#fig tree au

[frodo-with-glasses]

Movie Moment Mondays:

“I’m glad you’re with me, Samwise Gamgee… here at the end of all things.”

😭💖

At the end of the world with a friend.

MOVIE MOMENT MONDAYS!

[corcracrow]

The Tom-ing of Smeagol

Aka: the LoTR discord gets too excited about their Tom Bombadil adopting Gollum AU

[estel-of-the-eyrie]

So I've not written anything LOTR in literal years at this point, but @emilybeemartin's Boromir Lives AU has given me THOUGHTS. (90% of those are He would make the BEST uncle and defacto parent figure T_T)

And especially after their excellent fic recommendation the other day ... I've begun work on a 10th Walker fic of my own hehe 👀

While I finish up the first chapter or so... here's a little sneak peek of the opening piece of Myths of Its Own:

Wren woke to screaming.

And not even the kind which followed – or even predated sometimes – a bar fight. This, blood-curdling terror. Nightmares vocalised.

The whistle of shrapnel and rapid machine gun fire on muddy Belgian battlefields and tommies falling between blood-red poppies-

Glass had been missing from the gaol’s windows for quite some time if the moss around the bars and overall damp were any indication. The cell itself was small, and she was the only one imprisoned there for now; a small mercy, she supposed. Nobody would witness her digging her nails into the warped wooden bedpost or scrambling to get a good look at the insurgents in the dark outside. 

She could make more of a fool of herself with peace of mind. 

Hoisting herself into position, slipping only slightly on that one troublesome bend on the wall, with aching arms she reached up to the window. Her breath caught in her throat and lodged there; choking on fear alone as she spotted them. Then came the siege of thoughts she’d been hiding for days stuck in the gaol, mind fuzzy and battling pain and reason to ground herself enough to even consider escaping. 

They’re dead and they won. We’re all screwed-

A piercing screech.

Where the bloody hell did that come from? It wasn’t human-sounding… 

Her eyes drew skyward. Aircraft? 

There’s a whoosh, a rush of … something. Nothing she can see but it’s enough to send her sprawling back across the floor. 

No… that can’t be possible. That sounded like wings. 

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Trash Magic

Big Daddy Trailer Park Cop AU One Shot

Summary: it’s 2008 and it’s the pits of recession, not that the suburbs of El Paso would notice, things have been rather shit among the rows and rows of trailers for some time now. With your dad locked up for being a little too ‘entrepreneurial’, it seems your only ally in these tough times is the town‘s scary old softy, Officer Presley, and the more than professional interest he takes in your speeding and footwear. 

Era: modern but with that dumbass tumblr dusty Americana feel to it I hope?

Kudos: so many to @eliseinmemphis who was my plot guru, kept this thing alive and gave so many lines and sentences used herein.

Word count: 15k and I didn’t edit this sorry for misspells, etc

18+ and may be thematically disturbing to some please read cautions, proceed at your own risk!! More specifics below the cut

HAPPY NEW YEAR MY DARLINGS!

Specific warnings: sexual content, drug use, stripping, casual prostitution, age gap, reader isn’t a minor for such activities but only eighteen?? which is not touted as a good thing but it’s in here?? if that’s a hard no then be warned. graphic descriptions of kinda gross blowjobs and very gross blowjobs, spanking, officer Presley does take too many pills for his pain ok? driving under the influence, minors drinking, trailer trash lifestyle in general, such as I personally have had experience with, it’s rough out there folks but there’s always the good ones trying their best. Sorry I really threw Joe E under the bus. I’m not really sorry but I’m sorry you have to read about him in here. Please let me know what warnings I missed if I did. Again, could be thematically disturbing due to age, solicitation, law officers, drug use, humans not being tidy little robots.

When you were three years old you recall the smell of plastic heating in the sun, the hot smell of fresh cut grass and the cold splatter of hose water on your skin. A little paradise it seemed, that tiny kitty pool and your mama waving the hose over you with one hand, her cigarette dangling between the fingers of her other, bright warm sun and yellowing grass stretched out in large swathes between the little white shacks stacked row upon tidy row. Always the same and ready to guide you home after each little wander into the thicket behind the clearing.

That was life in the Shady Oaks trailer park. There really was only one mature oak tree and it was a live oak and the sunshine beamed right through its little leaves all seasons of the year.

By five you had a sizable jar of grasshoppers collected and had become too scared of their hoards and awful beady eyes to ever release them, fearful they would swarm you the minute you undid the lid of the mason jar and gave them freedom. You had let one out and watched it hop across the torn Hexagons of the linoleum floor before it jumped in an acrobatic feat and landed in the mac & cheese your mom was making. You never know what she did with those jars, but you were half relieved, half heartbroken at the fact they were no longer your responsibility.

By eight you knew you lived in a trailer park and spending your time collecting ants and moths for the new set of grasshoppers to eat was a peculiar and uncool pastime. As were muddy knees and torn t-shirts on a girl approaching her teenage years. But mama hadn’t been able to take the heat and the rows upon rows of mildewing trailers anymore and daddy was too busy with his “entrepreneurship” to dress you right.

By twelve you had learned that some nights daddy came home, and some nights he didn’t and you couldn’t be sure which you preferred. His drunken state was unpredictable and confusing even though he was not abusive, but his absence left you counting quarters and wondering how long your Fig Newtons would last if he stayed gone longer than a week again.

By fifteen the Dollar Store and its fluorescent bulbs leached the vitality out of you with each long day shift, school was an afterthought, and your days smelled of plastic bags and detergent. You brought that smell home to your musty trailer, seeped into the sweaty fabric of your tank top. The only thing that stayed consistent whether your daddy was home or not was the religious watching of the NASCAR races. Reruns and live, it didn’t matter, where many girls escaped into Disney or Reality TV, you did your dreaming while sitting in the ratty drivers seat of daddy’s Ford, making the engine thrum.

By seventeen, your daddy was gone for months at a time. Sometimes he’d leave the Ford and take off on the road with Benny and Gregg in Benny’s motorhome from a few rows down. Greg had the pale blue trailer with the blinds that were always smashed in the one window. He always left his damn lights on, even when he was gone and they’d glow yellow and demented between the brittle plastic. Some nights when you walked back home from town, maybe a little more plastered than you’d like to admit, you’d keep Gregg’s trailer and his silly window as a landmark to turn left in the maze of trailers.

One night the bulb burnt out. One by one the rest of them did too. The fellas, they’d all been gone so long. Next week the electricity got turned off to yours. The bill hadn’t been paid. Dollar Store wages kept peanut butter and miracle bread in your cabinets and bought you cheap tequila from Terry who lived five trailers down and didn’t care about ID’s so long as there was cash on the counter. What the wages didn’t pay for was electricity or gas money or a new car that could actually accelerate fast enough to give you that thrill you craved.

Despite your lousy education and demotivated upbringing, you had some spark of diligence and ambition residing inside you, it was stoked to a decent blaze by the awful, humid and stale air of the trailer without its swamp coolers humming at night. Not even the fridge stayed cool longer than forty eight hours and you ended up at the seven eleven eating roller dogs.

You weren’t looking for job opportunities while licking corn dog grease off your thumbs but opportunity came to you anyway. As you nibbled at the soggy fried dog and licked at the rancid oil while leaning against the auto supply shelf, you’d have to be some sorta dumb to not know that Carl was hanging around the same aisle for something besides windshield washer fluid.

Carl was a native to the outskirts of El Paso just like you, and he was a married man, married to Clarissa in fact. Clarissa who’s plastic miniature flamingo’s gracing each edge of her weedy gravel drive had a younger you thinking she was the height of trailer park sophistication. That was before Officer Presley, who lived in a spacious double wide down by Gregg’s trailer and its burnt out bulbs, got himself a Tiger figurine made outta real concrete and painted pretty as anything, its blazing feline eyes not missing a speck of paint, unlike the flamingo’s slashed ones. Officer Presley only had the one and it was assumed he was saving up for another, and he placed it by the little porch he built off his trailer door, the proximity to the structure giving it a noble sorta air that sitting statues out by the street didn’t manage.

“If you keep watchin’ me like that I’ll have to start chargin’.” you told Carl and his leering face, and took another bite, munching with the carefree manners of someone actually hungry.

“Can’t do that here.” he wheezed a laugh, then thumbed over his shoulder at the bright lights of the trucker club blazing in the dark sky through the dirty glass doors of the gas station. “But over there it’s legal.”

“You so horny you’d pay to watch a girl eat a corndog?” you were dubious, wondering just how little Miss Clarissa put out if he’d waste money on this, it wasn’t like she was busy repainting her Flamingo’s peeling eyes or nothin’.

“I’d pay for a drink for ya.” Carl offered, fidgety hands wedged in his fraying front pockets. “And you can eat another dog. You like hot dogs? They’ve got ‘em over there.”

“Nah, I need cash.” you declined, aware that you could barter for drinks and end up evicted or else make sacrifices regarding the booze and keep your tin roof over your head.

“Cash?” he repeated like a dumb parrot.

“Yeah, stupid.” you flailed your hands a little in annoyance, fully certain everyone in this run down rural suburb knew you were as broke as you are alcoholic at seventeen.

“Ok, then I’ll pay for your hot dog,” he negotiated with an oil stained finger scratching at the sore on the corner of his mouth, “And you can eat it so long as you do it how I tell ya.”

You sighed and ran your chipping nails along the plastic jugs of car oil. “So long as ya let me eat it.” you stipulate, “And you gotta pay for the show.”

“I ain’t made of money, girl!” Carl protested, “I’m buyin’ dinner, you should be thankin’ me.”

“You were plannin’ on buyin’ me a drink.” you pointed out, “Where’s that money gone?”

“Jeeze ok, ok,” Carl sighed, “I’ll pay you same as a wild Turkey would cost.”

“And a dog?”

“Yeah.”

“With chili on it?”

“Oh c’mon now-“

“-It’ll make for good slurpin.” you pointed out sagaciously

Carl groaned in annoyance and appreciation for the mental image. “Ok, a chili dog and the cost of a shot. No funny shit with the tab and you eat it how I say.”

“Does the club have air conditioning?” You asked your last stipulation.

“Course it does, it would be hot as fuck without.”

Your trailer was hot as fuck and anytime spent loitering elsewhere was greatly desired. “Ok then.” you agreed with a shrug.

By the time you’d crossed the parking lot, with Carl’s guiding hand on your lower back, you were irritable from the heat and exhaust fumes. Inside was cool and almost as dark as the parking lot except for the wild, multi-colored lights swirling around the place, highlighting the girls humping the stage floor in the middle of the establishment. One more underage addition wasn’t remotely as remarkable as the fella in the corner trying to take a bite outta a lap dancer’s boob. He got smacked on the cheek for it and nothin’ more, got his full dance anyway and as you watched her after while sitting up on the bar stool, you noticed her negotiate something similar to what you’d just done. She stayed in his lap after her dance was done and after some gesticulating and her unimpressed sighs, some agreement was reached and you watched them get up and walk to the back of the club, through the backdoor that you knew led to nothing more than miles and miles of desert.

Five minutes later a similar transaction occurred between a trucker and a pole girl. They went out back, too. Ten minutes later the first couple came back in. She went to the stage and he went out the front door Carl had brought you in by.

By that point you were slowly inserting a hot dog onto your pink tongue and swallowing a bite every three minutes or more - at least, that’s what it felt like. Carl’s directions were so slow and infuriatingly erratic that you found yourself grateful for the fact you’d already eaten a bit at the gas station, otherwise this would’ve been the cruelest tease to your belly that hadn’t had lunch and only Raisin Bran for breakfast. You chose to ignore the way his hand moved in the shadow of the bar, wiping at his jeans too many times to be passed off as sweaty palms.

A nearly fully dressed girl in cut offs eating a chili dog was hardly the most sensational thing to be watched in this seedy joint, but it was the most peculiar and no sooner had you finished the dog after a laborious thirty minutes, collected the extra drink cash and prepared to go home after declining Carl’s offer of a ride before you found yourself propositioned for the same ordeal. This big fella actually offered a drink with it and much to Carl’s betrayed horror you agreed. Carl ended up leaving, going home to Clarissa, feeling too cuckolded to continue watching someone else watch you eat meat in a casing.

In between sipping Hard Mike’s lemonade you chatted with the fella and spilled pinto beans on your bare legs from the excess. Even the bartender had stopped being annoyed, he even got a bit invested in your gig, retracting the offered napkins for the spill when another guy, a farm hand from the pecan grove down the interstate, asked to lick it off.

