a low, somewhat cool voice filled the speaker,

“This is Wanda Maximoff.”

You sat up straight as though you were in front of the woman herself, only disturbing the dog cuddled into you enough for him to stretch his limbs out to readjust.

"Um, hi," you greet in a quick response so she wouldn't hang up. You give your name and are straight to business, considering the few words she'd already spoken reminded you of some of the most experienced veterinarians in the field ( meaning: get to your point, and do it now ), "Sorry to bother you but I think I found your dog. I called the first number on the tags. His name is Seymour?"

At hearing his name, Seymour snuffled and opened his eyes to peer up at you with sleepy interest. You began scratching along his forehead, soothing your nerves by tracing the crinkles in his face.

A sharp breath of air not from Seymour but rather from the other end of the line responded to your words. "Seymour? What does this dog look like?"

You were taken aback briefly but you answered, nonetheless, "Gray with a leather banded collar. He has a birth mark of some sort on his gums."

The familiar creaking of an office chair giving way to the weight of something leaning backwards into it was quiet but still within hearing distance. Your eyes flickered toward the windows across from your sofa where rain continued to thunder along the panes.

"Can you hold on for a moment, please?" Wanda Maximoff asks after a moment.

"Sure."

The phone wasn't muted but you heard shuffling of papers and two feminine voices talking back and forth, one of them Wanda's. " . . . and please reschedule my meetings that are later this afternoon. Thank you, America."

You heard a distant response but couldn’t make out what was said and then both voices fell silent, leaving you with Seymour's soft snores as you trailed your fingers along his wrinkly muzzle, having finished tracing his forehead.

Part of your studies and future career would be handling clients in different environments, including over the phone. You had done this multiple times so far as apart of your schooling and rounds with clinics, but even still you despised non face-to-face discussions or emails / text messaging.

You scratched just above Seymour's nose and the canine leaned into it.

The fuzziness on the line became clear and you heard the woman clear her throat. "Alright, apologies for that. I had to handle some things. Now -- about our Seymour?"

“It’s okay,” you assured quickly, fingers having moved up and began to play with Seymour’s soft ears. They were like velvet under your skin they were some of the best cared for from what you could see here — dogs like him tended to get gnarly infections in the ear and chest. "Um, yeah I found him."

"So you said." There was amusement in the otherwise polite response given to you.

Your face flushed and you darted your eyes down to your lap, though you had to gaze to avoid from seeing you. "Sorry," you murmur, then gather yourself and search your brain for the customer service mask, "Um, he was outside of my apartment complex screaming. He wasn't injured -- just cold and wet. He's calmed down considerably now that he's inside and cuddling."

A soft laugh leaked out from your phone and did wonders to ease some of the nerves that prodded your tense muscles. "I bet he is, malen'koye der'mo." The way in which the last part of the sentence was spoken was curled in a way that revealed that this woman was fluent in . . . Russian? You've been to Little Russia a couple of times with Kate -- there's very good food there -- but you did not know much beyond how similar the accent sounded.

"Is he being good?" the woman then asked when you did not say anything afterward.

"He is," you promised, offering a scratch just behind the left ear of the gray pup to reward him. "Just tired and trapping me on my sofa."

Wanda snorted. "That's a surprise, to say the least. I cannot imagine that dog laying down and behaving without my wife or myself in the room." A pause, then a low sigh. "Speaking of my wife -- she must be frantic, assuming our sitter has alerted her to his absence."

Your curiosity about Wanda Maximoff only increased but you held your tongue. Most people in New York walked their own dogs and saved their money. These women were upper-middle class in the very least if they had a dogsitter.

"I noticed he has a microchip tag and a Fi tracker," you prompted, moving just a little downwards and rubbing the bulky object installed on Seymour's collar. "If the app is working, your wife could send your sitter to grab him if you want. I'll be home all day."

"That's usually what we would do," Wanda said, though her tone had grown slightly tired, "but it would appear in being busy and not looking at my phone, my wife has fired her."

Despite yourself, you couldn't hold back the wince. Sure it was a mistake -- but you've seen firsthand how some people are about their animals. It would appear that Wanda's wife is one of those women and left no survivors in her trail.

"Oh," you said awkwardly, unsure of what to do now. "Okay."

"Natasha loves Seymour more than life," the woman explained, as though it needed defending, "but unfortunately her love is also fiery and protective. Sorcha was our tenth sitter in a year."

"I understand," you reply, honestly, even if you feared the wrath of pet owners like the mysterious Natasha, "I -- um -- I'm in my last year of veterinary school."

A noise of interest. "Oh, are you? I feel as though our Seymour was very lucky it was you who happened across him, then," she praised easily. A honk of traffic so distant it couldn't have been from anywhere surrounding your complex, leaving the source to be from Wanda's end.

Then, "That explains how you knew about his birthmark."

You laughed before you could stop it, barking. Your movement startled Seymour, his eyes shooting open and rolling up to stare at you. But still he was not inclined to move from where he lay under your soft hands.

"Yeah -- I gave him a checkup just to make sure he seemed fine. I wasn't sure how long he had been out in the rain. He did not let me get his temperature though, so I'm keeping an eye on him. He seems fine, just really tired after his grand escape."

"Thank you," Wanda told you -- soft and true in the way it was expressed, no business and no professionalism masking the genuine heart behind her words, "really. I'm unsure of how he got as far away as he did this time, but I'm glad he ended up within safety."

Your hand brushing against the tracker reminded you of how she could have possibly known how far away from their home he was -- and you realized she must have looked at the app to see him.

"Of course. I wouldn't have left him there."

"Perhaps it is because of your working with animals -- but I can not admit I would believe the same of most people."

Your tongue curled in your throat because she was right. A lot of people would have walked on by and left him there as they do with many animals.

"So," you managed, teeth scraping your bottom lip nervously, "when do you think you'll swing by to grab him? I'm not picky -- like I said, I'll be here all day and night."

"About that. Considering my wife fired Sorcha and she's in New Jersey hosting a meeting for clients, I'm unsure if either of us will be able to retrieve him at a decent time if at all today."

What the hell were these women in the career-line? You wanted to be nosy but your urges were forced down.

"Oh, okay. Hmm. . ." you trailed off in thought and listened to the rainfall while trying to come up with another solution to get this little guy home.

"I hate to ask," Wanda started, "but I'd be willing to pay you for your time and consideration. Would it be alright if you brought him up to our home tonight? I won't be leaving the office until around eight, so I'd prefer him to be home by nine."

It was very much an offer that had you contemplating. The offer of payment was nice, but mostly you were now just interested in Wanda and wanted to see this woman face to face. Your need to know had always gotten you both into encouraging situations but also into trouble -- it was a 50/50 outcome.

Your stroking of the once-more sleeping canine ceased and your fingernails were being chewed upon as your brain became fuddled. The pros were mostly the money and insurance that Seymour got home safely, the cons were that you actually didn't know Wanda just based off of a ten minute phone call and she was asking you to bring him personally home.

You started with a weak excuse to test the water, "I don't -- I have a driver's license but I don't have a car," you confessed. Most of your friends didn't bother with cars at this point in their lives when Uber was easier to manage even if it was a little more expensive.

But then again, your friends were richer than most people. You walked and "subwayed" and taxied places when your friends weren't with you.

"Ah, that wouldn't be an issue. I would be more than happy to send an Uber -- pre-paid both ways -- to come and get you." A pause when your lack of response lasted a stretch too long, "As long as you're comfortable with that, of course."

Were you comfortable with that? Maybe. It sounded like Wanda was working with her hands tied at the moment and you didn't want to make her life anymore difficult than it may be.

You weren't up to anything and you technically could do this, but . . .

"I'm mostly concerned about safety," you admitted, embarrassed as your head flopped back against the back of the sofa and your eyes closed to hide.

You heard something squeak and creak -- like an office chair -- then the click of heels along wood before stopping. "I can see why your safety would be a cause for concern. Is there any way I can assure you there's no harm? Our home has security cameras and we'd be more than happy to be outside when the Uber approaches if you'd like. Or you can bring a friend."

That settled the uneasy shadow that had been slowly wrapping around your spine and filling into the empty spaces of your stomach. Your shoulders relaxed and you lifted your head.

"I think the security cameras -- those should be fine. And I'll tell a couple of my friends where I'm going."

"Would you be most comfortable texting them the address?" Wanda offers.

And though you know people are entirely more complex and this does not assure any sort of safety from danger, it allowed you to feel less concerned about making the trip and returning Seymour to where he belonged.

"Yes, if that's okay with you," you murmured. "I promise they won't show up or anything. We just keep each other in the loop."

After Rodrick . . .

"I'm not too concerned," Wanda tells you with a tone that made you imagine that she had a small smirk. A woman you had no face to but you couldn't help but see expressions on.

"Thank you. Then yes, I'll take you up on the Uber and bring him home to you. You said by nine?"

"Perfect. And yes, I'll order the Uber when I get home and send it to your location to grab you. Is this phone number good to text you on?"

"Yeah," you told her.

A loud knocking in the background followed by a frantic female voice interrupted your discussion. You hadn't even realized Seymour had hauled himself to the other end of the sofa and was curled up in the corner, fast asleep.

"Tell Steven he can wait ten more minutes if our "long-standing friendship and partnership" still means anything," Wanda broke through the rambling of whoever was distressed, "and breath, America. I need my assistant focused and sharp."

A noise of acknowledgement and silence, then the door closing.

"I'm afraid I must return to work -- but I will get those details to you. Please feel free to use this number if something arises or changes," Wanda Maximoff tells you, all professionalism once more.

"No problem," you assured, "I'll make sure to update you on any, uh, changes."

“Good girl.”

The line went dead before your brain could even reboot so that you could properly process what she had just said.

7:45PM

You were thankful you had set your alarm because when the blaring sound started to cycle into your left ear you hadn't realized you had even fallen asleep.

Your veterinary medicine book was laying half open tilted downward between your hip and the cushions of the sofa and an overwhelming warmth was enveloping your lower abdomen up to your chest.

Seymour was still snoozing but had at some point taken advantage of your own exhausted state and had sprawled himself along you.

You moved and he woke, sniffing and blinking blearily at you. "Sorry, buddy but it's almost time to get you home. I'm sure you wanna see your mamas."