You charged seventeen bucks for that spit bath and felt funny as the saliva dried in the chilled bar room air. The bartender asked you if you lived in El Paso. Hesitating to give yourself away or open yourself up to a driveby, you merely agreed that you lived nearby, he didn’t need to know you lived in the Spark City suburb and walked to this tuck station grill to save fuel.

Marty, he said his name was, and Marty was pleased you lived close. In that case he asked if you’d wanna work there. You knew at the time he wasn’t offering you to bartend, your age prohibitive even in so lax an establishment. Your eyes flicked over to the long gal with her sallow skin and stringy red hair loling around the stripper pole in the glow of a green spotlight. It had to be 3:00 am by then.

“Does everybody do extra?” You asked him, plainly referencing the deals that took folks out back into the sagebrush and the backside of the club.

“You do as much as you wanna get paid for.” he admitted. “Plenty just strip.”

Just, he had said. Just strip.

Just stripping was a gross understatement for the rigorous and demoralizing ordeal of flinging your practically naked body around on stage for gaping older men to ogle each night. But it took up hours of your time not paid by the dollar store wages, and you could snooze from five am to eight when your shift began again in respectable retail. You earned a decent amount, even after having to pay Marty and the doormen a portion and even turning down a lap dance or two. The chili dog schtick kept its novelty for three nights and then you were driven to grinding against the pold like all the others, wondering if they’d all hoped to not end this way, same as you.

After a few weeks of this your piggy bank was less empty than it had been in months, hidden under the sink of your trailer behind the Comet and pulled out only to stuff in bills or else retrieve bread money, one Sunday you counted enough to pay your lease for the trailer slip. What was left would make a tiny little down payment for the electricity bill.

Or gas money for at least fifty miles or more in your gas guzzler. You weighed the bills in your hands and mournfully inspected your bruised knees. It was your off day, you contemplated going to the club in the evening as it didn’t respect the Lord’s day like the dollar store, but until then you had hours of a perfectly cloudless day to burn. Suddenly your trailer felt unbearable in its stuffy crampedness.

You tore outta your door and cranked up your daddy’s old Ford and with relief found it started with only a few tries. You tore down the road too, seeking the interstate after using that cash to top her tank off. For the first time in ages a full smile had begun to split your face. You went east, passing the last remnant of civilization that you called home and comprised El Paso’s dusty satellite cling ons. Then it was open range, nothing just mesas and tumbleweed, no one else could brag of such flat country or so wide a sky.

You floored it, the speed limit a decent 80 on its own, you went up to 120, fast as you dared push the transmission without fear of being stranded in the desert. Billboards warned of “last chance for gas, Van Horn 200 miles” followed by a possibly related: “God is coming, have you repented?”

All flew by in a unheeded blur as you cranked up the stereo and let the wind whip your hair. You covered a patrol car in a cloud of dust and saw his lights flash at you in the rearview. No chase commenced. When you leisurely drove back you noticed it was highway patrol, the sun was setting and he flashed his brights at you. You flicked them back.

“Hey officer Presley.” you murmured amused at him turning a blind eye to the speeding. Back when you had more money and made a regular habit of this amateur racing, you noticed the same benevolent light flicker and never a siren broke the still of the desert. “You ole softy.” you giggled at the thought of the middle aged officer being generous for you and only you, and wondered if he’d heard about what had become of you yet. Seems like most of the trailer park had. Favorite topic these days, right up there with when or if your daddy was ever gonna come home. Had the wives hating you during the day for the suspicion of their men wanking over you at night.

“Maybe if you could spare a single food stamp or somethin’ to help a gal in need I’d not be strippin’!” You had hollered at Ms Clarissa for all to hear and you stood by it. Buncha lousy, miserable hypocrites who did far worse behind their canvas doors.

You do go to the club that night.

You stripped down to your panties and bra and made enough to buy ice and a trip to the dentist. You packed the ice in the dead refrigerator and pampered yourself with some milk and a carton of ice cream for the filled tooth.

Next day you filled up your gas tank again and blazed a path through town, headed to the wide open and dreaming of busting your way into the male ranks of nascar drivers. You were deep into a daydream and committing a little self pity about how you hadn't been able to afford cable and were missing all the races when a siren’s blare broke your fantasy and the flicker of red lights against a pale blue sky filled your rearview. Begrudgingly you pulled to the shoulder as you cranked down your window, fiddling with the radio knobs till you could actually hear your crime when your peruser sauntered up.

“Well, well officer Presley, finally got persnickety about laws, have ya?” you observed to yourself with a grin as you watched the handsome man swagger towards you along the white line in your side mirror, tugging at his pants as he neared, trying to shimmy the article of clothing a little higher but is impeded by his belt, stopped by his sizable belly, his holster and buckle sitting under the bulge of it.

Your mouth watered. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him up close, not since last time he pulled you over, though you always took note when he was lounging outside his trailer in a lawn chair with his dog or stripped down and working under his hood. He was always built, intimidating to all the stupid rascals he kept in line along the border, but now he had become outright fat and his khaki shirt pulled apart between each button. Yet when he came up to your window, that little boy's grin was still gracing one of the most exquisite faces known to man, and his voice was tender and playful when he greeted you, just as you once recalled. You could see his sweaty hair, matted on his chest and belly between the gaps, his underarms have massive pit stains, doubly apparent thanks to the light color of his police uniform.

Your smile had something of the she-wolf in it as you greeted him, sniffing the air in hopes of catching a whiff as he leaned on your window frame, nearly crowding you from outside. “Hey Miss Lead Foot Louie,” he greeted, “you know why ya been pulled over?”

“Haven't got a clue, officer.” You stated the truth and enjoyed the way his title rolled off your tongue in a bantering way. It was easy.

Officer, officer. Somebody important and authoritative. No sir, yes sir, Officer.

His left eyebrow quirked and you wondered what he looked like at twenty five, how devastating that expression would have been before his wound and his meds and the water retention. Whatever power it may have once held, it holds nothing to that slightly bemused, slightly cynical world weariness that shows in his every expression now, that had a twitch of an eyebrow making you feel a fool in the most delicious way. “You’re goin’ seventy in a forty five, Miss.” his tone was patient even as his face suggested he’d like to tan your hide for being so reckless. “Reckless endangerment of others, and yourself,” he quoted sternly, “it ain’t no small matter and I don’t countenance it on my highway.”

Gosh, you just loved it when he laid claim to government property like highways and interstates. It helped you smile meekly at him and nod.

“Sorry officer, I got lax.” You purred, batting your eyes and you could see the heavy flap of their coal coated weight in your periphery. “I’ve seen you lettin’ me fly by on the interstate. I guess I thought…”

He leaned further into her car window, shirt gaping helpfully at his neck and allowing you a glimpse of sweaty hair, little droplets shining like rhinestone studs in the coarse curls. You leaned towards him, nipples hardening beneath your t-shirt bra as your mind started to the taste of salt. “You’re in town, miss.” he pointed out with grave disappointment for your lack of behavioral modulation, “S’one thing on the open plain, it’s another when you’re endangerin’ your fellow citizens, flyin’ through intersections, speedin’ up and threadin’ traffic when you’ve got a visible yield sign. Right there! Ain’t responsible. And I won’t countenance it.”

“Sorry officer.” you pleaded, lingering on his rank with all the sultry appreciation of a girl who lacks authority figures in her life. It made his palm itch.

He sighed and gave you a small smile, puffy, marshmallow lips set under a dark five o’clock shadow and it wasn’t even noon. “Now, how many times do I gotta pull ya over ‘fore ya start listenin’ to me?“ he asked with patient expectancy and you swallowed hard, actually feeling a small bit of guilt.

“Well,” you drew it out, biting your lip before tossing your head and beaming at him, “maybe just one last time. Like always.”

He tsked at you in reprimand but his eyes lit up with enjoyment, and that was worth whatever fine he might slap you with. It really wasn’t, not with how broke you were but gosh, you loved breaking the ice on him, reeling him in for another verbal tussle. One day you hoped those expressive hands would accidently smack you mid-wave when he was explaining something or other. You lived in hope of that day.

You watched as he straightened briefly and reviewed your vehicle, thumbing at the peeling paint on the hood near his thumb and swished at the sand on your tags. You held your breath, hoping the dust would disguise their expiration. Officer Presley just grunted and surveyed your lemoning old truck with the face of a man who appreciates nice things and doesn't see any nice things in sight. The face of a man whose patrol car was a Ford Mustang.

“You like speed.” he observed, still glancing at your tires with lip curling disdain. You wanted him to look at you like that but his face always softened when he turned back to you. It did this time as well.

“Yeah.” you breathed.

“You got a shit truck for speed, terrible drag, shit tread on your tires, bet it’s a gas guzzler, too.”

“Well yeah, officer,” you rolled your eyes at his survey, “but it’s not like I can afford much else right now so -I do this for fun. Fun’s not illegal in America yet, is it?”

He looked at you gravely then and his eyes turned sad. “Yeah I heard about the strippin’. You watch yourself now, be careful and make sure you don’t engage in no extra-curric-u-lars.” he advised sternly, peering over his tinted sunglasses at you while saying the big word, over pronouncing it with authoritative gravitas, “I’ve told Marty that means no bar tendin’ when you’re underage. And I’m tellin’ you now, that goes for solictin’, too. You understand me? Nice lil girl like you could get in a heap of trouble real fast. And I won’t countenance it.”

The rest of you perked up at the heavy handed advice, feeling smothered and also cherished that someone would give a shit, even if they were just defending laws n’ government regulations. Thinking of them as Officer Presley’s laws, as his property you were twerking on somehow ennobled your calling, made you feel like giving it a try to be good and not disappoint him. You felt grateful he hadn't chewed you out for the stripping like half the neighborhood, you’d expected some disgust.

When he finally looked at you with disdain, and you were determined that he would, it would be for something less unchangeable, a little less broke, a little more sexy.

“Yes sir, I got ya.” you acknowledged with a nervous laugh to hide your discomfort with the way he kept staring at you, reading you, it felt.

He kept at it for a few moments, chomping on that gum stick in his mouth, dexterous pink tongue lolling the stuff from one row of molars to the others and back. Most fascinating ping-pong match you’d ever seen and while he did his soul-reading, you watched his mouth.

As his jaw worked overtime, he narrowed his eyes at you, so blue they looked violet behind the tint of his lenses. “A’ight.” he decided at last and suddenly your window was bereft of his congenial bulk, you heard the rap of his knuckles on your truck roof.

“You stay outta trouble now, Missy.” he let you off with only a warning, two sharp knocks on the metal and then, “I’ll be seein’ ya.”

You watched the side mirror with investment as he meandered away, futilly hiking up his holster again as he went before he entered his squad car. He flashed his lights at you as you stayed gawking, you fumbled with the ignition and peeled out off the shoulder, moderating your acceleration upon afterthought. You’d promised to be good.

But nights at the Trucker Bar didn’t pay to be good. You had a laundry list of things you wanted and a hefty list of needs alongside it. You tried picking up a shift at the Texaco but Ashley there near tore your hair out against the beer coolers for encroaching on her shift. Everyone needed work and Spark City had never been much of a City, too little infrastructure to prosper its community in good times, much less in the pits of a recession. The Best Buy in El Paso was hiring, you read in a mail advertisement. Their wages cost as much gas it took to drive there and back.

So you got pretty good at something else, something Officer Presley wouldn’t be impressed by, or maybe he would in a moment of weakness but lord, much as you worried and panicked some times about him dropping in on the Trucker stop, meeting eyes and him just knowing you’d been doing extracurriculars, he never showed. Must not have been his scene. Not that you were sure what his scene was, you only ever saw him in his patrol car or else cleaning his guns on his trailer porch next to his Tiger figurine.

You assumed he liked blow jobs as much as the next man. But he never showed and so you got more and more lax, went out back of the bar to the Sagebrush desert and blew heavy tippers against the concrete wall, ant bites and stickers plaguing your knees. So far you hadn’t even needed to walk on over past the broken wall to the dingy motel in back and do the horizontal tango.

Moderate extracurriculars and the dancing was enough to tip your little piggy bank into having a little something to shake at the end of the day. You got yourself a haul of cereal and hot pockets that night, even splurged on milk that went rancid by the next day without refrigeration. You spent your late mornings debating how much money you had left for rent and how much you had for electricity and the viability of buying a generator instead of paying the bill. You also wanted a Blackberry phone real bad, your old flip phone a relic and on its last wheezes -maybe that’s why your dad’s calls never came through.

You were chewing off the price tag of your dollar flip flops, walking barefoot out of your daytime workplace -Dollar General- at the end of your shift when you realized there was a patrol car pulled up beside your Ford. First you cursed, then you grinned as you saw the familiar figure of Officer Presley wiping at your windshield with a bandana. Then you cursed again as you realized he was checking your expired tags.

You jogged over the burning asphalt, still tied flip flops in hand, hoping you didn’t look like shit from having taken off the Dollar Store vest without smoothing your hair afterwards. You hadn’t been good, he could be here for anything, soliciting, or for the speeding you know he caught on his radar or else the tags.

“Hey officer!” you chirped, as carefree and smiley as you could manage -and you’d gotten to be a tidy little liar at the club, insisting you couldn’t wait to have greasy, unwashed truckers in your mouth.

He turned his head slowly, hand still heavy on the windshield and observed you through those glasses again. “Don’t you ‘hey officer’ me.” he retorted, riled despite himself at the way you always said his rank like he had you locked up with frilly pink handcuffs to his waterbed. He shook his head and focused on the variety of delinquencies he had to reprimand you for. “These tags are out of date.”

“Aww,” you feigned consternation pretty decently as you really hadn’t bothered to prioritize the tags with every other dire cost pummeling you right now, “I’m sorry Elvis.” you tried a little familiarity as you drew closer, watching enthralled as a stale desert window tufted the front of his black locks of his sweaty forehead, “Things’ve been a lil tight for a while now, what with daddy leavin’. Slipped my mind.”

He pulled his hand off the windshield and his hands tried to rest on his hips but they slipped and ended up in an odd, off-kilter sorta sling on his pockets and belly, “They’re three years overdue.” his tone sounded unimpressed, you shivered despite the heat.

“Oh.” you chewed your lip and gazed at him hopefully.

“I oughta tan your hide, lettin’ you turn feral with all my concessions.” he said aloud while stippling his fingers on your rusting truck hood. His eyes dropped to the newly purchased, junk flip flops you still clutched. “Why’re you bare foot?”

“My last pair broke.” you explained, end of your shift the thong had snapped and here you were with the replacements.

“Well put ‘em on, the road’s nasty.” he grunted in aggravation, eyes dropping to your feet and widening in disgust at the welts and blisters you’d accumulated from your cheap stripper heels. “Holy shit, that’s gnarly right there.”

You felt a bit offended by that, wanting to object it was the toll of the job, sorta like fat guts came from lounging in patrol cars for a living. Figuring you were in deep deep enough shit as is without outright insulting him, you bit your tongue and chewed on the plastic connector again, trying to free your sandals.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop that.” he growled after a minute and to your bewilderment he stepped in your space and grabbed the foam footwear out of your mouth, “Gonna chip a tooth goin’ on that way, then your tips’ll go down, ya thought of that? No? No you don’t think ahead about nothin’.”

He was working himself up into a frustrated frenzy, tugging at the plastic tag, mumbling all the while about your behavior until it snapped at last and separated the flip flops. He stared dumbly at his success for a minute while you tittered. Bad move on your part, his eyes darkened and he genuinely scowled at you, something more effective than it should have been with his outdated sideburns carving lines in his cheeks.

“Turn around.” he demanded and you snapped your mouth shut, confused by his attitude and furtively eyeing your flip flops still dwarfed in his gloved hands. Who the hell wore gloves in this decade? In this century? In an El Paso suburb that was only a degree or two cooler than the surface of the sun.

You turned around.

“Hands on the hood.” he told you.

You placed them on the burning metal and wished you had gloves, angling your body away from the hot body of the truck, wincing at the heat, on tippy toes to save your feet from the asphalt. Was he gonna cuff you? He hadn’t even read you your rights and could a person even be arrested for tags? You really didn’t know and you never thought he would-

Suddenly a loud snap resounded in the empty parking lot and a white hot sting against your bottom distracted you from the pain of the hot car. You yelped in shock, hand flying to nurse the denim clad ass cheek that was burning from his smack. You glared over your shoulder at Officer Presley, ready to give him what for about him taking parental liberties until you saw his face folded into childish consternation, poofy bottom lip jutted out in remorse as he viewed the snapped flip flop in his hands.

He’d broken a shoe on you. Appreciation flared back, and you wanted to squeeze his cheeks and tell him it was ok, he could ruin the other, too.

“Aww shit, now I-I-I didn’t mean for that-“ he bemoaned, turning the ruined foam pad around and around in his hands as if there was a way to fix it when the other half was on the ground.

“It’s ok.” You heard yourself comfort the fucker who’d just spanked you in broad daylight.

“But you just finished your shift.” he muttered, and his consideration for your inconvenience touched you, “Here I-I-I’ll go buy ya another pair. Uh, yeah, c’mon.”

You skipped alongside him, trying to get him to look over at you but his face was flushed and his eyes trained on his task, picking out a hot pink pair instead of the polka dots you had chosen. “Does nothin’ for your lil sooties and brings the attention away from the polish ya got painted and instead directs the eye to the crustaceans and shit ya got goin’ on.” he referenced your calluses with a grimace and reached into his back pocket to pull out his worn wallet.

You stared at the hefty meat of his ass the entire time and almost missed it when he pulled out five dollars and put them on the register. You watched his ass and its khaki clad splendor as he returned the wallet without change and wiggled it into the tight back pocket.

At the double sliding glass doors of the front he snapped the tag there and then and squatted down with a little grunt, his knees popping audibly as he gallantly laid out your cheap slippers. You stepped into them, taking the liberty of putting a balancing hand on his sweaty shoulder.

His hand ran up your wrist and held you there a minute longer than it needed for stability. He squeezed twice and let go. You watched him heft himself up to his feet with admiration and a little pity for the stiff way he moved when he’d been stuck in one position for too long. Seemed to you so long as he was kept moving he did alright, nice and fluid and you’d seen him chase and tackle a man on foot awhile back, he’d been runnin’ like the wind then. He had it in him, just lounging in the patrol car hardly helped things.

You got the sudden and stupid urge to ask if he wanted to go swimming in the Motel 6’s pool, it would be good for his joints and your sore back and he’d be wet and maybe have his shirt off and you could-

“I got somethin’ to tell ya, it’s w-w-why I-I stopped when I saw your truck and uh, sweetie, let’s stay h-here in the cool.” he gently tugged your arm back with the pads of his pretty fingers hooked on your deltoid, pulling you back over the threshold and into the dryer sheet scented air of the Dollar General.

“What is it?” you asked him as he seemed nervous, a foreign look on him. You started to feel a little panic at the thought he might be leaving, going back to wherever he came from, done with this Podunk town and its big crime and little criminals.

“There ain’t no easy way to say this a-a-and I wanted you to hear it from me.” he chose his words carefully, eyes trained on the white and speckled tile below your feet until after a big breath he lifted his stunning eyes and gazed at you gently and in the most gallant way you’d ever been looked at before, murmuring in clear, compassionate tones, “They caught your daddy the other night -drug runnin’. Ain’t no petty marijuana charge or somethin’, it’s the big stuff. He’s gonna be put away, for a long while, in-car-cer-ated.” he specified with distinct pronunciation, “For a long while, Miss. I’m sorry to be the one t-t-to t-tell but I wanted you to know it’s true, I-I-l booked him in myself.”

“Well,” you swallowed hard, a little ashamed you’d been more alarmed at the prospect of officer Presley leaving than suspecting anything wrong with your walking disappointment of a father, “well damn.” you muttered.

“You don’t seem much surprised.” he pointed out, pulling his tinted shades down his nose to get a clear review of you, he had a red line on his nose from their weight.

“I barely know him anymore,” you admitted, “and I doubted he was gone spreading charity or something.”

“Yeah.”

“But damn -he was supposed to come back.” you felt a little angry about that part. A little childish for believing it too.

“Maybe he meant to,” he soothed, although your father’s entrenched position on the river suggested a more permanent stay, “and was doing all that sellin’ to give you somethin’ better but he was breakin’ the law and endangerin-“

“-Endangering others, I know.” you snapped at him, not because he was anything but nice, you snapped at him because he was very kind and he had a silver, shiny, sanctimonious badge on the large swell of his left peck.

The longer you stared at the badge the more you wanted to sink your dollar store acrylics into the meat of that man and try tearing -they’d probably break and it made your eyes swim with tears of frustration and you stomped out of the double glass doors into the heat of the parking lot. The sun would be going down soon and that’s when your best customers would pour into the club. You snapped your way across the asphalt on the flip flops he got you, ignoring his calls behind you as you wrenched open the squeaking truck door and hopped up into the cab.

“Really it’s fine!” you yelled at him as he came up to the window again, the concern and reproval written on his face way more heavy than you could take right then, “It’s not like I was expecting him back anytime soon anyway and -and you’ve got a job to do, ok? I get it. I get it, ok? Now I gotta go, officer.” You cranked up your engine and diesel fumes swirled around him. He batted the air in front of his face like a dainty lady would a swarm of flies and leaned heavier still on your rolled down window.

“I just wanted to let ya know.” he reaffirmed his intention, his gesticulations bringing your eyes to the gold watch around his wrist that jangled against the car metal, “Tell ya not to uh, don’t do nothin’ rash, alright? Just ‘cause he’s gone. You’re a big girl, you’ll make it. You ‘member what I said last time ‘bout extracurriculars?”

“I’d like to do you some extracurriculars.” you seethed with an angry smile and he looked taken aback, actually stepping away from the truck and his belly heaved with his offended breaths. One hand balled in a fist at his side and the other twitched, fiat palm swaying beside his thigh like he was gonna smack again. Extracurriculars -you’d like to take his no doubt chubby little cock right down to the sweaty thatched base and chew, just to earn a real spanking.

Maybe this lewd intent was written on your face but he slowly backed away from your truck like you’d gone looney, pointing his finger at you as he went, “You be good, I mean it. And that’s goes for respectin’ officers of the law.”

He was about to get into his side, looking over his car top in admonishment and you quickly made sure your truck was still in park before turning round in the seat and hanging yourself out the window, cleavage pressed against the edge to your best advantage and blew him a kiss. “I’m always a good girl, officer!” you swore adamantly and it stopped him dead in his tracks, stopped in a half crouch to his seat, that eyebrow disbelieving, “Officer Presley commissioned me to be good and I ain’t anything but!” you swore.

Took him five whole seconds to recall he was supposed to have his ass seated by then and he lowered himself the rest of the way into his car. His belly brushed the steering wheel and his legs spread themselves even in the driver's seat, it made your crushed breasts tingle. “Be-have.” he pointed that finger again and your thighs clamped shut on your seats, overwhelmed with unbidden thoughts of the long and slender digit probing inside you. How’d his fingers stay so slender when the rest of him bulked up?

You saluted as poorly as you could and watched him drive off, aggression plain in his accelerations and the way he took his turns. He shoulda stayed and spanked the other cheek, you thought, as you turned around and slumped in your seat, legs splayed and fighting a desperate urge to slip a hand down your shorts. You hoped to god he’d find some quiet shoulder of the road in the desert this evening and with a car passing every twelve minutes, tug a load out to the thought of wacking your denim booty with his belt. It would be good for his blood pressure.

Hands sticky from your own dismal release, you pulled out of the parking lot ten minutes behind him and, too scarce on time to go home first, drove straight to the club, knowing full well that you could always just strip down to your underwear.

Or less.

What with dad permanently unhelpful now, it was a fact of life that you’d have to do more than get by till he came back. You’d already accepted that awhile ago, this just confirmed it. You figured you’d need to save another stash of money, like the real professional girls did, girls like Kelcie and Shay, a little fund for renting out a motel room at night. The one a quarter mile out back of the truck stop, no harm in it except for a few bramble scratches in the dark and the odd coyote not scared off by the truckers’ loud moans out back at the blow job wall.

But for tonight you hadn’t any such stash and so after a few hours at the poll and chatting up the fellas lounging on barstools, you found the tip jar lacking and made one of those lil deals that were becoming almost as commonplace as getting your butt pinched.

This time, in the moth attracting glow of the outside light, your customer had a New York accent and while at cock level you learned from his fancy, dangling silver keychain that his buddies knew him as Joe E.

Now Joe E had a little brown cock and a small, fused ballsack under a sizable belly like most of these men in here did, and you did some of your best work on him. It was easy to do with him fitting in your mouth so easily, you pulled out every trick you’d learned at this wall, all of which he unfortunately resisted succumbing to more than the usual client. He’d pull himself out of your throat and he would grip his base, prolonging his experience and you supposed he had a right to it, he was paying money for something and he might as well do it how he liked but your jaw ached after a while. Soon your ears ached worse, exhausted and fed up with the self important monologue he kept up between the usual, self promoting stud talk that an unimpressive man in his forties likes to indulge in while paying for sex acts out back of a hole in the wall truckers club.

Joe E tasted like he hadn’t touched a fresh vegetable in years and through the overwhelming desire to puke you recognized with some pleasure that he was tipping you extra for being “like a damn vacuum down there, you pretty little dog.”