He sighed heavily but didn't try to prevent you from removing him off of you so you could get dressed. You were a little slow to getting ready and you feared you would come across poorly if you approached Wanda and her wife in a state of half-sleepiness.

You checked your phone and noticed that Wanda had sent you the Uber ride information five minutes before your alarm went off and her address as well.

You stuffed your phone and an unopened energy drink from the fridge into your purse and slung it over your shoulder before scooping up Seymour and heading out of the apartment and ensuring it was locked.

The Uber, thankfully, pulled up just as you exited the building. You'd have been much to embarrassed to face Wanda if you had been late to meeting the Uber.

Your oversized hoodie was already soaked through and you apologized profusely to the driver when you entered his backseat with a slightly miffed French Bulldog in hand. But he didn't seem to mind, "I allow dogs, or I wouldn't have taken the ride," he reassures you with a friendly wave off of your apology.

You shoot off a text message to your best friends -- Kate Bishop and Ava Starr -- telling them you're returning a lost dog and adding the address in case they're serial killers.

Bitchop ( 7:59 ): holy privilege Starriz ( 8:00 ): Something pot, something kettle, something something. Bitchop ( 8:00 ): first of all i regret the day Bueller and i introduced you to that meme, second of all: my mother is rich you psychotic inconsiderate freak Starriz ( 8:01 ): Sorry can't hear you, lost signal Bitchop ( 8:02 ): OMG????? YOURE LIKE RIGHT ACROSS THE HALL FROM ME IN CLASSSSSSS. Bitchop ( 8:10 ): btw Bueller, if ur still alive tmrw the mother unit wants you over for dinner no excuses. Bitchop ( 8:10 ): "invite that Ava girl too, i suppose." Starriz ( 8:12: ): how kind of her.

You smiled a little as you read through the thread.

You send a quick confirmation of dinner plans and a promise to tell them when you arrived and left safely but if you were to not send out a message by midnight to send a rescue team out.

Then you slipped your phone into your purse and watched the ride go along, Seymour's face smushed into the chilled glass and fogging it up with his breathing.

Ava and Kate were the first two you befriended when you moved to New York at seven years old. Both bolder and fiercer than you, they shielded you from the initial culture shock of a smalltown Texas-born country girl having to adjust to city life as a result of your father's promotion.

Kate was chaotic and distracting, pulling you in so many directions that it kept your seven-year old self from getting lost in this new world you weren't prepared to exist in. She was your forceful compass that you had learned to rely on to help you as you adjusted and grew used to this new life.

She always told you that her mother had always liked you more than Ava and even herself, but she said it proudly. You knew Kate's relationship with her mother was taught, a cord ready to snap at any second.

But while Ava only ever caused more chaos with Kate, you were able to level them both with a stability that Elanor Bishop had come to respect.

Ava, meanwhile, worked as the spark to set Kate's flame alight. They fed off each other's energies in the strangest way you'd ever seen, even to this day. They used their energy in different ways but they were similar at the core.

Ava was your protector; yours and Kates. She took one look at you when she and Kate noticed you in the classroom and had made the decision for both of them.

She struggled to communicate and to allow expression of her feelings, even to you and Kate. But both of you had learned how to read Ava over the years and respond to her tells so she wouldn't have to struggle to communicate.

When your relationship with Rodrick became a tragedy that Shakespeare would have loved to include in his works, Ava had become something different. It was stormy like you remembered Texas thunderstorms being before a disastrous tornado destroying your first home.

Kate had told you, a while ago, that she had been pushed off a swing and Ava's response landed her with disciplinary actions that the court had to seal up after she reached eighteen.

Ava's parents had paid off the other party and the child transferred schools, but even long after the event Ava Starr was a force to be reckoned with.

Your mother had once called what your friendship was a symbiotic relationship, while you were in the lab after school one evening as she studied her non-dangerous bacteria.

You hadn't really understood what she meant then, but when you started getting into biology and veterinary science that required you to know all the different kinds of symbiotic relationships, it had made sense.

The rain had started to decrease in downpour the further from the city you got, thunder and lightning lighting the cityscape in the distance behind you. The scenery told the story of the storm's effects -- blown leaves and wet roads, but the drizzle was a considerable upgrade from the heavy rain.

The roads became longer and winding, built into the New York landscape. It was an hour long drive and your arrival was perfectly timed to around 9:30.

Around 9:15 the Uber passed the large WESTCHESTER COUNTY sign on the roadside and you breathed out slowly. Rich rich is what these people were -- especially if they lived this far away but worked in the city.

It still begged the question:

How did Seymour end up so far from home?

Eventually you were in Bedford, which itself was a small town but the minute you disappeared into the thick treelines you realized how large the homes were. And spread out.

Until you were somewhere called Bedford Corners — a hamlet within the town itself. It was, apparently, a purely residential area and sprawling gated communities kept passing you by until your Uber started slowing to veer right.

The night guard, leaned out of the window of the watchhouse, greeting your driver as you took in the endless scenery and beauty of what appeared to be Wanda and her wife’s neighborhood.

What the fuck did these two do for a living?

You played with Seymour’s collar as soon as the gates opened and the car furthered even deeper inside, passing houses all larger than the next until finally coming to a large driveway that didn’t initially allow you to see the home.

But Jesus Christ, as soon as the car made the way up and circled in front of the house —

It was huge and beautiful — grey and brown cobblestone with a huge amount of land from what you could see. You swallowed dryly as you thanked the driver shakily and closed the door. You turned to ask if he was also doing your trip back, but he had begun driving off.

So that answered that question.

Left to face Wanda and her apparently terrifying wife by yourself, dog dangling from your arms, you slowly drag yourself up the rest of the driveway and to the grand front porch.

It had life despite it the wealth that was poured into it — small decorations that had personal taste, actively cared for plants in pots and in ground, and a bubbling fountain at the center of the circle drive. It was everything you could only hope to achieve when you graduate.

Your thumb presses down on the door bell and you adjust how you’re holding Seymour so he doesn’t slip from your grasp. He simply sighs and acts as though he’s not been brought back to his residence, content to lay in your hold.

It takes only a few moments before the door opens and —

Your body locks up, eyes wide as Seymour starts wailing like a banshee at the sight of the gorgeous woman facing you. One hand on holding the door open still dressed from work, you assumed, in a black pantsuit, white heels, and crystal earrings. Her hair, a red-brown, is down and looks like it’s been altered in a commercial.

“Hi!” she greets, the voice familiar and finally placing the woman on the phone with the absolute supermodel in front of you. “And hello, Seymour!”

You were jostled from your blatant staring when the dog did his damned best to break free from your hold, Wanda being his target. You set him down and he flees toward her.

“Oh my God, thank you so much,” Wanda said as she allowed the wriggly creature to rub against her legs and leave gray fibers along the fabric. She leaned down and started rubbing him. “See — see aren’t you happy to have come home? Yeah.”

“It’s no problem,” you said, smiling at the sweet homecoming as you stuck your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. “He’s excited. Didn’t seem to care until he saw you.”

“That’s Seymour.” Green eyes rolling, the quirk of black painted lips. “He doesn’t realize until too late when we’re out of his sight and he panics. But he seemed to like you so much that he calmed down.”

Your brow furrowed. “He screams with most people?”

“Oh yeah,” the taller woman confirmed, letting the gray bundle dash off further into the large home without so much as a goodbye to you. “If it’s not me or Natasha, it’s pure terror. That’s partially the issue with keeping a sitter.”

“Well, he was perfect for me,” you assured with a small smile. You didn’t meet her eyes when her own began seeking them out — instead they fell to your sneakers. “He’s a good dog.”

“He is.” That wasn’t Wanda who agreed, but a deeper feminine voice approaching. You startled and looked back up to find another woman had joined Wanda in the doorframe, arm winding around her waist and Seymour panting heavily at her heels. “Wanda told me you found him. Thank you.”

“Of course. You’re Natasha, I’m guessing?”

A smirk with unspoken meaning was your only answer. This woman seemed to have gotten dressed down before coming to find you and her wife, wearing grey sweats and a crop top that exposed the beginning of abs that you wanted nothing more than to get on your knees and —

“Um,” you said, awkwardly bringing your thumbs up. “I’m glad he’s home now but is there anything else?”

Natasha’s blonde eyebrow arched, though her expression was like a steel barrier that wouldn’t be crossed if you tried.

“Actually,” Wanda started, sounding leagues more hesitant as she drew the door open a touch further, “we wanted to propose something to you.”

"Uhm . . ." You glanced behind you and your hands jerk out out of their pockets as their gazes settled over you.

"We promise to not hurt you. If it helps you feel better, Natasha's a stickler for safety," Wanda told you with a small, but fair attempt at a comforting smile.

Your eyes flickered to the shorter of the two, who held a relaxed pose as she traced designs along her wife's hip despite her face remaining firmly on you.

"She runs a private security firm," Wanda added.

Natasha snorted, unwrapping her arm from around her wife and crossing them. "Always finding an excuse to tell people that."

Your curiosity -- you hated admitting it -- won out over your rising nerves and you swallowed a little and nodded. "What was your proposition?"

Wanda's eyes twinkled like emeralds. "Come inside for some coffee and to warm up, and we'll sit you down and go over it."

Your energy drink remained full and unopened in your bag but you didn't tell them that as you glanced from one to the other before nodding and stepping foot into the doorway, opening you up to a world that was far different to the one you lived in.

You lost track of all the beautiful smart home gadgets, the mix between modern and rustic interior design, and distracted by Seymour’s hot breath tracking your ankles the entire way toward the kitchen.

They asked you about your veterinary schooling; how long you had left and where you attended and where you wished to apply when you were completely done. Questions all happily answered — your drive for your career was your most significant at the moment, and thus curated the most responses out of you.

They sat you down at the reclaimed wood dining table with coffee that was probably more expensive than your rent for two months, but it was fucking good. Exquisite and not too bitter — you hadn’t asked for anything but milk added into the mug.

“Oh my God.”

Natasha and Wanda peer at you over their own mugs, both hosting amusement.

You flushed under their scrutiny, nose dipping so your face was somewhat covered. “Sorry. It’s really good, thank you.”

“It’s from a small local community in Italy — we get a few bags every time we take a trip,” Wanda tells you. “I’m glad you like it, really. It’s meant to be enjoyed.”

You sipped on your coffee again and enjoyed the flavor, wishing you had something like this all the time.

“Eyes up.”

The husky order came from Natasha and something deep within you activated instantly — though you don’t know entirely what triggered it.

But your eyes immediately shot up and met Natasha’s, locking you in a gaze with her that you still couldn’t read.

“Good girl,” Wanda praises easily, like she knew you well enough and was telling you something about the weather. She set her mug down on the top of the table. “Look at me, now, please.”

You did with only a minuscule amount of hesitation, nervous for the older woman’s reaction if you broke the gaze. But instead Natasha dipped her chin, and sipped her drink, and it was a release of her hold on you.

“Thank you.” Wanda rests her own chin on her hand and peers at you. “So our proposition . . . We were talking on your way up, and with Seymour seeming to be a fan of you and us being out a sitter we’d like to make a request that you fill the that role — with benefits.”

Natasha cleared her throat quietly, and Wanda tapped her fingers along her jawline. “But we’d also like to offer something else, if it’s agreeable and if you choose not to do one but would agree to do the other then no harm.”

“Okay.” The questioning lilt in your tone did not escape them.

“Have you ever heard of BDSM? Dominant and Submissive to be particular,” Wanda began, searching your facial features and finding the way your skin turned bright red instantly.

“Y-Yes, um. Yes.” You bite the edge of your tongue to stop your sputtering. You had a feeling you knew where this was going.

“Lovely.” Another one of those soft smiles. “We don’t want to overwhelm you with a lot of it tonight — especially if you’re not considering it —“

“I am.”

A pause.

Not even you had really meant to say it, not out loud at least. But with the flustered rise they’d manage to draw from you in a small amount of time, your quick loss of control was bound to happen.

“Don’t interrupt,” Natasha said firmly, her tone starting to slide less on polite and courteous and into something you couldn’t identify. “Let Wanda finish her sentences before you speak.”

“Yes, sorry.” You glanced toward her and noticed she seemed to be studying you intently, like a dog studies something it wants to chase.

Or maul.

“Good girl. Drink your coffee.”

You did as told while Wanda tapped the tips of her fingers along the base of her mug. “You didn’t seem to put much thought into it, did you?”

You ran your tongue along your teeth once the taste of the coffee settled into your bones. “I like Seymour — and I would have said yes to being your sitter for him regardless. But I haven’t been . . . Interested in something like this in a while.”

“Like this?”

“Um . . . Sexual.”

“It’s not just sexual,” Wanda told you, reaching out and offering a hand. You upturned yours in acceptance to her invitation, letting her fingers dance along your palm. “Natasha and I want a live-in, someone who has goals to pursue that we cannot only throw money into but catch in a fall after a shit day. We do it with one another and we’d like to do it with someone who’s different than us in terms of lifestyle and sex life.”

“A sugar baby?”

Natasha couldn’t restrain the chuckle, but she confirmed it for you while Wanda became distracted by the contact she had made with you.

“Sugar baby, dog-sitter, submissive. So many titles — yes, we’d like that. We don’t always meet our needs for each other in bed but sometimes we’re not home at the same time and it can get lonely.”

“You want someone to liven it up,” you surmised, the ebbing nerves starting to disappear the longer you sat here with them.

“We do,” Wanda confirmed, pulling her hand away though you wish she wouldn’t.

“My lease?”

“We’d ask you to break it,” Natasha said easily. “We’ll pay for it. We’ll get you moved in and settled before we actually start throwing the chains on and bring out the paddles.”

Your disgruntled look must have revealed your shock, because Natasha barked out a laugh. “I’m kidding. There’s a process we want to put you through before we have sex. It’s important that you see it through, but it’s also important you know there’s exits in this situation should you feel unsafe at any point even if we haven’t slept together.”

You chewed on your knuckle as your life suddenly turned into a Wattpad story that your twelve year old self would have absolutely been screaming over.

“I’ll say yes to the live-in dog sitter; I do need some money and it’d be nice to throw rent off the table to ease my payload.”

The two women glanced at one another.

“And,” you continued, “I need to sleep on the other part of the offer if that’s okay? I’m considering it, but it’s a lot.”

A gentle smile from Wanda. “Of course. I know we dropped this on you so strangely but . . . We don’t usually come to an agreement about something like this. It’s been a few years.”

“Since you had a submissive?”

“Since we opened our home to one.”

PART TWO

[dovenskin]

i luvv💕ur work

may u pls do a bill x reader with reader whos just as much as of an asshole as he is -- like they dont put up with his attitude, ignore him, block him whenever they feel like it, and force bill into pathetic actions for her forgiveness?? 💗💗

⋆

bill dickeyノ

cw : no warnings just bill being bill // bill x gn reader with feminine qualities

✦ Title: Let Him Suffer

an: yess!! omg i’ve prayed for a bill request and thank uu!! xoxo

© dovenskin

Bill was always mouthing off.

That was nothing new. You’d gotten used to the endless stream of smug corrections, petty gatekeeping, and the incel-core commentary that tumbled out of his mouth anytime he felt challenged—so, constantly. He was basically a walking online reporter with a superiority complex and the emotional regulation of a wet sock.

The two of you were in a thing, sure—one of those “off and on, don’t ask questions” relationships that was somehow real and a joke at the same time. Not that Bill would ever call it a relationship without choking on the word or throwing up sarcastic air quotes like they were part of his mutant power set.

“Yeah, my ‘partner’,” he’d grunt at Pete or Jerry. “Don’t get used to it. Casual arrangement.”

And yet the second you wore a tank top out without checking in? He got possessive like you were his limited-edition signed ‘The Joker’ poster

You’d shown up to Free Comic Book Day dressed as a vampire hunter —tight leather, stylized thigh straps, and detailed sigils you’d painted by hand. Weeks of work. And before you could even enjoy the look, Bill peered at you from behind a stack of longboxes and barked:

“That skirt is two inches too short for any functional loadout. You look like a slut. And I’m pretty sure those sigils are a bad rip-off of the Bloodlines expansion. Try harder next time.”

You blinked once. Then turned and walked away.

Bill Dickey had never met anyone who could silence him with a look. He hated it. Hated how you rolled your eyes during his continuity rants. Hated how you blocked his number every time he called you a “poser bitch” for having an opinion that didn’t match his. Hated how you always came back when you felt like it—like his tantrums meant less than nothing.

He called you sensitive when you called him out for saying “female-led media is inherently weaker.” You laughed in his face and walked off.

He told Pete and Josh that the only reason you kept winning at Magic was because he “let you win to keep the peace.” You threw your drink in the trash and left mid-game.

And when he told Jerry—fucking Jerry—that your art wasn’t real fanwork because your posts got “thirst likes from brain-dead coomers”? You were sitting right there.

He looked you dead in the eye and said it.

And you? You stood up without a word, grabbed your bag, and left.

He didn’t follow. Not then

But that night? The spiral began.

First, texts:

““You know I was kidding.”

“Fine. Act like a bitch.”

“C’mon, don’t be so emotional. You females are always so emotional over nothing. Pick a new struggle.”

Blocked.

A day passed.

Then two.

On the third morning, you opened your curtains to find Bill Dickey in your front yard with a busted Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to a messenger bag, fumbling with wires like he’d tried and failed to play something from your favorite album—pathetic and obvious.

You opened the door an inch.

“I’m sorry, alright?” he shouted. “I’m not good at this relationship shit! I said stuff I didn’t mean! C’mon… s—sweetheart…” He hesitated like the pet name burned his tongue. “I brought the speaker!”

You slammed the door without saying a word.

Over the next week, he sent more emails than an ILOVEYOU virus

Subject: “Just read this???”

Subject: “I messed up—okay??”

Subject: “Say something. Anything.”

Subject: “I’ll delete the forum post about your ‘Bloodlines’ sigils. Please.”

He lurked outside the comic shop during your usual visits,flannel flared up, pacing like he knew he wasn’t welcome but refused to leave. You walked past him without flinching.

One night, as you stepped over the curb, he trailed after you.

“Okay—okay, I get it. I was a dick! But I miss you. I like you, alright? I—fuck—I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”

You didn’t even turn around.

Behind you, Bill stood frozen on the sidewalk, red-faced and hunched over like he’d just been hit by a boss fight cutscene. His backpack slipped down his shoulder. His mouth hung open, useless.

“…Please,” he called out. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

But that wasn’t your problem.

Because it was never about whether he liked you. It was about whether he respected you. And Bill Dickey?

He didn’t deserve shit.

Let him suffer.

[ducksido]

Idk if you're doing requests right now, if not, just ignore me n pretend I dont exist 👀

But what about housewardens with a reader thats like Rodrick Heffley?

-💜 anon if I can be?

I love rodrick so much and welcome 💜 anon

Riddle Rosehearts

Absolutely loses his mind.

You’re everything he was trained to hate—disorderly, rule-breaking, lazy (by his standards), and you have the nerve to act smug about it.

“Why aren’t you in uniform?! Did you even read the rulebook I gave you?!”

“Yeah, I used it to balance my desk. One leg was shorter.”

He froths at the mouth.

But you’re oddly good at calming people down… and you always have some loophole to get away with breaking rules, which lowkey impresses him (and pisses him off).

Worst part? Trey thinks you’re funny and that kills Riddle inside.

Leona Kingscholar

Surprisingly tolerant. You’re kind of his type of person.

You both slack off and complain, but you won’t shut up, and you always have some loud music playing or are drumming on a surface with your pen.

“Oi. Shut it. Trying to nap.”

“Then stop using my hoodie as a blanket, flea king.”

You’re like the annoying little brother he never wanted, but now he’s weirdly protective of.

When you actually do something cool (like save a class with your last-minute bullsh*t), he side-eyes you like, “...You’ve got talent. Shame you’re insufferable.”

Azul Ashengrotto

You give him stress hives.

Your “chaotic neutral” energy is too much for his structured business brain.

“You’re three weeks late on your payment—”

“Yeah but I brought you a donut. That cancels the debt, right?”

You’re the only person who can make Floyd laugh hard enough to choke, which makes Azul’s life harder.