You drove home from the club, headlights on dim in the early morning and passed by Officer Presley’s double wide with intent, choosing the route you’d take if you were walking. It was dark inside but as you passed you saw he wasn’t asleep, his car was still gone.

You wondered if his doggie was in there or on patrol with him. You sighed and pulled into your own weedy drive, depressed with something you didn’t know the cause of.

You brushed your teeth, you ate cereal after remembering you hadn’t eaten, and stripped out of your clothes before crashing into bed, falling asleep in seconds despite the musty, unconditioned air inside.

It was the next morning, so near afternoon as to barely warrant it but Elvis Presley liked to take credit for any bit of effort he made and so let the record show it was still morning, when he entered the Waffle House off Moody Blvd and sat himself down in a booth and ordered his usual. It arrived at 11:56 in the morning and so it was breakfast, not lunch by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been up all night, the usual plaguing reasons and a few added to it. You, thoughts of you and tanning your hide and gripping you and you squirming over his lap made his patrols a hellish experience and he was almost glad for the distraction of the fucker without plates pulling out in front of him and making a run for it through the border checkpoint at 8:45 pm.

Now he was distracting himself with food, and if there was anything in his life to rival his appreciation of a slippery and obligin’ pussy, it was five scrambled eggs piled high on a white plate with burnt bacon to the side and waffles stacked on a companion plate. Brenda put them down with a smile and gave him a side hug that made his face brush her apron and shoulda gotten her fired by the food regulations but Elvis liked Brenda for her affectionate ways and the way he didn’t ever have to correct her about his order.

“You look tired.” she worried over him and he found a smile starting to threaten on his face, he stuck his fork in the eggs to distract himself.

“Just a busy night.” he admitted and absentmindedly rubbed at his sore knee.

“Aww you’re a treasure, keepin’ us so safe.” he patted his arm again and he fully smiled this time. “You just tell me if you need anythin’ else. I’ve got more coffee, lemme get ya more coffee, Elvis.”

“Thanks Miss Brenda.” he called to her and she giggled as she fetched the cloudy pot.

The bell over the entrance jangled and from Elvis’ chosen vantage point in a booth that faced the doors, always facing his entry that man, he saw Joe Esposito walk in, smiling like a motherfucker for a Wednesday morning and swaggering like Elvis hadn't seen the little runt do since he passed the bar back in 1980 something.

“Hey Brenda, hey EP!” Joe greeted and Elvis braced himself for a cheerful morning when all his hopes had been for some quiet and a little maple syrup glazed despondency.

“Hey Joe.” Elvis greeted his old friend, “You in town?”

“Yeah, my route’s takin’ me to Las Cruces.” Joe informed him as he helped himself to the booth across from Elvis without invitation. If he ate one of Elvis’ bacon strips, even reached for it, Elvis would be pulling out his Glock.

“How’s business?” Elvis asked as neutrally as possible, knowing that it was a sore subject for Joe who had once bragged about being destined for big things, holding it over everybody else at the high school back in Memphis. Still Elvis couldn’t help but ask, partly because it was small talk and if he could get Joe on the subject he knew the feller wouldn’t stop talking, and Elvis could then eat his eggs with minimal requirements for speech. He also took some inner consolation in the fact that all Joe’s brags had worked out about as poorly as Elvis’ dreams had.

It made for two portly middle aged men in a Waffle House booth discussing gas prices at noon.

Joe ordered just pancakes and Elvis judged the lack of meat from beneath his lavender shades and patiently asked the right questions to keep Joe smacking his breakfast with an open mouth and waxing sentimental about life on the road. It suited Joe, even if it was boringly unimportant, he was king of the road in between stops at Walmart distribution centers and out in the stretches of no man’s land the girls were cheap, far cheaper than any Times Square street walker. Joe hadn’t been to Times Square since he was sixteen but it was something he still liked to brag of and to incorporate in his life story like it was an integral part of his narrative.

“But are they fresher?” Elvis inquired, always intrigued by the subject of pussy but also harboring a deep aversion to the way most men spoke on the subject.

“Nah, not really, but that’s why ya go for the mouth.” Joe catechsied Elvis on the ways of call girls and Elvis felt his eye twitch, personally he enjoyed blow jobs as much as the next guy but to avoid the pussy all together as Joe was suggesting? It took all the joy out of the act for Elvis and he picked at his eggs morosely as he listened. He’d had such a large appetite before Joe sat down and started talking of fishy cunts and girls with throats like drainage pipes.

Joe had been to the truckers lounge, the trucker club, the strip place, whatever it was called -the place Marty ran. Elvis knew it, he tried not to react to the name, to pretend he didn’t gas up at the Texaco next door with the express intent of hoping to catch sight of you some nights. He never did, and he’d never been in. But Joe had gone in and Joe being Joe sat across from Elvis the next morning and bragged to a law officer about paying for a blow job. Which along with ruining Elvis’ appetite was offense enough for Elvis to decide to arrest the fucker, but the eloquent details of the slut who’d given it to him made Elvis see red.

Elvis didn’t really mind folks watching you, some stupid, possessive part of him was glad that all those fuckers drooled over you and couldn’t touch, same as him as he sat year after year in his lawn chair on his porch, watching you pass his trailer with longer and longer legs, prettier and prettier as the dusty days rolled by.

But to touch you? That someone else had touched you? The butter on his waffles suddenly looked wrong.

“-just fifty bucks man. Fifty bucks well spent.” Joe was bragging like he’d cheated the stock market and Elvis heard a roar in his ears that the doctors swore the pills would take care of.

You’d sucked Joe Esposita for fifty dollars right after Elvis had told you to be good and you’d blown him a kiss.

His chest hurt.

Elvis had Joe’s greasy face pressed into the syrupy plate with his hands behind his back and cuffs clanking before either the officer or the suspect even realized his intent. “Prostitution’s illegal, motherfucker, as is paying for such services in the state of Texas.”

You’d told him you’d be good. Fuck! He so badly didn’t wanna think of Joe being your first that he had to countenance speculation about you making a regular habit of this thing which was both worse and better all at once and he took out his frustration at that knowledge by trundling Joe into the back of the squad car with far more force than necessary.

It was a flimsy charge to file, Elvis knew that even before the clerk gave him the usual papers to fill out with a confused look. Wasn’t like Elvis was gonna put down your face or name, give away your crime. Without that connection the charge of paying for sex was flimsy and Joe would be released before dark. But it was nice to hear him sqealin’ and bitchin’ about his driving schedule and a buncha other ordinary begs that made Joe E sound as pathetic as Elvis knew he was.

It fortified Elvis throughout the day, kept him from going to your trailer or interrupting you at work to ask why in God’s name you would degrade yourself like that. It kept him bolstered with red hot rage until he was staked out in desert twilight on the dark side of the Texaco, headlights off and his eyes squinted as he watched patrons and girls go into the club.

This was his fault, for locking your daddy up, driving you to such lengths. He felt sick about it, shoulda known a stubborn, white trash girl like you would just reach for the next alternative this easy. Made him sick. Elvis suddenly felt nice and superior to all these men filing into the neon lit cinderblock structure, he had resisted touching himself to the fantasies that had filled his mind about you last night. Wasn’t pertinent that he had a stiffy right now, that was just the nerves and excitement of a stake out revving him up

He lit up a cigar and let Mellancamp growl over the stereo, engine off and the key turned just a little for the dash lights to stay on. He wasn’t sure when you got off work at the club, he assumed it must be some time around dawn and that suited his shit circadian rhythm just fine. He wasn’t tired as the hours went by, he was downright furious and his heart hurt and he popped a couple oxys sitting there with his busted knee throbbing and his mind a demented echo chamber.

By the time the sky was turning a sickly violet with the first promises of sunrise, Elvis had worked himself up to such a degree as to have his door flung open and one boot rhythmically tapping against the cement in his agitation, legs spread to alleviate the ache his pills had provoked in his groin even as the rest of him felt loose and untethered and decidedly deserving for once.

When you walked out the front of the club into the stale early morning air you laughed to yourself at the silliness of thinking you’d need a coat. Your little denim shorts and cherry print crop top suited just fine even in the early dark. That NASCAR jacket you’d had your eye on, the one Shay showed you on eBay, it would have to wait, the tips were shit tonight. No real hurt with that, wasn’t like it was cold. Just another something you wanted and would have to put off. You hadn’t driven tonight as the walk was cheaper and closer but you’d forgotten your pepper spray back at the truck stop and you hesitated for a moment about going back in, hating the idea of getting sucked into some sorta early morning drama from the drunk leftovers. While you were debating, a flash of white seared your vision and you staggered to a stop in the middle of the mostly deserted parking lot.

Headlights.

Well shit, now you really wished you had that spray. You thought about making a run for it, trying the nearest truck cab and praying the guy in it was less of a creep than whoever stakes out on the deserted side of the building.

“You get over here!” the approaching figure came into view, finally silhouetted by his own lights as he stalked towards you wearing a leather trench coat like some noir villain.

It would be a lie to say you breathed easier when you recognized Officer Presley’s commanding baritone.

“Shit shit shit.” you chanted beneath your breath at how riled he sounded and his right hand started making angry gestures for you to approach as he himself closed the distance with a deceptively fast gait.

“Hey, get your ass over here, I called you.” he yelled far more loudly than necessary with his massive hands already closing around your wrists, you didn’t even think to make a run for it, where exactly in the world was a kinder place to turn to than this angry law officer who always nosed in your business too much? “Get, get over here.” he repeated with a yank and tugged you stumbling over your flip flops to his squad car.

He bent you over the hood, just like you’d dreamed of more than a few times and you felt the heat of the headlight against your thigh as your shoulders got twisted back. “-solicitation,” he was pronouncing and your heart sank at the realization he had caught you after your promise, “prostitution-“ the cold clamp of a handcuff on your wrist had none of the rebel thrill you once imagined, it was terrifying and you whimpered pathetically at the thought that you’d expended his patience, that maybe your flirty banters had been one sided and he really was fed up with you.

“Officer-“ you begged with your cheek smashed to the hood.

Some guy had walked up, actually being a good citizen and concerned about the manhandling. It took one flash of Officer Presley’s badge for the guy to back away with a mere “you at least gonna read her the rights, man?”, throwing concerned looks over his shoulder. Maybe he’d been a tipper, you didn’t recall one face from another unless they were awfully ugly or skinny.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll read you your rights, you got the goddamn right to remain silent-“ Officer Presley was struggling with the other cuff and his weight on your lower back made you wheeze just as he was short of breath. He was awfully worked up, huffily trying to clasp the cuffs and slurring your Miranda rights carelessly for so staunch a believer in laws and precepts.

When he succeeded and stood you upright you craned your neck to look at his sweaty face behind you and his eyes were wild and his hair disheveled like he’d run his hands through it a million times tonight. He looked a bit obsessed with his nose flaring like that, his speech slurring and his usual decorum completely goners.

“Are you drunk?” you balked in alarm as he trundled you into the backseat, face first into leather with your cuffed hands behind you, ass stuck out the door.

“Of course I ain’t!” he howled and pushed your butt further until you righted yourself on the bench seat, “I’m your officer of the law, that’s what I am.”

“I-I-I know that, I just-“ you felt a cold sweat break out at the realization he kept all his stubborn righteousness even skunk drunk on something, “-you seem a little…impaired. For a law officer. For a law officer driving on a government road. See! I do listen, I do and I really don’t think that while you’re dr-“

“I don’t even touch the booze, unlike you.” he spit. “Nothin’ gonna get you outta this, this time you’re gonna learn your lesson!” he wagged his finger and slammed the door shut, you could hear his seething monologue through his open door as he came round and took his own seat up front, the hard plastic partition only muting it slightly. “I can’t stand, won’t stand for it, no hard times gonna make for you-“

You tugged at the cuffs on your wrists and swallowed at their security, the ole man might be inebriated but he sure knew his line of work. It made you doubly anxious at how vulnerable you were, unbuckled and cuffed in the back seat of a man about to hit the road in a blind, possibly medicated rage. Your one glimmer of hope was the fact you were the cause of that rage -and you hoped, hoped so damn hard he cared out of some sort of fondness, not anger.

“Strippin’ and blowin’ and probably snortin’ shit and you ain’t even outta highschool-“

“You turned eighteen?!” He balked, jerking the rearview down to stare you in the eyes.

“Yes sir.” you agreed meekly.