Yet… you have the weirdest ability to talk people into making shady deals. He starts relying on you despite himself.

You become like that wild intern who Azul swears he’s going to fire but never actually does because you're weirdly effective.

Kalim Al-Asim

Thinks you’re the coolest person alive.

“Yuu, you’re amazing! Can you teach me how to skateboard down the dorm stairs?!”

“Hell yeah, bring the first aid kit.”

You bring nothing but chaos into his already chaotic life, and Jamil is ready to strangle you.

Kalim follows you like a duckling and tries to mimic your “badass older sibling” energy. It’s adorable. And terrifying.

You show up late to every class Kalim’s in and yell, “I’m here to lower the bar.” He laughs every time.

Vil Schoenheit

He wants to fight you.

You show up to his dorm in pajama pants and a ripped hoodie and say, “I call this look: fashionably disappointing.”

He has never sighed so deeply in his life.

But then he sees how everyone naturally gravitates toward you—even with your bedhead, eyeliner smudged from three days ago, and zero effort. It infuriates him.

Eventually, he starts lowkey trying to “fix” you.

You let him do your makeup once and made the most obnoxious rock band poses. The photo went viral.

Idia Shroud

Bro he gets you.

You’re like an extroverted version of his “trash gremlin” energy.

“You haven’t showered in three days? Pathetic. I’m going for five.”

You both bond over obscure bands and memeing everything.

Ortho adores you, but constantly tells you to “be a better influence” on his brother.

You once dared Idia to scream into a microphone during class. He did it. You gave him a plastic trophy that says “Loud Boi” on it. He still has it.

Malleus Draconia

Confused but intrigued.

You treat him like he’s just some dude, and it completely throws him off.

“Yo, Horns. You wanna go egg Riddle’s dorm?”

“Egg... the Heartslabyul dormitory?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I got the eggs.”

He thinks you’re hilarious, even when no one else does. Your chaotic energy is refreshing to him.

Sebek is HORRIFIED by your influence, but Malleus just chuckles and follows you into mischief with a creepy little smile.

One time, you gave him a fake tattoo sleeve. He showed it to Lilia with pride.

[letteremi]

The New Guy in Town

summary: you're a villager from Pelican town, in Stardew Valley! People are whispering though, swapping stories about the strange, new fellow - you can't help but wonder what's really going on. Is he a new friend, or someone to be feared?

(set in Stardew Valley, where you can farm, fish, and build relationships with the townsfolk - some game mechanics mentioned)

cw: sfw! satoru gojo x reader, sdv! au, fluff (so far), small town things - 915 words

a/n: might be a series (part one?), also should be studying but the idea wormed itself into my brain and now we're here

part two here

Credit to @strangergraphics for the divider! inspired me in the first place cause pretty flowers <3

The news spread fast. A man with white hair was digging into trash cans in broad daylight — expertly avoiding eye contact and running for the hills when a villager strolled by.

Sometimes, he’d be found passed out in the middle of the night, and Linus would complain (to whoever would listen) of the rocks stuffed in his backpack — makes him a real pain to drag home, so I take a little something for repayment! He’d chuckle, skipping pebbles as he recounted the story to you, perched on the stone beside him. 

Chin in hand, you tilted your head towards the older man. “What an interesting character,” you mused. 

“Oh! I’ve heard of him too!” Haley exclaimed, her delicate hands flying to her mouth. Soft winds caressed her hair, as she balanced atop the fallen log. Click! The perfect shot, you smiled, digicam in hand and motioning her over. 

“Honestly, he doesn’t seem like a bad guy,” she says, hopping off the trunk and floating over, “Gross? Yeah, definitely. Irredeemable? No.” 

“I think you’re right,” you reply, “But I don’t really know him — haven’t even seen him around — so I can’t comment…” 

Haley hums in agreement, peering beside you at the photos. A delighted gasp escapes her lips. “You’re so good at taking photos, [name]! These look so good!” She’s clapping now, short, and sweet. 

“The photos always turn out good because you’re modelling,” you nudge her shoulder, and she giggles, before dragging you to the grassy ground. 

“You big flirt!” Haley lightly shoves you back. A beat later, her voice drops conspiratory and low, “I’ve also heard that he doesn’t really talk to anyone else in Pelican town. The other townies are kinda scared of him too, they speak about him in hushed towns and scurry away when he comes near. He’s been here for weeks — weeks! — and he hasn’t joined in any community events, or festivals. My sister tried reaching out to him, but he just smiled, and said ‘maybe next time’.” 

Haley’s older sister, Emily, was so welcoming and open. You’ve been gifted a few precious stones from her before — she claimed they would help the energy of the house, and bless your fishing. If Emily couldn’t get through to him…

You hum thoughtfully, “Oh well. Maybe he’ll warm up over the next few years. Let’s leave him be.” Though, you can’t help the curiosity that blooms in your chest. 

Haley laughs, “Yes. Let’s leave him be!”

“Now,” she’s rummaging through her little leather bag, and pulling out a light blue cardigan, “What do you think of this?” 

-

Haley dashed off when she saw the moon beginning to climb the sky — Emily’s going to be furious. You waved her off, and pulled out the rod and bait. Fishing time!

Fishing at night brought you many opportunities. One: rare and exotic fish swam up from the depths; they were pretty to look at, all glittering scales and perplexed expressions. Two: they sold for a pretty penny, and you did love having extra cash on hand. Three: barely anyone was around at the late hour; you wouldn’t trade the peace of the night for anything. 

The quiet always gives your mind too much space to wander. Tonight, it wandered straight to the town’s newest oddball. 

The tight-knit community of Pelican town was quite intimidating — even you, with a family name that went back generations, sometimes felt like an outsider. But then again, digging through the trash? Your nose wrinkles at the thought. Linus mentioned that the man was a miner, so there’s no way he was short on cash — so why was he rummaging through garbage? You had to admit, it didn’t exactly make him look good. 

You shivered, remembering the way Linus had laughed when he’d mentioned the rocks in that man’s backpack. Maybe he was just strange, or maybe something sadder was going on. Remembered his small smile when Emily invited him — like some part of him was afraid to join, in disbelief that he would be welcomed. 

You recast your line and watched it ripple across the water. A large purple fish fights its way to the surface. Maybe he needed help. Maybe you owed it to him to at least try. Tomorrow, you thought, lips pressing into a determined line. 

Tomorrow, you’d talk to him. Packing your gear into a box, you set on the road home.

Underneath one of the lamp posts, lay a mop of snowy hair. This time, instead of a bag of rocks, he’s clutching books close to his chest — agricultural books? 

Oh dear. For all your talk, your palms still felt clammy as you wiped them on your jeans, your heart still got stuck in your dry throat. 

You wondered if Linus would know what to do. Should you get him? 

No. The bearded gentleman would just pickpocket this guy again. 

A minute later, you crouch next to his head, tapping his shoulder, and shivering as a gust of wind blows by. He doesn’t budge — knocked out cold. 

Peering down, you get a closer look at his face. Long lashes, barely kissing his pink cheeks, and the tip of his nose the same colour. At this rate, he’ll freeze to death. 

You place your gear box by the lamp, and the gravel crunches. 

Hoisting the man up, onto your back, you briefly wonder how this choice might change things. Either way, you’d get your answers soon, you conclude. Tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever he wakes up. 

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[dangermousie]

I'm watching Sadistic Love, my first mini, and having SUCH a great time! What other minis do you recommend for enjoyers of the torrid and unhinged?

Welcome to the wonderful world of minis!!! Here are some recs!

THESE ARE ACTUALLY QUALITY

These may be minis, but between the cinematography and themes, they are as good or better than a "proper" drama:

Ancient Love Song - a haunting time travel romance with no destined easy out, this is about a modern scholar who travels back in time and interacts with an empress loathed by history. But their timelines flow in reverse...

Butterflied Lover - a period constable, his vampire wife, and one of the most gorgeous dramas out there.

A Familiar Stranger - Cheng Lei before he hit is big in "proper" dramas, the director of Blossom and fourth sister (aka best sister) in Perfect Match. The OTT premise is a face swap, but after that it's an awesome period romance between a general and a woman who he rescued a long time ago. It's torrid torrid torrid btw.

Fortune Writer - even the picky Douban viewers rated this one 7+. This is a story of villains in love but even more interestingly, a knowing fight against the narrative.

Hard to Find - fantasy and tragedy and doomed love; the story is like a darker old school cdrama but it's the gorgeous cinematography that places it in this portion of the list.

Love in a Dream - it’s a mini that has the most gorgeous cinematography I’ve seen in 2024 except for Fangs of Fortune and Eternal Brotherhood. I loved the vibes and the story and its feeling of tragic love and lost time.

TRASHY FUNNNNNN

Always My General - lady general, revenge, a very bi ML and just great fun!

Beauty Strategy - a mini of what a few years ago would have been a proper angsty drama of palace scheming enemies while lovers, powerless emperor etc etc. Honestly, I loved it.

Bound By Sin - subbiest Republican era ML ever.

Broken the Heart - super duper bonkers, with an evil royal tormenting the pure wife but for REASONS.

Circle of Love - this drama is a nonsense trash heap on fire. After a typhoon hit it. Republican era revenge romance and a ML who's insane.

Enslaved by Love - the ML is toxic enough to be banned by the Geneva convention but FL does get some of her own back and also if you ever wanted to see blindness-curing sex, boy do I have a drama for you!

Is Xianzun Whitewashed Today - this is 100% BL and a SVSSS rip off. Thanks for snoring, censors.

The Killer Is Also Romantic - mild mannered citizens by day, assassins/agents by night. This is a period Mr and Mrs Smith

Lovesickness - a good time about a woman traveling back in time and falling for a powerful but doomed duke.

Maid's Revenge - the ML of Sadistic Love and even more unhinged and slutty than in that one.

My Villain Husband - my first mini! FL wakes up in a novel! As the villain's despised wife. What shall she dooooooooo

Palace Shadows: Between Two Princes - ML pretends to be his own twin, bdsm and sluttiness ensues. I cannot even explain how wild this drama is but the acting is on point and way way fun!

The Prisoner of Love - more like the prisoner of bdsm.