“And you didn’t tell me? I’d have gotten you somethin’!” he cried out, “Eighteen and don’t tell nobody, no mama, no daddy, and now fuckin’ with the law-“

“Officer Presley I understand you’re angry and I’m sorry-“ you tried your most vehemently ass kissing tone and scooted up to the edge of the seat, face pressed the the scuffed, forehead greased plastic divider, “I’m so sorry I had to break my promise to ya but money’s been so tight, I—ooh shit-!“

You tipped over on your side as he hit the accelerator, the wheel already turned for a complete 180 spin to leave the dingy parking lot and its flashing neon lights. You sat yourself back up and pressed your face back where you could watch his leather gloves spin the wheel, and breathe as close to him as possible even if it didn’t serve to make him notice. The plastic sorta hampered the more primal assets at your disposal. You were readying for some more protests when he spoke up, his pouty, boyish, hurt tone emphasized by his jerky merging into three lanes worth of morning commute traffic

“— why didn’t you come to me?” he cried out and you had to give it to him, crossing three white lines that smoothly while in a rage wasn’t for anyone, he had a knack, “Why didn’t you say, ‘Officer Presley, if I don’t have me enough money for’ -what is it you need money for?”

“EVERYTHING!” You screamed back, exasperated and a little scared at the blur of tail lights he wove you through.

“You’re greedy,” he surmised, “you’d rather go work at the tit shack as a lot lizard, shakin’ it for strangers and suckin’ Joe E’s cock than ask for my help. My help!” He stabbed at his chest with a gloved finger and it was quite obvious how tore up he was over that mental image, you didn’t know he knew such particulars but you could use this to your advantage, you could try at least.

“Officer Presley,” you cooed as gently as you could with road noise and a plastic divider hampering your sultry intentions, if you had freedom of movement you’d be reaching around his thick neck and tucking that one sweaty curl behind his ear where it tufted with his sideburn, “I’d have preferred it was you,” you watched closely as that sank in, the lead foot easing on the accelerator, there was a choice up ahead, left to the precinct or right to the trailer park, “but I’ve got my pride and I couldn’t just take charity from you. I kept hopin’ you’d come in, then we could both do each other a favor.”

You could hear him sniff, running a hand underneath his nose. “That right?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, forehead thudding back against the plastic and at the red light intersection he stopped and craned his neck to look at you. “Don’t take me in, not this morning, please, pleaaasssse!” you begged, “We’ve both been working all night and we’re tired and sad and- you need somebody to make you dinner before you fall asleep, don’t ya?”

It was a dirty, dirty ploy to distract him like that but you could see with searing clarity the way his eyes wavered in their glare, then softened into childlike meekness at the thought of food and companionship. “You wanna come back to mine?” he whispered, gravelly from all the yelling and his eyelids batted under the lavender shades, azure and owlish.

“I really do.” you agreed, “Mine hasn’t had any air conditioning in seven months.” you admitted and he made a wounded noise of protest for your deprivations. You’d make him see why you took to stripping, he just had to be eased into it.

“I didn’t take it outta the freezer ‘fore I left.” he realized dejectedly as he turned right -away from the station.

You took a massive breath and tried to make it go to your swimming head, relief coursing through you at getting your way. Then you tried to process what he’d said. “Oh, your dinner?” you prodded.

“Yeah. It’s frozen. Lasagna.” he mumbled.

“Well, that’s nothing me and a microwave can’t solve.” you assure, gauging how his profile had softened in the dim lighting of the cab lights but his grip on the wheel and his jittery leg were about as stiff and upset as when he cuffed you. “What could I do for you in exchange for a bite?” you whispered, the sudden stop of the car making you realize with a hitch in your breath that you were in front of his place.

“I liked you.” he suddenly spoke up with such vehemence that it would have been comedic, what with him having already given into you and taken you home, but instead it was a little heartbreaking. “I liked you but you was too young!”

“I still like you.” you hedged, “Even though you cuffed me and called me a lot lizard.” you teased.

The solicitation, the sharing, it seemed to be his chief sore.

“That’s whatchu is!.” He grouched, staring out his front windshield at the single hung lamp illuminating freshly washed vinyl. “But I’ve taken you home anyways.”

“It’s really sweet of you.” you insisted, shifting on the peeling bench seat and wondering when he’d take you out of the car. “Are you gonna let me warm up that lasagna?”

“You said you wished I’d come in?” he ignored you and went back to your previous comment, about wishing he had frequented the truck stop.

Well, well, Officer Presley - a man like all others, after all.

You smirked, sticky lip gloss feeling a little cracked at this corners as you beamed at your little victory. “Maybe I could find a way to show my appreciation for takin’ me back to your air conditioned little palace. -while the lasagna is warming up.” you clarified and heard him grunt, and shift, his legs spreading a little wider in the cramped front seat.

“Yeah?” he pressed, sounding a little winded unless you were just too quick with the assumptions tonight.

“Yeah.”

“You offerin’ to be *my* lot lizzard?” He asked and after a tense minute where you were unsure if he was about to be angry again, he tapped the glass and whispered, “A joke, c’mon, don’t you get it? It’s a joke.”

“But I would!” You insisted after laughing for his benefit.

“Hmm.” He sniffed again, “Well. Hmm.” and with that unclear utterance he opened his door and heaved himself out into the stale Texas air, hiking up his pants again in that useless habit and shutting it behind him. It seemed an eternity before he finished hiking and shifting and shaking a leg out before he came and opened your door, a gentlemanly action made necessary by the stupid cuffs, still clanking around your wrists, as you scooted out of the back seat.

Officer Presley surveyed you up and down, blinking blearily as if he hadn’t seen you fully in the dark parking lot, like the glare of his headlights wasn't sufficient to show him your little cherry tank top and denim shorts, the satin tops of your red bra peeking out of the stretched neckline. “Hmm.” he hummed again and surveyed you once more, the pull of the cuffs behind your back adding to your posture being a bit booby. “Now ‘fore you cross my threshold, I’ve got house rules.” he was swaying a bit alarmingly and caught himself on the side mirror, you chose to ignore this and give him all the deferential attention needed to cure his -jealousy? Was he jealous? Of all the men who tipped you? “First rule, no dirty feet in the house. I hate filthy carpets. I hate them.”

“O-ok.” you agreed.

“Clean feet.”

“Okey.”

“Hmm. Ok.” he closed his eyes and recalled the next, “Let’s see uh- no back talkin’! No talkin’ back, what I say, goes, in my house.”

It was a trailer, not a house. But:

“Of course! You’re the man of the house!” you enthused with a little bounce for his benefit. He was still wacky and veering so fast from niceness to belligerence you were pretty sure you’d end up a little worse for wear after this no matter what. The thought excited you.

“Ok.” he pronounced, staring at the gravel and your feet like he didn’t know what to do now. You wondered when was the last time somebody had come into his place. “I got a doggie, too. Backroom. His word is law, don’t go botherin’ him none.“

Having seen the size of the dog, even if you were inclined to be a jerk to it, you wouldn’t dare. “Gosh of course.”

“Ok.” again. “I’ll get the hose.”

He left you there, leaning cuffed against his squad car as he trundled over his singed lawn to the side of the trailer, returning with the running hose in hand.

You knew it was destined for your feet and didn’t make a fuss as the warm hose water splashed against your blisters, soothing away the dust and the sticky cocktail splashes and god knows what else.

“House rules?” he prompted as he sprayed.

It was getting quite light out now. Probably close to six in the morning. What a long night. “Clean feet, respect doggie, no back talking.” You listed.

“And make yourself useful.” he grunted as if he had mentioned that before and you’d been faulty in your retelling.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Mm, ‘cause you’re my lot lizard now, ain’t ya?” he hummed, hose pointed to the side and suddenly his face was very close to yours, his belly closer and pressed to yours.

“Y-yeah.” you gasped.

“You gonna be a useful lil helper, hmm? Let hims take care of ya while you take care of him?”

Well shit, you weren’t at all sure if this were house rules or a big sexual game. Either way you wanted some lasagna and the crisp prospect of air conditioned sleep. “Yes, officer.”

“Good girl.” he turned the nozzle off on the hose, clamping it at the mouth and dropping it to the gravel.

“You- are you gonna uncuff me?” you giggled nervously as he swayed above you, nose almost brushing yours, eyes heavy and drooping.

“Hmm,” he stepped back and hooked a thumb in his belt loop, a shit eating grin spread over his face, bunching up the apples of his cheeks and turning him into a boy before your very eyes, “nah. I think -nope. Not gonna.”

“Well- shit, officer.” You sputtered, “You’ve got some little secrets?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of how little they are, sweetheart.” he cheesed before reaching out and hooking a finger in your strap, and tugging you gently by it up his porch.

It was odd, Seeing his ceramic tiger up close. Like déjà vu, or walking into a movie, some dream playing out. If your hands had been free, you would’ve pet the head concrete reverently, feeling some sort of gratitude to the noble beast for making your girlhood wishes come true as you tripped through the screen door and into an icebox of a trailer.

He shut the door and pressed you up against it with a move smoother and more practiced than you expected from him. Maybe wrestling criminals and doing the nasty called for the same dexterity. Or maybe he’d been fuckin’ somebody else all this time, waiting for you to grow up. Maybe he’d made a whole harem out of the trailer park and you were just his last pick. The thought hurt terribly, worse yet as you knew most days he was a sweetie, a funny man, attractive and well liked, not this grumpy, pill drunk trailer Baron that smushed you with his belly and sneering face so near but never descending as a lover’s should.

“Kiss me.” you goaded, licking your lips in a studied way. The little contemplative, whining sound he made took you by surprise.

He pulled down your bottom lip with a gloved finger and checked your mouth and tongue like a damn dentist. “Listerine first.”

Of course. Hygiene.

Clean feet, clean mouth, just for him to probably put his piss dribbled cock in it.

He stepped away and methodically took off his gloves, laid them on a small, doily adorned side table by the door, and then his gun and his belt came off with a satisfied grunt that made your inner thighs tingle. The thud of his large flashlight finished this routine.

Doilies.

There were doilies and frilly curtains and the oddest assortment of cheap finery around the place. A nod to the Tuscan craze taking over places like Target and such, while having a unique spin on it you weren’t sure what to name. You took it all in as he piloted you to the bathroom and methodically he pulled out a still wrapped toothbrush and plopped a jumbo sized bottle of mint flavored mouthwash on the fake marble counter.

“You kept that in case you have a lady guest?” You teased as the clinical silence was all a bit funny.

“Yeah.” he agreed without a hint of amusement and you sobered up again at the idea of him having anybody in here but you.

He poured a large quantity of the mouthwash into a paper cup, retrieved from the tidy stack of paper cups beside the sink for that purpose. His housekeeping was an odd mix of spectrum-like meticulousness and slovenly disorder. There were three pairs of pants on the bathroom rug beneath your feet and yet the mouthwash cups were stacked as carefully as the Tower of Babel. “Swish it for seventy five seconds.” He directed very soberly, tipping the liquid disinfectant into your mouth. You almost swallowed the shit. While you swished till your eyes burned and your tongue went numb from scalding mint, he tore at the packaging for the toothbrush.

“Ok, spit.” you happily spat out the green torture liquid and grinned back at him in the mirror.

“Never had a man ask me to spit it out before.” you teased.

He fumbled the toothbrush in surprise for a minute before giving you an admonishing eyebrow. “Girl don’t. We gotta brush your teeth.”

Instead of doing the obvious thing, the honorable thing and uncuffing you, he instead took his place behind you and pushed the toothbrush between your lips, moving it as if you had no arms and were helpless. All this to keep you cuffed.

What a pervert, you thought, charmed.

It was oddly cozy even if it was more than a tad bazaar, him pressing himself to you and running his spare hand along your side as you bent over the counter, trying not to ruin the moment by slurping paste too much. It didn’t seem to bother him, he didn’t watch you brush, he just discreetly rubbed the front of his slacks against your butt and kept his hand jerking the brush across your teeth. His other hand soothingly running up and down the curve of your hip, fingers fluttering under the hem of your tank and brushing bare skin with reverent little swoops.

When you were finished he laid the toothbrush down beside his, on a folded little towel in the back left corner of the vanity next to the mirror.

The domesticity made you smile. “Look, they’re spooning.”

He grabbed your chin gently, tilting your head to the side as he leaned over your shoulder. His lips very close again. “Happy late birthday.” he whispered, “I’d have gotten you a cake. Cupcake. Somethin’. You deserve to be celebrated.”

“Kiss me?” you asked again and this time he did, at his own pace, micromanaging each swipe of tongue and press of lips but he kissed you, strongly and angrily and admiringly in turn. He pulled down your tank as he went, stretching the neck out beyond any salvaging and then your bra, unclasping it with strange proficiency and letting your top gather in a ugly bulge around your hips, stuck by your cuffs and shorts, as his hands cupped and squeezed your breasts, somehow making this appreciative mauling seem essential to the act of kissing.