Provoke - in love with one's stepmother? Indeed. But there is also a surprisingly solid plot under the bonkers.

Rise from the Ashes - a wacky as hell mini where reborn FL wreaks revenge with help of her fake uncle as they carry on as some sort of Borgia/Phillip II of Spain fame hybrid. If you don’t need to use your brain, you could have a worse time.

Rising Feather - a woman leading on son in law general (lover) and father in law minister (husband) for revenge and delicious trashiness.

Secrets of the Shadow Sect - head of sect lady and her very very subby bodyguard. What’s not to love?

Stolen Love - general, his first love, a LOT of make outs.

Your Trap/Imprisoned Love - the plot of this mini made no sense but the softcore vibes of sanitized 1990s cinemax were on point!

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Rebuild & Restore - Chapter 13

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

❤ Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

All Falls Down (Prequel)

Series Masterlist

ONCE AGAIN: A BIG ASS SHOUT OUT TO @paigereeder. When I say this chapter would not have gotten done w/o her!!!!

*The gif is what I picture Josh wearing w/ a pair of black Nike shorts and some slides* (in the first part)

~ Friday Night ~

“I’m gonna take ’em upstairs,” Josh whispered to Kiyana just as the credit to COCO started rolling. Kiyana stretched and looked over to her left, where both of her boys were knocked out, leaning on Josh. Kairo thankfully went down at his usual bedtime. Kaiden and Kamari, on the other hand, put up the biggest fight to stay up later with their dad. 

They had almost made it through both movies when their eyes started to droop. Kamari doesn’t play about his sleep. The second he feels Mr. Sandman knocking at his door, he welcomes him with open arms. Kaiden, on the other hand, didn’t want to miss a moment with his dad. He had fallen asleep 15 minutes into the first movie, but when Josh tried to carry him up the steps, Kaiden woke up, protesting that he wasn’t sleeping and he wanted to stay with his dad. 

Kiyana let out a deep sigh when Josh disappeared up the steps with both of their sons—this whole day had been extremely awkward for her. It had only been about four weeks since they signed the papers, and here they were, about to go out on a date tomorrow night. She loved Josh, and nothing would ever change that, but Josh had hurt her badly, and she was terrified of letting him back into her heart. 

Standing up, she started cleaning up the living room, gathering the trash from the snacks the boys and Josh had devoured and taking it into the kitchen. While she was in the kitchen, she decided to pour herself a glass of wine. She went to grab Josh a Diet Coke from the fridge, popped it open, got him a cup of ice, and brought it into the living room for him, placing it on a coaster on the coffee table. 

She continued to tidy up, and by the time Josh came back downstairs, she was done lounging on the couch and catching up on the newest episode of Love Island. Josh plopped down next to Kiyana. He glanced at her, her features illuminated by the TV’s light. Just being this close to her again made him realize how badly he fucked up. She would always be his Key. But, before she was that, she was THEE Kiyana Jackson. Before she had become this powerhouse of a woman, the best mother to his kids, an excellent cook, and a bomb-ass nurse, she was the girl that scared the fuck outta him. He couldn’t even hold a full conversation with her back then because his brain would short circuit; knees weak, arms heavy, butterflies in an all-out war games match in his stomach. The girl that his classmates convinced him he’d never have a chance with because she was leaps and bounds above his league, and he had fucked it up being a dumbass, proving them right.

“You good?” Kiyana asked him with a slight laugh, and he nodded, feeling his cheeks heat up at being caught staring. 

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. Kiyana grabbed the remote, paused the TV, and turned her attention to him. 

“Josh.” 

“C’mere,” he whispered, opening his arms for her. “Please,” he added in a hushed tone when Kiyana didn’t move. She bit her lip and looked at him, contemplating whether she should move closer to him. Sighing, she nodded and scooted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder as he closed his arms around her. The second she scooted into his arms, it was like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. 

Josh fully relaxed on the couch and closed his eyes. This is what he was missing. The arguing, fighting, and cheating were not what he and Kiyana were about. Their being at odds felt so foreign, and it was mostly his fault. 

“What the hell is this show even about?” Josh asked after a couple of minutes had passed. Kiyana laughed and turned her head so she could look at him. 

“It’s about finding love.” She whispered as her eyes dropped down to his lips.  Josh leaned in slowly, his heart pounding as he closed the distance between them. Josh deepened the kiss, letting out a low moan as Kiyana shifted her position and was now straddling him, with her legs on either side of his hips. Josh’s hands roamed down Kiyana’s back before finally resting on her ass, firmly squeezing it while pulling her closer to him. 

Josh’s phone started to go off, making the both of them groan in displeasure. “Fuck..” Josh groaned, throwing his back against the couch. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, breathing heavily as he read the text message he just received. Kiyana arched her eyebrow as he ran his hand through his hair. 

“What?” 

Josh bit his lip as he looked at her. “Don’t be mad.” He whispered. “But I’ll be right back.” Josh saw the look of disappointment and doubt in her eyes, and he immediately cupped her face and tried to ease her worries. “Don’t do that. I promise it ain’t about no bitch. I’m forever about you. I just got something I gotta handle.”  Kiyana rolled her eyes and removed herself from his lap, settling back on the couch and crossing her arms over her chest. “Key,” Josh called out softly, cupping her chin and turning her face so she could look at him. “Trust me, I’ll be right back.” Kiyana narrowed her eyes but eventually nodded her head.  

“Fine. I guess I’ll see you when you come back.” Josh smiled and pecked her lips. 

“30 minutes tops.” 

“Mmhm,”  Kiyana hummed, and Josh couldn’t blame her for her suspicion. He had been disloyal and ruined their relationship. But this was something he couldn’t tell her because she would definitely try to keep him in the house. Josh sighed and stood from the couch. He bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

“Be right back, Key.” She nodded and pressed play on the remote, continuing her show while he walked over to the key hook and grabbed his car keys. Kiyana let him keep his truck in the garage while he was on the road because someone broke into it the last time he left it at his apartment. 

As Josh walked into the garage,  he knew that no matter how much he reassured Kiyana, there was a lingering doubt in her mind—a scar from past betrayals. Settling into the driver’s seat, he pulled out his phone and re-read the text message he had received. 

Ms Deb(key’s co-worker): Dr. Daniels gets off in 10 min. Do what you want with that information… oh and he drives a black infinity w/ blacked out windows. Plate: DRDAN.  Ms Deb(key’s co-worker): delete this thread… and treat my girl right! 

Josh smiled at the later message and started his car before backing out of the garage and driving towards the hospital. 

Elijah smiled as he made his way out of the hospital. He had a pretty good day: three successful surgeries, and his wife came and surprised him with lunch with his children. That smile was quickly wiped off his face the closer he got to his car. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Elijah seethed, eyeing Josh up and down. 

Josh smirked and pushed himself off of Elijah’s car. “I told ya’ bitch ass I was gonna catch you again, didn’t I?” Josh sneered as he walked into Eli’s personal space. Elijah gulped as he looked around. Josh had a good 20 pounds of muscle on Eli, and to be completely honest, Eli didn’t want to walk around with another black eye. 

Eli held his hand up and took a step back from Josh. “I don’t have time for this,” Elijah said, trying to steady his voice despite the nerves tightening in his chest. “You need to leave.”

“I ain’t going nowhere.” 

“Look—” Tired of hearing Elijah’s voice, Josh lunged at him, landing a right hook on Eli’s jaw and knocking him to the ground.  

“Yeahhh,” Josh cackled, clapping his hands together. “Getcho’ ass up. You wanna put your hands on women? Come put ya hands on me!” Elijah staggered to his feet, his fists clenched in anger as he lunged at Josh, who quickly ducked it and tackled him to the ground. There was nobody here to stop Josh this time. Josh threw punch after punch, getting all his anger out on this low life. 

“Alright, Alright. Enough..” Josh felt someone grab the back of his shirt, trying to stop him from punching Elijah. “You got him, relax.” 

Josh stopped swinging, his chest heaving with the adrenaline and fury, and looked down at Elijah, who looked like he was one punch away from a permanent coma. Elijah’s face was a swollen mess, eyes barely open, and he lay motionless, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. 

Josh felt his shirt being tugged again, and he let the person move him off Elijah. 

“Damn,” Josh looked, and it was the security guard who broke up their fight last time. “He’s lucky you beat his ass in front of the hospital.” The security guy joked, cracking a smile while holding his hand out for Josh to shake. “Main Event Jey Uso, nice to meet you man.” 

Josh’s eyes widened. “Hey Uce-” 

“I already paused the cameras; as soon as I get back to my desk, I’ll delete the footage. I hate women beaters. I lost my mom that way.” Josh’s expression softened, and he shook the guy’s hand. “I’m happy your ex has someone who sticks up for her. If only my mom had someone.” 

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that—” Josh paused, as he didn’t know this guy’s name. 

“Adrian, and hey, it’s cool. You did what you had to do. But uh. You might wanna get outta here. I gotta call this in.” Adrian finished off, holding the walkie-talkie up, and Josh nodded. He glanced down at Elijah, who was starting to move, before giving Adrian a nod, jogging back over to his truck, and leaving. 

Kiyana sat up and looked towards the entryway to the living room when she heard the front door open and close. She knew it was way past thirty minutes because she had watched two more episodes of Love Island. She heard him set the house alarm before he started walking towards the living room. 

“You said thirty minutes.” She muttered before her eyes widened as he walked closer to her and she saw how red and bruised his knuckles were. “Dude, what the fuck?! What did you do?” 

“What I had to.” 

“Josh -” 

“He put his hand on you! He could not get away with that shit Key. I did what I had to do.” Kiyana sighed and gently grabbed his hand, leading him up the stairs and to her bedroom. 

“Sit,” She said, pointing to the bed and Josh quickly obliged. Kiyana then walked into the ensuite bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit before walking back over to Josh and grabbing his hands. 

“You mad huh?” Josh asked, biting the inside of his cheek as he watched Kiyana clean off his knuckles. Kiyana didn’t respond immediately, her gaze focused on cleaning his knuckles. 

“I’m not mad. Just wish you would have told me. Would have loved to get a couple kicks in.” She looked up meeting Josh's eyes and chuckled at the shocked look on his face. “What? I was in shock when he actually grabbed me and he walked away before I could actually T off on his ass.” She said as she stood up and climbed into bed.  Josh stood up as well. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“Shoot, next time I’ll let you know then.” He said as he started walking towards the door. 

“Woah! Where are you going?” She asked and he stopped. 

“Was going to the guest room.” He said as more of a question and Kiyana started shaking her head and patted the spot next to her. “Fo’real?” Josh asked, a big ass smile coming onto his face as Kiyana nodded her head. He practically rips his shirt over his head before he throws himself onto the bed next to her, his heart swelling in his chest as he hears her giggle. It has been forever since he’s been the one to make her giggle. 

~ Saturday Afternoon ~

“So you really thinking about giving him another chance?” Kiyana sighed and set down her make-up brush before meeting her mother's eyes in her vanity mirror. 

“Yes,” Kiyana replied softly, her fingers absentmindedly adjusting the brushes in front of her. “Mom -” Kiyana started but Imani held her hand up, stopping her. 

“No, You’re gonna listen to what I have to say, Kiyana Marie.” Kiyana shut her mouth and turned her body so her side was leaning against the back of the vanity chair.  “That man” her mother continued, her voice dripping with disdain,  “Has done so much damage to you. Cheating on you while you were carrying this little angel.” Kiyana rolled her eyes at her mom’s dramatics.  “I was here Key, I seen what his infidelity did to your confidence. I saw the way you frowned at your body when you walked past the mirror and now he gets a second chance for what? To do it all over again.” 

Kiyana felt her shoulders sag as he mother’s words sunk in. “So you think I’m being stupid?” 

“No baby girl. I don’t think you’re being stupid. I just want you to not rush back into this with Josh. I know y’all still love each other and you had to stay in contact with the kids but still remember to put yourself first. Don’t just get back with him because you know Kaiden and Kamari are going to be happy.” 

“I am putting myself first Mom. It’s not just about my sons being happy it’s about me being happy as well. Yes, Josh fu- messed up but everyone deserves a second chance. Isn’t that what you told me? After Dad cheated on you, you stayed. You told me that everyone deserves a second chance.” Imani’s eyes lowered to the floor as Kiyana continued. “Dad has two kids on you and you still stayed. Josh cheated and had no kids. And I tried to move on, but I love Josh and can’t change that.” 

“I just want the best for you Kiyana. And you’re right, I did forgive your father but I don’t want you to be like me. But I understand that you are a grown woman and you need to make these decisions for yourself.” 

“Why are you making it seem like I’m making a mistake?” Kiyana asked, getting irritated with her mother. 

“I’m just saying. You need to learn for yourself. I’m not the only one who thinks this either. Kenyatta feels the same.” Kiyana snorted and turned back around so she could face her vanity again. 

“You mean the serial cheater? He cheated on every girl he was ever with Mom - you know what.” Kiyana paused and took a deep breath. “I’m gonna get dressed now you can go.” 

Imani scoffed “Kiyana” she called out, as Kiyana stood and walked into her walk-in closet. Kiyana rolled her eyes as she came back out with her dress in her hand, hanging off the hanger. “I just don’t want to see you hurt again,” Imani said, to which Kiyana ignored. Imani sighed, picked Kairo up off the bed, and left the room, shutting the door behind her. 

As the door clicked shut, Kiyana took a deep breath and tried to steady her racing thoughts. The sound of her mother’s voice still echoed in her mind, a mix of concern and frustration. She slipped her dress on, trying to focus on the soft fabric against her skin rather than the knot in her stomach.

~ Saturday Night ~

“You can do this,” Kiyana whispered to herself. Her mom had just yelled up the steps, telling her Josh was there. Kiyana could hear her kids going crazy after not seeing him all day. “It’s just Josh. You been on plenty of dates with Josh before.”  Taking a deep breath, Kiyana smoothed down her hair and checked her reflection in the mirror one last time before walking out of her bedroom and walking down the steps to meet Josh. 

She felt herself blush as he let out a low “Damn.” before clearing his throat and walking over to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. “You look beautiful, Key. Doesn’t she look beautiful?” He then asked his sons and they nodded their heads. 

“You look very pretty Mama,” Kaiden said and Kiyana smiled and him, bending down to press a kiss on his head, 

“Thank you, Bean” She then turned to Josh. “You look nice too.” Josh’s cheeks heated up at her compliment. 

“You ready to go?” He asked and she nodded.

“Be good for grandma.” She said to her kids, giving them a quick hug before stepping out the door with Josh. The short walk to his truck was silent. Josh opened the passenger door for her and grabbed her hand, helping her into the truck. 

“You ready to go?” He asked and she nodded.

“Be good for grandma.” She said to her kids, giving them a quick hug before stepping out the door with Josh. The short walk to his truck was silent. Josh opened the passenger door for her and grabbed her hand, helping her into the truck. 

 Kiyana stole glances at Josh as he drove, admiring the way the streetlights illuminated his profile, casting shadows across his chiseled features. At a red light, Josh reached across the console and gently grabbed her hand lacing their fingers together. Kiyana’s heart skipped a beat as Josh’s fingers intertwined with hers. The warmth of his touch sent a thrill up her arm. She glanced at him, catching a glimpse of the soft smile playing on his lips.

“I’m happy you agreed to this date,” Josh muttered, breaking the silence in the car. Kiyana bit the inside of her lip and she looked over at him. 

 "I'm glad too," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Josh smiled and started driving again as the light turned green, the butterflies in his belly intensifying as he felt her squeeze his hand.

“Thank you,” Kiyana smiled at Josh as he pulled out her chair for her. The restaurant he picked was nice and cozy. It was one that neither of them had been at before. He wanted to choose a new restaurant so they could make new memories and weren’t plagued by old ones. 

As Josh settled in his seat across from her, he felt like the luckiest SOB in that restaurant. The second he and Kiyana had walked in, all eyes turned toward her. She had turned so many heads, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at one couple, when the woman reached over and plucked her boyfriend or husband on his forehead when he wouldn’t stop staring at Key. 

“Can I get you guys anything to drink?” The waiter came over and set the free bread down on their table. Kiyana ordered a white while while Josh decided to order a water with a lemon. He wanted to stay sober for the conversation he knew they were going to have. 

As the waiter left, Kiyana took a deep breath and looked directly into Josh’s eyes. The dim candlelight cast a soft glow on her face. “I um- I know we agreed to try to move on, but I think we need to talk about everything first.” She said and Josh nodded. She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. “What happened? What made you.” She paused as if she couldn’t bear to say it. “What made you cheat on me?” 

The waitress quickly set their drink down and left as she heard Kiyana’s question. The waitress figured they could wait to eat. 

“Oh god,” Josh whispered, sitting up straighter in his chair. “I don’t know if she told you, but I talked to Samara about this already,” Josh stated to which Kiyana nodded. 

“She told me a little. She also told me to just hear you out.” 

“I- I honestly never meant for anything to go that far. Before this conversation continues, I need you to know that. I need you to know that I will forever beat myself up for doing that to you.” When Kiyana nodded he continued. “I just wanted to vent Key. I just wanted someone to talk to about what I was going through without being told to think about your feelings. And yes it was selfish of me but nobody cared about how I felt. God, it’s so fucking selfish but I just wanted someone to talk to and it went too far.” He finished, not breaking eye contact so she knew how serious he was being. 

“But four months Joshua? You were going on the road fucking her then coming back and fucking me.” 

Joshua looked down, his hands trembling slightly. He knew he had hurt Kiyana deeply, and the guilt weighed heavily on him. “I fucked up Key, I fucked up so damn bad.” He looked back up at her. “But I’m willing to do anything and everything to prove my love and loyalty to you again. I already talked to my boss and a couple of the higher-ups. She been harassing me n’shit and I filed some paperwork against her. She can’t come near me or she’ll be fired.” 

Kiyana felt her face scrunch up at what he said. “So y’all were still messing around?”  

Josh started shaking his head ‘no’ immediately. “Hell no. I stopped messing with her around the time I told you about the affair.” 

Kiyana narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, trying to see how sincere he was being with his words. After knowing him for almost twenty-four years, she knew when he was lying and right now he wasn’t. He was telling her the truth. 

“So what about you telling her that you were gonna divorce me for her.” 

“I never said that.” He answered immediately. “I told you back then that I never said that. That was some dumbshit she said and Joe must’ve overheard her.” 

Kiyana went to ask her next question but was interrupted by the waitress. “Sorry, but um- would y’all like to order now?” Josh and Kiyana broke eye contact to look at the waitress. Josh let out a deep sigh a nodded before ordering a steak meal for himself while Kiyana ordered a pasta dish. The waitress hurried up and scurried away.  Kiyana looked back at Josh and asked her next question. 

“Do you regret it?”  

“Of course I do.” Josh's voice was filled with regret as he met Kiyana's gaze, his eyes reflecting the pain he had caused her. “Do you regret sleeping with Joe?” He asked, just as she took a sip of her wine. Kiyana’s eyes widened as she heard his question. Did she regret sleeping with Joe? 

“I don’t regret it.” She finally said, swallowing a lump in her throat as Josh’s jaw clenched. “You hurt me badly Joshua. Like, I was hurt and confused and he was there. It wasn’t about getting back at you because he’s your cousin. It was,” She paused as she tried to find the right words. “It was you had your fun, so why couldn’t I.”  

Taking a moment to compose himself, Josh locked eyes with Kiyana, his gaze intense yet vulnerable. “I understand” He whispered. He reached across the table grasping her hand in his. “I want us to move past all of this. Do you want there to be an us? Do you want to move past this?” 

Kiyana squeezed Josh's hand tightly, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside her. After everything they had been through, the hurt and betrayal, she knew that a decision needed to be made. She took a deep breath and met Josh's gaze. “Yes, I want there to be an us again. I want us to be able to move on from this.” 

Josh's eyes softened, relief washing over his face as he heard Kiyana's words. “Deadass?” 

Kiyana chuckled, nodding her head. “I’m being so deadass right now.” 

“I swear on my life, you won’t regret this Key. Imma do everything I can to prove that I love you and I want you.” 