You two finally separated, breathless and revved up, staring at each other with wild, half lidded eyes.

“Ok.” he pronounced and you readied for more only for him to say, “Lasagna. C’mon.”

His kitchen was far nicer than yours, but still it was a mobile home kitchen. And he was a thorough bachelor. He crooked his fingers into the plastic handle and yanked open the freezer, standing aside with a grin on his face that bode no good for you. “I’m helpin’ ya out a little,” he explained sheepishly, “since you’re hampered.” he had a way of saying it like handcuffs were a natural disability, “But I let you off scott-free in exchange for you makin’ me some food.”

“Food and other things.” you bitched, “Didn’t sign up to be a comedy act.”

“Oh that’s right,” beamed, “you did offer other things.” he bit his lip and you thought you’d won when he went right back to it, “You said while it was warming up, you offered other things, while it was in the microwave. Yeah, so go on, grab that TV dinner there, not the fettuccini one, the lasagna.”

You stared at the open freezer and then back to him and then back to the freezer. “Grab it?” you sassed, not having a lot to lose with your tits out and your hands cuffed and a law officer having fun at your expense.

“You’ve got a mouth don’t ya?”

“You’re sick.” you smiled in realization before sticking your head into the cold space, nipples pebbling against the chilled plastic, and biting at the package containing Walmart’s latest gourmet provisions.

“Uhuh, that’s it.” he sounded more pleased at the sight of you with a frosted package between your teeth than he had all this time, “Heyer doll, I’ll open the microwave for ya.” his ability to make himself gallant when he was demeaning you so thoroughly made your pulse thunder uncontrollably.

You had to jut your chin and strain your jaw to plop the heavy foil package of frozen shit into the mounted microwave -fancy mobile home owning bastard- and shove it onto its proper revolving plate.

“There we gooo!” he cooed to you and you stepped back to allow him room to shut the door. “See if you can punch the buttons with your widdle nose.” he suggested excitedly and having gone this far, you didn’t see the point in objecting, not when it made him grin like that. You managed to hit the five for five minutes but the “cook” button wouldn’t respond and after banging your nose against it many times, with many laughs shared between, he finally punched it with one of his oddly pretty fingers.

“There we go.” you echoed, finding that you were blushing the minute the hum of the microwave buzzed the air, his eyes pinned to your face.

“Five minutes.” he whispered.

It was a hint. You expected something a little lewder from a man who had you carrying out food prep like a circus dog. A man of many moods and tastes, was officer Presley. “Can you cum that fast?” you asked, turning to face him.

“That’ll depend on you.” he replied levelly, a challenge in his eyes. He still wore his glasses, somehow that made you feel filthier than all the cash favors you’d ever done. He turned a little in his stance to lean back against the counter, his wrist watch jangling against the edge of the formica, his legs widening.

You dropped to your knees, linoleum freezing against your skin and you looked back up at the ticking microwave timer. You knew what he wanted, and if you were being half honest, it’s what you wanted too. So you didn’t act too good for pressing your face to the crotch of his uniform slacks, forehead indenting the swell of his belly above you and taking his zipper between your teeth. Filled out as his slacks were, with all the stupid gathers and the still fastened button, you could only barely see veiny pink flesh behind the newly opened fly.

“No boxers?” you chided him with a smirk and the unapologetic one he gave you in return made your belly clench, as did the musky smell of him and that soft double chin he had when looking down at you. There was stubble on it blending into his throat.

You’d been right, mouthwash and sterilization for your tongue but not even a spit bath for his sweaty balls and clammy dick -the man was out of his mind. You swallowed down the natural aversion the scent gave you and nuzzled your face nearer, trying to nose the button out of its hole. All you did was succeed in brushing his pants against him and making him impatient.

“Four minutes and twenty seven seconds.” He enunciated the timer reading for your benefit and you whimpered at the impossibility of getting the button undone without hands.

“Please, I can’t undo it.” you asked for his help, tugging at your handcuffs angrily, shoulders painfully aching and only the base of his thick penis visible with its nest of curls and heavy sack.

“Then make due.” he stared down at you unimpressed and you felt an overwhelming urge to grind yourself against his boot at his disdainful expression.

Blinking away horny, frustrated tears, you held your breath and buried your face again, nuzzling inbetween the fly gap, using your chin to tug the crotch further down until his heavy, purplish pink balls spilled over the respectable khaki’s and into the cold air. A bit of hope filled you at how taut and bunched they already were, he wasn’t so cool and unaffected as he acted. You saw him reach into his pocket, digging for something as you weighed your next decision.

“Don’t you want some lasagna?” he prodded.

That made you mash your face to his pants and take both of those hairy balls into your mouth, slurping and sucking at them like a shop vac. His jangling movements in his pocket ceased suddenly before picking up again, and then he withdrew it, a sharp gasp heard above you before he stuck a retrieved cigarette between his lips and lit it. A billowy cloud of Marlborough was blown over your crouching form as the microwave hummed on and his chest hummed in satisfaction. He shoved his hand back into his pocket, knuckling along at his cock.

“That’s it.” he sighed as you mouthed at the base as best you could, tonguing at the hefty vein running along the underside, slathering as much as you could reach. He was salty and tacky to taste and his pants were growing wet from something more than your spit. He was a leaky little man, it made your smirk and smack your lips.

“Feel good, officer?” you moaned in question, just as the microwave dinger went off. “Nooo, damnit, no!” you whined at the sound, a poor loser at all times.

Officer Presley only chuckled and twisted a little to pop open the door, hissing and cussing as he grabbed the benign edges of the hot foil and plopped it into the counter, “Hey hey hey, I didn’t say you could get up, now, did I?” he chided as you shifted a tiny bit away to watch him pull off the cover and reveal cheesy red sauce. Your stomach was in knots, it was so empty.

“No.” you admitted.

He twisted his torso to snag himself a fork from the drawer beside your head, and then, stabbing the casserole with it, took both his hands down to his pants and undid the button at last, letting his pants fall to the floor as they’d been trying to do and been prevented by a belt each time you’d seen him. “Finish what you started, doll, and then I’ll give you a bite.”

You swallowed hard, saliva pooling freely in your tongue at the smell of Italian food. It would be of use. He was tapping his sputtering fat cockhead to your lips and after a tiny grunt of resistance, you gave in, opening your glossy lips and letting him slide the thick meat over your tongue, tangy and salty and pulsing like a living rod, all the way to the back of your throat.

“Fuck me, that’s it.” he nodded to himself as you gagged around him, pulling back a little before pushing back in.

You heard the slide of the casserole tray against the counter and the crunch of tin foil, looking up through bleary eyes you saw him cradle the lasagna pan to his chest, balanced on top of his gut. You hollowed your cheeks around him while watching in disbelief as he stabbed at a bite and brought the laden fork to his mouth. He groaned around the bite in enjoyment -your guess over which pleasure was gaining the upper hand. Feeling a little competitive against TV dinner lasagna, you worked his cock faster, sucking more deliberately and trying very hard to let him down your throat, pleased as his hips began to cant and thrust in time with your encouragements.

“That’s it, that’s it, my sweet little homegrown hoe.” he mumbled to you adoringly through a mouthful of pasta and it made your face glow in pleasure, chin and chest dripping with the filth of it all. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna-“ he warned suddenly, pasta tossed back on the counter as he stood up straight and grabbed the back of your head, holding it still, smoldering cigarette pinned dangerously near your ear and hair as he fucked your mouth with fast, frantic pumps before a frankly preposterous amount of spunk filled your mouth and dolloped down your throat.

He petted your head as you struggled to breath again, cloying gloop coating your mouth, one hand coming up to take off his glasses and toss them to the side. He rubbed at his eyes and you realized you weren’t the only one teary eyed from the intensity of it. “Mm, reckon I gotta keep ya after that.” he decided, knuckling your cheek fondly, they were sticky to your surprise. “Want that bite?” he asked conversationally and while you’d have preferred some water to wash down his most recent gift, you nodded anyway and he stabbed at the casserole until he had a great big bite and brought it down to your mouth, smirking as your cheeks once again bulged at the mouthful.

“Thank you.” you smiled up at him and he humphed bashfully before motioning with his fingers for you to stand up.

“Wanna eat the rest of this in bed?” he asked eagerly, licking his teeth, “I’ve got a waterbed.” he added like that would convince you.

“Of course you do.” you giggled. “And of course I do - lead the way.”

He grinned and pushed off the counter, grabbing the casserole as he went. “Might even find the keys for those back here.” he joked about your cuffs before adding with a wicked little wink, “No promises, mind.”

Hope you enjoyed, I write for screams and comments and unhinged feedback. 🤓♥️

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[sempersirens]

the fig tree | masterlist

pairing: therapist!joel miller x f!reader

series summary: a twenty-something woman, on the brink of everything and nothing at all, takes on a new therapist to heal from her traumatic past. however, lines become blurred when you discover dr. miller has skeletons of his own.

general warnings & tags: au, therapist joel, angst galore, slow-burn romance, eventual smut, two very broken people, power imbalance, reader is angry at the world, god complex/saviour complex, age gap, fleabag-esque, discussion of past trauma, misogyny, joel has both sarah and ellie.

a/n: i have been struggling with writer's block for the longest time; i've had so many different ideas floating around in my mind that just wouldn't stick. so, i thought what do i know best? and the answer to that is quite simply the horror that is womanhood.

for updates please follow my writing blog @sempersirenswrites and turn on post notifs

parts

rotten

[coming soon]

[animereaderinsertwriter]

to fuck a god

tags/warnings: smut, ares x nymph!reader, erwin smith x reader, ancient greece au for a hot minute

a/n: this fic is a gift for the lovely, wonderful @bluebellhairpin whom i adore (and is responsible for my schmexy icon!!!!)

There is shouting in the distance.

Your nose wrinkles, your eyes tighten. Darkness, warm and weighted, presses against you, smothering wakefulness. Peace lulls you back to slumber.

Moments later, there is a scream—  you hear it past the darkness, past the weight. It is the lonely, abandoned cry of a wounded soldier. Your heart lurches, your eyes flutter.

Still you sleep. It has been too long since last you had rest.

It is a crash that finally wakes you. Pain blossoms in your abdomen as a bridge collapses, a crushing pressure that forces air from your lungs. You rise, hot, raging, vengeful; your waters churn, boiling wine-dark with the blood of mortal men. Battle has come to your riverbank, unbidden and unwanted. 

The men do not— cannot— see your body as you emerge from foaming rapids, but that does not lessen the doom they face by the outstretching of your hand. This is your river. The silt and sand beneath their feet, the water in their noses and lungs belong to you; they will not savage it without price

They pay with their lives by the dozen. You extract it from them mercilessly, plunging them beneath the water's surface. As your rapids rage, one man reaches, lunging to gouge another with his spear; even in your wrath, you mark the act as strange. What manner of beast is man that even in the throes of his own death, he seeks to cause another's? You find it too foolish to fathom.

 “For Athens!” cries one man just before you fill his lungs with water. “For the noble House of—”

He does not finish. You smother his battle cry with watery death. Athens could burn for all you cared, along with every noble house and home along the way. You cared little for irreverent man; would that the gods would send you power enough to flood them all.

 “Such fury from one so small. Would that I could inspire like rage in even fifty men.”

The voice, though gruff and deep, was quiet, bemused. In your distraction, you allow a man to escape your clutches and crawl back to shore, gagging and sputtering as he went. Furious, you turn and find the true object of your ire lounging beneath the shade of a fig tree, a scroll in hand. Once, it might have amused you to find the god of war reading, of all things— but you were accustomed now to his all-too-frequent visits, and the oddity had worn off its charm.

“Restless vagabond,” you spit, feet slapping as you walked from your place in the water to the shore next to his tree. “Go back to Sparta, Ares—you're not wanted here.”

So saying, you fold your arms, waiting for a response. When the god doesn’t deign to reply, you flick water from the tips of your fingers in his direction. Shiny droplets land in his dark hair, glistening like dew; a single shimmer of water races down the thick bridge of his nose, then dives off the blunt tip of it to land on his scroll.

“Woman.” 

The word is spoken lowly— a warning— but has no real bite. Your words, however, are far from toothless, heedless of how great and terrible is the power that he wields.

“I am no mere woman— no more than you are mere man.”

Dark-bright eyes look up at you, their russet brown edging on red as they sparkle with mischief. As his gaze follows the curves and plains of your body, Ares smiles— the very definition of crude and lascivious.

“You are a woman in all the ways that count.”

That, you supposed, was true enough.

“Why have you come?”

He nods towards the chaos of your river.

“The men brought me.”

“As if mortal man makes his own war.” Your face contorts into a scowl. “I ask again: Why have you come? Why come you to savage my banks, pollute my waters with foul man-blood and stinking mortal shit?”

“I told you the truth, pretty one.” Ares rolled his scroll gently. It crackled under his huge hands, but did not bend. “The men wage war, and whithersoever they wage, there I must be also.”

“Pretty one,” you grumble, angry at how well the compliment pleased you. “Better wrathful one, or vengeful one.”

“Those too, if it pleases you.”

He stands, brushing grass from his toga. The clothing in question, made of crimson fabric, falls just shy of halfway down his bulging, golden thigh, revealing softly curving muscle. The hulking mass of him throws a shadow long enough to cast doubt and fear into your very bones, even more so as he approaches you— but then he is close, so very close, and murmuring sweetly just for you to hear.

“Come, my Lady Wrath, my Darling Vengeance— does my presence really disturb you so greatly?”

You can smell the battle on him. His scent is metallic, like blood, and salty like sweat— and yet there is also the clean scent of the field, the spice of victory wine, and the smoke of burning bodies. Ares is and always has been a study in opposites, both animal magnetism and soft, reasonable attraction.

"Yes," you admit, striving for exasperation and hitting nearer to tremulous want. "You do disturb me." 

A large, warm hand grips your hip. You suddenly become aware of the bareness of your skin, the cool damp of you against the warm heat of him. The contact brings a flush to your cheeks. Your body responds as his hand flexes, squeezing; you can't help but search his gaze, wondering, as ever, what he's thinking. 

"I love that you're naked," he says, at once soft and sharp. "Your form pleases me, lady nymph. Your kind are never shy, but you are the only river-sprite I know that dares brave land baring all."

He touches you further, that large, rough hand sliding up the curve of your waist. He spreads his warmth from your hip to your ribcage to your neck, gently exploring. The touch is electric, yet strangely innocent. He is a god admiring Creation. Admiring you.

As before, you allow it— and how could you not? 

Who were you to say no to the attention and affection of a god?

"The men are dying in my waters," you say as his fingertips trace your jaw. "I'll fall ill, Ares."

"You shall not. I shall send another of my kin to cleanse you, as I did before."

You have nothing to say in return. As if sensing this, he kisses you, busying your mouth with the more pressing business of his want. Both of his hands are on you now, one on your neck, one at the swell of your ass; as he pulls you close, you can feel the hot, hard length of him against you, protected only by the thin fabric of his toga. The sensation is heady, and you pride yourself on keeping your feet through the ordeal. 

"Will you let me have you once more?" he asks against your lips. "What say you, my nymph of rage?"

You consider for a moment. Always, he gives you the choice. You know he needn't— he is stronger, more powerful, and could and had easily taken what he wanted before. It makes you wonder if giving you the choice, allowing you to choose him, is a way for him to conquer you. In the end, it doesn't matter. There was only ever one answer. 

"Yes." Your breath comes quick as a calloused thumb brushes over your nipple. "Yes, Lord Ares. I will have you." 

In the end, there is no shame. Even Aphrodite herself had been unable to say no to the wiles of the war god. As conqueror, it was not in his nature to be refused. 

Having gained your assent, Ares does not waste precious time. Instead, he kisses up your neck, to your ear, taking the lobe of it between his teeth and scraping gently. The act sends goosebumps racing down your flesh, and you shiver. Ares kisses lower, down to the hollow of your throat and the plain of your chest, his hands wandering to hardened, sensitive nipple and gently curving breast. He touches you, explores you, holds you like you are precious, and your body opens to him.

"Spread your legs," he says against your neck. "I want to taste you."

So saying, he lowers himself to his knees, bringing himself of a height with your sex. Filthy and impossible, he noses at the apex of your thighs, nudges your legs apart with his hands; it is everything you can do to remain standing as he begins a great and terrible onslaught against your dignity. It is so much. It is not enough. Your hands move to his hair, pulling the soft strands as a long, thick finger finds your entrance, and he groans as he finds that his finger slips easily inside. Still, he does not budge from his task until you're trembling, quaking above him as your orgasm nears— and even then, it is only to look up at you with glistening mouth and fuck-me eyes and say,

"Kneel."

You can do nothing but obey. You kneel before Ares, and he kisses you, letting you taste your own pleasure from his mouth. It's filthy and perverse and everything you've ever wanted as he lowers you gently to the earth, wrapping your legs around his wide hips. You look up at him, awestruck. In this moment, he is soft, beautiful. He is nothing like you would have imagined War to be. 

Ares takes a moment to toss aside his clothing. His sex is even larger than you remember it— or, perhaps his form alters according to his godly will, and he is striving to impress. In any case, your sexes are now aligned— his tip to the very opening of your body— and all that remains is one push before he is fully seated. 

Despite all, you find yourself anxious for that push. 

"Do it," you urge, smothering that feeling. "Fuck me, Ares."

You can tell it pleases him to hear his name from your mouth. Even so, he does not acquiesce immediately, which both frustrates and endears him to you. 

"I'll go slowly," he says. "It is no small thing to fuck a god. I thought you'd have learned that by now."

You have no reply— not when his cockhead is pushing slowly into you, making way for the rest of his large, heavy cock. It is nearly a religious experience, being filled by him. You cry out as he's finally seated deeply within you, and all at once you can no longer tell where you end and he begins. 

"Yes," you tell him as he withdraws to begin another slow thrust. "Yes, yes, yes."

The word becomes a song as he picks up the pace. It is a song of moans and cries and deepest feeling— he kisses you as you keen, and the hot, hard length of him slows to an agonizing pace.

"Are you alright?" he asks, as though you are breakable. "Should I slow down?"

It infuriates you. 

With all your power, you shove at his chest. At first, be doesn't seem to understand, taken aback by your newfound aggression— but eventually, when you use the force of your hips to indicate your desire, he goes easily backwards, landing with a gentle thump on his back so that you can straddle his hips, impaling yourself on his length. Hands braced on the warm softness of his chest, you begin to grind, pushing him ever deeper into you until both of your breaths come heavy and your time is near. 

"You were made to be abed with War," Ares tells you, smiling madly up as you move above him. "Indomitable, you are, and ruthless— I have no doubt that a thousand lives could not separate us."

You barely hear him.

"Lovely creature. I would make you my queen, if I could." His voice pitches upward in a moan of pleasure as you use his body. "I would make you heir to my kingdom of ash and broken bone, would burn worlds for you."

Cogent thought is lost to pleasure, but you feel the meaning of his words. It pushes you closer, so close, so close—

"Come, pretty one," he says, "Awake, destroyer of man. I will catch you if you fall, in this life or the next."

You jerk awake. 

A warm hand rests on your shoulder. You turn, groggy with sleep, and find a pair of shining blue eyes peering into your own. Erwin Smith—your husband and commander— has never looked more handsome than now, with chest bare above pajama pants that fall a little too short at his ankle. 

"Are you alright, love?" he asks you, tender, gentle. "A nightmare?"

The wetness between your legs indicates otherwise. You guide his large, calloused hand there, wordlessly allowing him to feel your answer, and he smiles. 

"In that case, I'm sorry for waking you." He presses a kiss to your temple, a finger pressing into your folds. "You don't get enough downtime as it is."

You hum in agreement and run your hands along the solid, curving lines of his biceps. 

"You could always order me on bed rest, commander," you tease as he shifts, placing himself exactly as Ares had in your dream— between your thighs, your legs wrapped around his hips. 

"If I did that, nothing would ever get done."

"No? Am I that big of a help, then, that the Scouts couldn't function without me?"

"No," Erwin grinned, mischievous, "It's because if I put you on bed rest, I'd never leave your bed."

You smile, then gasp as he presses against you, cock straining against the thin fabric of his pajamas. The feeling is startlingly familiar, and all at once, Ares' words come back to you. 

"You were made to be abed with War. Indomitable, you are, and ruthless— I have no doubt that a thousand lives could not separate us."

You wonder if the dream was entirely that. It felt so raw, so real— and, though Erwin and the Ares of your dream shared little physical similarity, you suspected that they were made of the same parts. Only the paint was different. Ares was bronze and dark where Erwin was pale and blond, but in their hearts— in their dark, violent hearts, capable of more and deeper love than a mortal could imagine— they were the same. They were men made of war, bathed in the blood of innocents.

And they both wanted you. 

"Lay back," you tell your husband, pushing at the soft muscle of his chest. "I want to ride you."

Erwin grins. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

[patrochillesvibes]

Spicy Patrochilles Fic Recs

Is there anything better than a good spicy patrochilles fic? Fluff is good. Steam is good. But that edgy stuff? Yes, please! Here are some of my favorite steamy fics with a little kink to them:

I Would Have Your Baby by tectonic | E | 1.7k | daddy kink, genderplay, breeding

Patroclus debates having children. Achilles expresses interest in bearing him children.

The First, The Thousandth by AdelineAround | E | 8.4k | roleplay, pederasty, intercrural sex, D/s

In the afterlife, Patroclus and Achilles roleplay an Eromenos/Erastes relationship.

you are the currents that are pulling me onward by infinitesle | E | 4.9k | D/s, bratchilles, spanking

Patroclus and Achilles D/s scene at Troy. Achilles acts extra bratty and soft Dom Patroclus takes care of him. This fic is just 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ (there’s fanart)

Under the Fig Tree by SympathyForKittens | E | voyeurism, masturbation

While on Pelion, Achilles follows Patroclus one morning instead of meeting with his mother. Such a naughty boy 😈

i want to see you in a dress by GwenChan | E | 3.5k | crossdressing, body worship, genderplay

While at Troy, Patroclus shares a secret fantasy. Achilles, of course, indulges him 😉

Reverence by Foxxoul | E | 1.4k | body worship, nipple play, D/s

Patroclus tops for once. He uses the opportunity to worship his lover. Modern setting.

A Request by Greyhound | E | 3.7 | breast fucking

In the afterlife, Achilles shares a fantasy. Patroclus indulges.

my love, my libation by moshimochi | E | 6.4k | cock ring, overstimulation, D/s, restraints, edging

Patroclus worships Achilles with the help of a strap of leather.

in the pit of the sky by GwenChan | E | 6k | intersex, ABO

Achilles goes into heat in the afterlife. This is part 2. It is absolutely 🔥🔥🔥

Head over Heels by SHARKMARTINI | M | 1.5k | foot fetish

A fic dedicated to Patroclus’ foot fetish.

change of pace by kenzszs | E | 6.9k | roleplay

College AU where Patroclus and Achilles roleplay student/teacher.

friday night loving by kenzszs | 4.8k | NR | public sex

College Au where Patroclus and Achilles have sex in the bed of a pickup truck.

Cosmicvoidance

This author has a lot of great kinky content. I couldn’t pick a favorite! Just go read their stuff!!!

Fics are listed in no particular order. Your favorite kinky fic not listed here? Post it in the comments. Fic recs highly appreciated ❤️  

Want more? Check out some Pyrrha themed fic recs.

[paperbackribs]

The Gift (5a of 15) (Witch Steve AU)

previous: Chapter 4 Break the Illusion next: Chapter 5 You're Doing That On Purpose (Part B) Content: steddie fic, 1.4K words

Last chapter, Steve and Eddie came to an understanding and formed a deeper start to their friendship. This chapter, Eddie just wants to convince Steve about which film to watch on movie night and Robin's gonna mock Steve about the two of them flirting.

Chapter 5(a) You're Doing That on Purpose

“So, it’s a kid’s film,” Steve pushes the trolley down the aisle to the comedy section.

Eddie makes a sound like a whistling kettle and Steve bites down on a grin. Behind the counter, Robin ignores the both of them as she tries to plait three Twizzlers into a braid.

Despite school being out, Family Video is as empty on a Tuesday afternoon as it typically is, so no customers to judge her odd candy habits. The promo television silently plays Carey Grant's attempt to seduce Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday while Robin unironically plays the Bangle's Manic Monday on their shared boombox. The tinny sound provides a lively chorus to the boys' bickering.

“It’s a cult classic of epic proportions. It’s not just some animated film, Stevie. It tells of the enduring friendship of Frodo and Sam, it’s the journey from the Shire and the almighty and devastating battle of the Balrog.”

“Right,” Steve snaps his fingers absently, “the Shire is burning.”

Eddie eyes him oddly, “You remember that?”

Steve shrugs, “It sounded cool when you said it. I mean, I didn’t know what you were going on about, like the Bolrag too.”

Eddie squints at him, “You’re doing that on purpose.”

Uh, oh, busted. Robin meets his eye from across the room, laughing silently. They have a running bet on how long he can mix up fantasy names in front of the kids before they call him on it and Eddie had busted him within weeks of knowing him.