As they sat there holding hands, a wave of relief washed over both Kiyana and Josh. The weight of their past mistakes and the pain they had caused each other seemed to lighten ever so slightly. They both knew that rebuilding their relationship would not be easy, but they were willing to try. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” Kiyana whispered as she and Josh walked to the front door of her house. 

“If you want me to,” Josh replied and Kiyana nodded, grabbing his hand and leading him into the house. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her ass. Loving the way it swayed as she walked. She kept a firm grasp on his hand as she set the house alarm and walked up the steps. Both of them peeked into their kids' rooms to make sure they were tucking in and sleeping. 

Josh’s heart was beating extremely fast as Kiyana led him into her room.  Kiyana turned to face Josh, her eyes almost black with lust. She closed the distance between them, her body pressing flush against his, and Without a word, she reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him. Kiyana moaned softly into the kiss, her body trembling with need. She broke away, panting lightly, her eyes locked on Josh's.

“You sure?” He asked and instead of giving him an answer, Kiyana undid the back of her dress and let it fall down her body. Josh watched as the dress fell to her feet, leaving her in just her white lace thong. 

“I’m sure” She whispered before capturing his lips again in a searing kiss. 

KiyanaJackson_

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user: she is 2 fine!

trinity_fatu: girl! 🔥

user: WHO TF WOULD CHEAT ON HER? A DUMBASS THATS WHO!

marrraaa_ : fuckable 🤤

Sorry for any grammar and/ or spelling mistakes. I am dead tired and I wanted to get this chapter out.

Sooo how was this chapter? Give me y'all honest thoughts!...

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[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 40

part 1 | part 39 | ao3

They're lying on their backs, Steve's head on Eddie's shoulder, Eddie running absent-minded fingers through Steve's hair. Led Zeppelin plays on low from the radio beside them, and the conversation ebbs and flows in sleepy bursts of disjointed thought. Talking just to talk. Because they like it; because they can.

"...Did you see Wheeler almost eat shit in the paint aisle this morning?"

"We should paint some stars on my ceiling. Make 'em glow in the dark..."

"God, what I would not give for more pizza."

"Who even eats cold pizza?"

Eddie shifts beneath him after a while, sitting up to bounce his legs and get the blood flowing again. With his weight leaned back on his hands, Steve can't help but notice the long line of his torso. Everything on display through the thin undershirt: the smattering of dark ink, the outline of his ribs, the cut of his slim waist. Steve wants to touch him.

"You know," Eddie says, surveying the empty room, the vinyl glinting in the lamp light, "it's really not half bad for a bunch of kids who thought they were gonna be hanging ornaments all day." He knocks his knee against Steve's leg. "I'd say you're well on your way to making this mobile house a mobile home."

Steve snorts at that, and Eddie pinches playfully at his side until the snort turns into a really undignified laugh and Steve rolls in on himself, curling toward Eddie, begging for mercy.

"You want to tell me what brought all this on?" Eddie asks. His voice is quiet and welcoming, eyes sparkling with some gentle offer of reprieve. The first rest stop sign after a hundred mile stretch of empty road.

Steve's mouth works; opens and closes and opens again, like it'll prompt his voice to sound or his brain to figure out the words. He still doesn't know how to explain — the fear, the paranoia, the way this place was starting to cling to him like black mold. "Just..." he shrugs. "Needed it, I guess."

Eddie gives him a long look. Unwavering and piercing; there's more pus in the wound that he's trying to lance, but he doesn't seem interested in drawing blood tonight.

He releases Steve from his gaze and goes back to his casual stretching — rolling his neck, popping his shoulders, shaking out his legs, his ankles, his feet — and then he gasps "Steve!" in a delighted tone that Steve does not care for at all. Usually means he’s about to get teased within an inch of his life.

"Hmm?" Steve lifts his head to look.

Eddie’s wiggling his right foot, drawing attention to the outer edge of his borrowed sock. "Is that a hole I see?"

Steve follows his line of sight, and sure enough, there's the smallest little tear by Eddie's pinky toe. “Oh, fuck off,” Steve rolls his eyes, “you can barely even see that.”

Eddie spreads his toes out wide, making the hole more obvious. "My, my, my,” he tuts, shaking his head with a big, disappointed sigh.

"You're such an asshole,” Steve mutters. Eddie's beaming; Steve flips him off.

"Well congrats, baby boy,” he drawls like a fucking pest, “now you're officially trailer trash."

"Hey!" Steve’s not sure if he likes that. Makes him blush to his ears; makes something sour roll in his gut.

Unfortunately it also kind of makes his dick twitch.

"Oh?" Eddie leers. His eyes dart to Steve's crotch, and then he shifts so he's hovering over Steve with Steve flat on his back, face on fire, pulse kicking hard. A vein throbs in his inner thigh. "Don't worry, Stevie." Eddie bends to nip at his jaw. "I meant it as a compliment."

"How is that a compliment?" Steve wants to sound annoyed. Is annoyed. But Eddie's skimming a light hand up his side, barest pressure that leaves a trail of tingling warmth in its wake, so the words come out more breathy than he intends.

"Because," Eddie whispers. Steve can feel his smile pressed against his skin. Eddie kisses up his jawline until he reaches his ear; mouths at the lobe and sucks it between his teeth, a sharp bite that makes Steve hiss. "All my favorite things are."

Steve bucks under him. "Trash?" he asks, breath catching.

Eddie's tongue traces his ear. "Mhmm."

His hand wanders to the hem of Steve's shirt, worming his fingers underneath, tickling the trail of hair below Steve’s belly button as he explains that all his favorite things are second-hand. Recycled and discarded items he’s restored with loving care.

Steve’s breath goes harsh and ragged, and he tries not to think about how that might apply to him.

Discarded.

Restored.

Favorite.

Maybe even—

He can’t let himself think the word.

—

part 41!

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[marclef]

a special gift for you guys, for this very important Fake Peppino Friday.... after a week of near-continuous work, i present to you the biggest mess i've posted so far to tumblr:

The Fake Peppino Headcanon/Biology/Anatomy/Whatever the heck this is Post

really just a bunch of headcanons, ideas, and other stuff i've complied together for Fake Peppino, illustrated to the best of my ability. i hope you enjoy! ✨✨✨

(caution: lots of text and assorted Frogs up ahead)

now.... who's ready for walls of text and drawings?

Fake Peppino is a homunculus, made in the shape of Peppino by Pizzahead. He's much taller than the real Peppino, 8 feet tall compared to Peppino's 5 1/2 feet. He was created using the DNA from Peppino (either skin or hair cells), old pizza, and frogs (think Jurassic Park). His entire body, including the hat and "clothes", is comprised of a strange goop, with no flesh organs or bones, though certain areas are made out of specialized goo, meant for an intended purpose.

He can stretch his body to inhuman lengths, though he usually only does this with his legs, mouth, tongue, and arms. His goopy body is extremely strong, able to withstand tearing and most puncture wounds. Attacks from knives or similar weapons are pointless, as it doesn't really harm him, and will likely just lead to him absorbing the knife into himself and retaliating. However, repeated attacks, especially physical blows, can tire him out, and explosives can harm him, splitting his body into pieces if particularly strong. This doesn't kill him, though, since he can reform his body.

If threatened, or trying to get into a tight spot, Fake Peppino can deform his body into a blob-like mass, allowing him to flee, squeeze into small areas, or melt into the floors/walls. He usually keeps his eyes and brain intact, to see his surroundings and act accordingly. The rest of his body, despite deforming and becoming mushy, can still function, meaning he could still eat in this form if he wanted to. He finds tights spaces comfortable, and can often be found squeezed into unlikely places, such as small containers, trash cans, and cabinets.

If greatly threatened, though, or sufficiently angered, Fake Peppino can pool all of the energy into his body into growing larger, by rapidly burning energy into making more goop/cells. This is very tiring, generally only used as a last resort. The process generally makes his head and body much larger, with his limbs, as well as eyes/brain, staying mostly the same size. He is dumber in this state, with all energy and thought going into eliminating the target, something that Fake Peppino doesn't like. He avoids lashing out like this unless he absolutely needs to.

Despite his frog DNA, Fake Peppino doesn't do well with water or other similar liquids. Thanks to his sturdy stomach walls, he can drink most liquids just fine, even fluids that would be dangerous to humans. It's his outside "skin" that's the problem, since it can't absorb liquid properly. Prolonged contact with water or other liquid will quickly cause him to deform, unable to keep his humanoid form, until he's sufficiently dried off/absorbed the liquid properly. He greatly dislikes being wet because of this, and will go to great lengths to avoid it. Warmer liquids are slightly more tolerable, being much more comfortable, so warm, bubbly baths are welcome.

The brain and eyes are connected directly, with the brain protected by Fake's squishy head, and the eyes popping out the widened eye sockets. The brain is made of very specialized goop, and works very similarly to a human brain, sending signals to all parts of Fake Peppino's body.

However, despite it being the central control center of his body, smaller bits of brain cell goop are distributed through the rest of his body, allowing him to control other parts separately. So, even if parts of him are detached or otherwise removed, he can still control them, for a time. After some time, these parts die off though, losing control and deforming into inert goop. He mainly uses this ability to split "clones" off of himself, controlling them to attack perceived threats.

Being made of goop, Fake's brain can withstand damage a normal brain can't, but he still prefers to keep it protected underneath his head. It dries out a bit in the open, too, which he finds uncomfortable.

Fake Peppino's eyes are very strong. Though he's often seen with a cross-eyed look to him, he's constantly watching his surroundings, even if it doesn't seem it. He has excellent night vision, often using this ability to easily stalk and sneak up on prey in the dark without being spotted.

He doesn't need to blink, but he still closes his eyes to sleep, when he's very happy, or during certain actions, such as swallowing. His eyes are one of the most vulnerable parts of his body, though, and attacking them would be a way to easily disorient him.

Fake Peppino's sense of smell is also impressive, being able to smell things long before he sees them. He uses this ability to easily find food, prey, or simply something he wants. The mustache under his nose (which, same as his "hair", is also made of goop) is sensitive, and he doesn't like others touching it.

Fake Peppino often sniffs things he's interested in, including strangers, to try to get a sense for them. He never forgets a particular smell, which makes it easy to tell if a familiar person is nearby. He often sniffs others while holding them or being given attention, likely as a form of interaction. Plus, he just thinks most others smell nice.

Despite, like the rest of him, being made of goop, Fake Peppino's teeth can harden to be extremely tough. They soften if he needs them to, such as when he deforms. His bite force is very, very strong, comparable to a hippo's bite. He doesn't chew his food too often, though, and only really chews up food he finds particularly tasty, such as pizza. His frog-like instinct usually compels him to swallow most foods whole. His teeth are more often used to grip things, such as prey items, or to carry things around. He enjoys carrying things he likes around, and will carry smaller friends around gently with his mouth.

The stretchiest part of Fake Peppino's body is his tongue, which can stretch to several times his body length. It is very sticky, coated with a clear, saliva-like goop that fills the inside of his mouth as well. Like a frog, he uses it to grab onto and eat food from afar, or to grab items he doesn't feel like using his arms to. It's very strong, and can drag even very heavy objects. The tongue's extreme flexibility allows him to reach it nearly anywhere, even down his own throat if he really wanted.

Usually, Fake Peppino uses his tongue to snatch fleeing prey items, and he can wrap it around their body to make them easier to eat. He often leaves his tongue dangling slightly out of his mouth, due to its length, but also making it easy to strike with if needed.

Fake Peppino's "stomach" is a very special case. It functions like both an organic stomach, and similarly to a lung as well, constantly moving by pushing air in and out of himself. He can use this to inflate his body, making himself bigger for intimidation (like some frogs do), or to shrink himself down by releasing all air from himself; this is generally used if a prey item is being uncooperative, to cause them to suffocate. To help keep live prey in place as well, he's able to close off his throat with a mass of goop, preventing escape.

The constant movement of the stomach makes digesting meals easier, allowing them to be coated by a specialized goop that absorbs and dissolves what it covers, like stomach acids. Fake Peppino's stomach can digest almost everything, aside from very tough materials, such as most metals, very solid plastics, tough minerals (like rocks), and bones. Anything he can't digest, he simply spits up eventually, generally in a place it can be disposed of, such as the trash.

His stomach is very sturdy and stretchy, able to withstand almost anything, and can stretch as much as needed to fit what's inside. As such, there's not much of a limit to how much Fake Peppino can eat. Eating too much makes him sluggish, though, as his body tries to process it all. Fake Peppino is most content with a reasonably-full stomach, and is generally quite calm and relaxed after a large meal. Belly rubs at this point are greatly appreciated.

If needed to, he can reach his arms back into his own throat, to grab something from inside of his stomach. He doesn't do it often, due to most things he eats being digestible, making carrying stuff around in there fairly pointless. This is only ever really the case if it's something too difficult to spit up, or something that wasn't supposed to be eaten in the first place.

There is no further digestive system, however; all food eaten is 100% absorbed in the stomach. Everything he eats is converted into more goop like him, leaving no trace behind, unless it is undigestible. Bones from eaten prey such as rats get thrown out, or disposed of in an appropriate spot.

and... though I didn't get to drawing them, here's a couple extra unsorted headcanons/dumb little tidbits I just felt like sharing!

He makes lots of strange sounds, communicating more through groans and frog-like croaks than trying to speak. He CAN talk, but not well, mostly in broken, short sentences, and usually speaks "backwards". He can understand others just fine, though he struggles with especially long and complicated words. The sounds he makes when not talking are generally unintelligable, but his mood and tone can indicate how he feels. He uses the ability to inflate his body to produce very loud, aggressive sounds when trying to ward off threats.

His gooey body is what allows him to cling to walls and ceilings with ease. He sticks to walls while trying to stalk prey, or just to play around with friends. Though, in some cases, he'll cling against the walls or ceiling if frightened, finding them a safe vantage point. If you're in the dark and feel something creeping its way towards you, it's likely Fake Peppino, silently stalking you from the walls.

Despite his inhuman traits, Fake Peppino generally doesn't like the idea of eating humans. He still sees himself as somewhat human from his time spent believing he was the real Peppino. Attacking or eating things he doesn't see as prey is kept as a last resort, or if he's extremely angered. As of now in my canon/AU, there is only one person Fake Peppino has killed in this way. He didn't like the taste.

[poisonsage808]

Hi, I don't have a lot of specifications , I just need some Munch relationship headcanons or Munch and reader having a kid idk.

Please and thank you.

Im gonna be a pain in your ass (lovely <3) since you are the only one posting Munch things.

p.s: Sorry for the bad english, its not my first language and im using the translator

a/n: i don’t do familial requests, however i will be making an exception for this man because i loOoOove the idea of him as a father. your english is great, thank you for the ask! munchkin lovers are a welcome pain in my ass <33 per usual, i tried to keep this gender neutral for everyone’s enjoyment

John Munch x Reader

“This so-called parenting book? Garbage. If I wanted to be judged by a middle aged white lady, I would’ve went to the park and asked one her opinion on childrearing! I could’ve saved us time, money— not to mention brain cells.”

“Time and brain cells, yes, it was a bad book,” you admit, snatching it from his grip before he tossed it in the trash, “but it’s not ours.”

John steals the book back, snickering as he holds it high above your head,

“You got that from the library? That’s it, I’m returning our cards, we’re never going back there!”

You laugh, slapping his arm and still reaching for the book, “John!”

Surprisingly carelessly, he drops it to the floor and makes a grab for your hand instead. He hooks an arm around your waist and brings you in as close as he can. Softly, Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) is introduced on the radio and John grins fiendishly. You don’t have time to wonder if he’s nervous or feeling spontaneous when he starts dancing you around the kitchen.

“We got this right?” He asks quietly, resting his cheek against your head.

“It’s a little late to be asking that now but…” You press a kiss to his neck, smiling against his jumping pulse, “Yeah. We got this, love.”

He’s done everything he ever wanted, and then some, lived almost every experience there was to, found the love of his life. Happy didn’t begin to cover it! He didn’t know how it could possibly get better. He’s overflowing with joy, eyes watery where his mirth escapes. Behind you, he’s able to see straight into the nursery that he never thought, didn’t dare hope, would be occupied with a Munchkin of his own.

~

• Here’s the deal: you can have the first name, you can have the middle name, you can even have the last hyphenated! He just wants “Munch” at the very end… He also gets 3 vetos— no, 5 because he remembers what you named your childhood pet

• Once his office, now a nursery is a pleasant pale mix of your favorite colors. You paint the walls, build a crib and decorate the room together. He doesn’t want to miss out on a single experience, suffers through a two hour shopping spree and can count his complaints on one hand. He’s grateful he did too, now every time he steps inside to check on the baby he’s flooded with those fond memories

• You take night feeds and he handles the morning ones, that’s the routine during his time off. John may not be one for rigid schedules but he doesn’t mess around with the baby, or you. He really forces you to take advantage of him while he’s home. Has food there when you wake up, makes sure you get rest, cleans up while you feed the baby, swoops in to steal said baby so you can have a break

• You think apart of the aforementioned is guilt, like being a detective is his mistress, John feels bad he wants to go back to work. For weeks he could stay trapped in this happy bubble, living in pajamas and tiredly laughing as you both just stared at your sleeping kid. But he’s not ready to leave his job yet, it beacons him back to reality eventually

• Whatever book he was reading before they woke up, the newspaper, the billboard across the street, John’s always reading to the baby. Every night ends with his all time favorite, The Velveteen Rabbit

• Nicknames galore, he’s got ammunition for months. Along with the references you don’t always understand, “Munchkin” comes second to “bug”. Cuddle-bug, love-bug, stink-bug, little-bug, hungry-bug, silly-bug. Unfortunately for your kid, it stuck.

- Don will smirk delivering a message from you, “There’s a Bug problem waiting for you at home.”

- “Oh, let me say hi to Bug.” Olivia says while already taking the phone from him.

- “‘Sup, Munch, where’s The Big Bad Bug at?” Fin will ask, pushing through the door per his godfather rights.

- Eliot kicks a diaper box under his desk every other month, Love The Stabler’s in Kathy’s handwriting on the side, and in his own, For the Stink Bug.

• John’s stupidly proud. Right next to you in his wallet, framed on his desk, phone screensaver, is Bug. He always hated those parents that would shove ugly baby pictures in his face and say ‘isn’t my kid the cutest?’ so he doesn’t do that, god help anyone who asks about his baby, though

• Hard days hit harder when he comes home late to a quiet house. John’s quiet, desperate enough to ghost a kiss to your forehead but prays he doesn’t wake you. Then he sits in the nursery, forehead against the wood of Bug’s crib and watches the rise and fall of their little chest, abundantly grateful for each breath they took

• John’s determined not to be his father, sometimes that dark shadow stretches and you have to give him a hard push into the light. Logically he knows he’s a good dad, he’s doing everything right— arbitrary word for parenting but, you digress— and it still won’t feel like enough.

- “You’re so good with Bug,” you say, kissing his shoulder as you join the snuggle pile.

- “Aw, did you miss your dad? Yeah?” You answer for the giggling baby as they reach for him.

Hearing it from you makes all the difference in the world

• He missed so many firsts that he tears up when Bug starts walking. Clear as day, he’ll remember it for the rest of his life, you sat across from him showing off how well Bug could stand. Then one step, two, towards him. Swooping them off the floor and pulling you into his arms, he kissed you both no less than a thousand times.

• By the way he doesn’t want Bug’s first word to be “dadda”. He aims for “defund”. What? Babies can make the b, f and d sound, it’s not impossible!

“Jeez, honey, are you planning on taking them to a protest already?” You asked incredulously.

“Didn’t I tell you? There’s one Thursday in front of City Hall. I’ll try to get us a photo in the front page for you.” John shoots back with a cheeky grin, turning his attention back to the babbling baby, “C’mon Bug, dee-fun-duh, you can do it!”

• His list of favorites is getting longer than War and Peace, he loves everything about his kid. He loves seeing traits of you in Bug, determined, kind, patient, that adorable little smile that lights up any room. Stubborn, curious, too smart for their own good, with selective hearing at times might stem from him. He still loves it. He loves watching Bug’s mind hard at work when doing a puzzle or figuring out how to say something or expressing their big emotions

• He loves being a dad

• Every time he thought he couldn’t be happier, he ends up smiling so much his cheeks hurt