Steve feigns innocence while he shelves Weird Science onto the fake walnut shelves, the polished lamination suiting the glossy covers of the VHS cases. “I don’t know what you mean. Tell me about the Shire.”

“No, no, no,” Eddie sways into Steve’s right side, tugging on a lock again. He’s almost used to it now. Regardless, Steve bats his hands away, replacing the shock of Eddie's fingers by smoothing his hair back into place.

“You, my friend, pay attention. You know exactly where the kids are at any moment of the day, you listen to little old ladies at the Indy bookstore—”

“She wasn’t old,” Robin calls out. She was hot, he can hear her add silently. He nods at her to acknowledge how right she is. Her fist pumps in answer, she was hot.

Steve had told Robin that Eddie was safe and since then they'd all had a conversation that essentially amounted to each of them nodding in agreement: they were three queers in backwater Hawkins and, damn, wish that they’d known each other sooner.

They'd had the talk in the evening quiet of the local park, the heat of the day faded to a gentle breeze that carried a hint of the earth underneath them.

While Steve and Robin kicked a ball around, Eddie had sat, nestled within the sturdy and gnarled roots of the massive fig tree at the centre of the grassy area, working at the lyrics of a song. Of which, he refused to share with Steve and Robin, only smiling mysteriously when prodded about it.

Despite the black of his cut-off jean shorts and the grotesque skull on his t-shirt, the soft curls of Eddie's hair and his pensive expression as he looked down at his notebook had given Steve the impression of an earth sprite. Delicate and easily startled, ready to disappear into the trunk of the fig tree, never to be seen again.

Once the two players had tired themselves out a little, Steve had sat them all down and led the conversation under the shade of the broad leaves above them. The green of it stretching like fingers of a reaching hand, cradling them within its protection.

Steve had been amused at how shocked Eddie was, a near replica of Robin's reaction to his same disclosure last year. But, what was the fluidity of Steve's sexuality in comparison to the liminality he lived in as a Witch? He liked boys and girls and all in between. So, what? He could also make Robin hover by a few inches in the air and that was far more fun to play around with.

The conversation may have been had, but Robin wasn’t about to loudly call out something so damning in public when anyone could walk through the store door at any moment in their small, judgemental lives.

“—and I know you’re getting those names wrong on purpose,” Eddie concludes confidently.

Steve crosses his arms, biceps bulging slightly under his sunflower yellow polo. “So what if I get Bolrag wrong? I don’t want to watch a kid’s movie.”

Robin hums. “Always the babysitter.” Steve points to her in appreciation.

“No kiddies, I promise.” Despite being the same height, Eddie looks up at Steve through his bangs while his dimple deepens charismatically, “Just us big kids. You’re in, right Buckley?”

“Oh yeah,” she smirks at Steve, “it’s actually pretty good. And Eddie says it’s that or Ben Hur.” She makes a face.

“Isn’t that a black and white,” asks Steve teasingly, knowing her preoccupation with older films.

“No, it's colour, but I also don’t want to watch a flick about the boiling animosity of half-naked men for over two hours. Come on, Steve, let’s watch the kid’s movie that’s just under two hours,” she finishes sarcastically.

Eddie’s lips quirk crookedly, “The bonds of men and Hobbits alike are the theme of the night.”

Steve blows out a breath, knowing when he’s defeated. By the widening smile on Eddie’s face, the other boy knows it too and Steve can’t help but smile in response.

He’s aware that it’s been hard for Eddie lately. Beating the rap doesn’t mean squat when Jason Carver and his goons still have it out for him. Though Hop had apparently reigned the parents in so hard that their evil little offspring may have actually listened. Steve suspects that Hop had also pulled off one of his patented 'drive arounds' with the teens, calmly explaining the consequences of their future actions and, in turn, scaring the shit out of them.

The kids had shared about Jason and his guys stirring up trouble at school, but it sounded like it was mostly name-calling at this point. Steve had made Dustin promise to tell him if it got worse, but Eddie hadn’t said anything yet.

Steve pauses to consider before cautiously asking, “And the bonds of Hellfire? Is that staying strong post…” Steve waves his hand in the air as if to convey all that happened over Spring Break, including being hunted down and having your friends threatened by Jason’s vigilante mob.

An easy smile spreads over Eddie’s face, his voice rising as if performing to a larger audience and hands spreading wide like he’s inviting them to step onto his stage. “Hellfire? We are as strong as any dogs of war. For while our bloodshed is confined to the realm of the sorcerous, we still are that happy few, we band of brothers.”

Steve’s not one hundred per cent on what Eddie’s referring to, but he does trust that they’re getting along okay. He doesn’t have that tightness around his eyes and lips he sometimes gets when uncomfortable or avoiding a touchy subject. “And Jason? Is he leaving you alone?”

Eddie blinks for a moment, his wide smile dipping before drawing it back firmly onto his face. “No problems there, Stevie. They can’t do anything and I’m not worried.”

Steve is though, thinking about that brief expression hinting at more. But, he wonders what he’s allowed to question. Or maybe, he is allowed to ask Eddie, who may nevertheless still choose not to privilege Steve with an insight into that busy mind of his.

“All right, then. Since your band of dogs are happy, let’s do the hobos.” He feels a flash of triumph as he hears Eddie’s bark of laughter at Steve continuing the bit. “My place, Friday.”

“Fantastic my lovely, dear liege,” Eddie affects a bow. “I’ll shall bring the brews. My Madam Buckley, farewell.” She sticks her middle finger up at his blown kiss. Eddie leaves, chuckling under his breath, the door’s bell ringing after him.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

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[bloodyshadow1]

since fantasy high is coming back in a few months and I'm playing pokemon again, I thought I'd come up with a list of pokemon for the bad kids for fun. This is their main team and some pokemon in their boxes that I think work for them but aren't carried with them.

This would be in their Sophomore year. And as a basic rule, I included a starter for each of them that I thought would fit

Adaine Abernant 

Lucario 

Gengar

Gardevoir

Greninja 

Lycanroc- Dusk

Hydreigon

Box- Espeon, Luxray

Gorgug Thistlespring 

Tinkerton 

Rillaboom

Haxorus

Ferrothorn

Tyranitar 

Gogoat

Box- Jumpluff, Perrserker, Klinklang, Revavroom, Bronzong, Diggersby 

Fig

Skeledirge

Noivern 

Exploud

Toxtricity 

Wiggelytuff 

Zoroark 

Box- Shellder, Krookodile, Ludicolo, Oricorio, Toucannon, Kangaskhan, Pyroar     

Fabian

Aegislash 

Palafin 

Quaquaval

Houndoom-the hangman

Corviknight 

Ceruledge

Box- Machamp, Mantine, Paldean Tauros (Aqua Breed), Marowak, many more

Kristen

Blissey  

Venasaur 

Appletun

Mightyena 

Rapidash (Galar) 

Dachsbun 

Box-Honchkrow, Mabosstiff, Slowking

Riz

Decidueye

Weaville

Golisopod 

Absol

Leipard 

Alakazam 

Box – Arcanine, Houndstone,Kecleon, Inteleon

reasons explaining under the cut. I put in a lot of thought into their teams and wrote way too much

Adaine

Adaine’s team doesn’t have a real theme, just more her personality and class as a wizard. Partially, there are several glass cannons on Adaine’s team which fits her as the parties wizard, lots of damage but low ac and hp. Her first pokemon Lucario because I thought it fit her the best as a punching pokemon that a wizard would have and we know that Adaine wanted to punch people the whole campaign both seasons.  Gardevoir because I think psychic and fairy are the closest to magic that pokemon have other than ghost-type and she sort of fits Adaine growing into herself.  Ralts is a small weak pokemon that evolves into a psychic powerhouse like Gardevoir like Adaine did throughout both campaigns.  Gengar is here because early on ray of sickness a poison damage spell was in Adaine’s wheelhouse and Gengar is not just a ghost type but a poison.  I also have a headcanon for this pokemon au that Adaine originally had a Kadabra that she got from her parents that she traded with Riz for his Haunter at the time as a friendship bond between the two nerdy intellects of the team.  Greninja as her starter for Boggy, her familiar, also as a dark type it would be the perfect defense for her wizard family who in this AU would specialize in psychic types specifically and not fairy.  Lycanroc-dusk form for her relationship as Jawbone’s adopted daughter and that she almost got turned into a werewolf which is why it’s the dusk form sort of in between the Midday and Midnight forms.  And Hydreigon for the feral rage that Adaine has bubbling inside of her throughout both campaigns and I think it’s a darker rage than Gorgug’s  rage that he uses to protect the people he loves. Adaine has more of a fury that comes from being mistreated and wanting both to hurt and stop the people who hurt her badly like her family and the enemies the Bad Kids face. 

Espeon is in the box because I think she got it from her family as sort of the idea of elven and magical perfection and that part didn’t work for either of them.  So I think Adaine’s Espeon is more of a pet that roams Mordred Manor and not on her battle team as Adaine wanted them both to be free of her Parent’s expectations.  Luxray is also in Adaine’s box because Lightning bolt was for most of the campaign Adaine’s go to move so I thought she should have an electric type and Luxray is my personal favorite, she is also my favorite of the Bad Kids so I cheated a bit, but also held back by having it be a box pokemon since I think the others fit better as her main team.  

Gorgug

For the most part, Gorgug’s team I choose the sort of grass types since he grew up in a tree, the flower he tried to give to people, and his gnome roots. but also big strong pokemon that are surprisingly gentle like Tyranitar and Haxorus according to some of their dex entries like him. Haxorus also being ax themed like his main weapons also helped.  Rillaboom as his starter fit since it’s a big strong pokemon that’s a grass starter, but it’s also a drummer like him.  Tinkerton would be a new addition to his team to show off his level in artificer. Gogoat for the grass theme and also his relationship with Zelda since they’re adorable.  I don’t remember why Jumpluff is in his box, I think because it’s a small grass type that reminded him of his parents and upbringing, which I think got replaced by Tinkerton.  Ferrothorn fits the grass type I sort of imagine Gorgug having but also since it’s the only grass/steel dual type I could find I included it.  It’s a tough tank which fits how Gorgug is as the teams tank, I also think that as a grass/steel it fits since Gorgug was trying to make friends by giving people a metal flower the first day of school, it didn’t work, but points for trying.  I think Gorgug’s team fits his role in the party as the tank and the heavy hitter, the big guy of the party that’s usually soaking up the damage as it were.

For his box pokemon, I think Gorgug with his two artificer parents who are if anything over supportive and loving, has a lot of pokemon that he can use, even if they aren’t officially on his team.  Mostly steel types to fit the artificer level he took.  The Perrserker I feel like is Gorgugs, it’s a rage monster, so it fit his barbarian class, but it also scared him so he boxed it after it evolved from a Galarian Meowth since he doesn’t like the angry part of him even though it’s useful in battle.  The Klinklang I feel like was specifically a gift from Digby and Wilma since they’re artificer or at least engineering gnomes.  Diggersby is only in this because Gorgug’s dad is named Digby and I couldn’t resist the pun, and neither could his parents since he probably got it from them, again boxed it right away.     

Fig

For Fig, I tried for a mostly musical theme or at least a sound theme in addition to darker(if not dark type) and fire types.  Which is why Skeledirge is a fire singer pokemon, kind of related to the death theme.  Also why I put Exploud and Wigglytuff on her team since they’re the most famous singer pokemon to fit her idea of the band.  Toxtricity is sort of the epitome of a Fig pokemon in my mind with its punk rock theme, maybe Terastallize into a fire type.  Zoroark is a dark type that fits Fig since she always hides herself as other people, sometimes for personal reasons others for the party to get info, but it is part of her character. And Noivern is again, as sound based pokemon, it’s big dragon type which I think fits Figs flashy powerful bardic abilities.  I can also see Fig using Noivern as an amp for one of her shows so it’s here.  I think that Fig’s team sort of fits her as the jack of all trade of the Bad Kids, she’s a spell caster, she can support with bardic inspiration and musical buffs, but can also be a secondary martial attacker with her bass if needed which fits her type coverage. 

Shellder in the box for little Galier, her oyster that died on her in freshman year.  In this AU she still has it, but it’s not on her team,.  Krookodile is also there because I think it’s a cool girl pokemon that she would have, but I can’t remember the reason I put it here in the first place. Ludicolo and Toucannon are happier, bright singing pokemon compared to her current team which is why they’re both in here.  Oricorio kind of fits a cheerleader, something Fig was before her horns grew in and her skin grew red.  They were from a happier time in her life and belonged to a different Fig so she keeps them in the box. Kangaskhan related to her own issues with her parents, specially her mommy issues after Sandralynn and Gilear divorce and put her in the box to ignore.  Pyroar I also added because it’s a fire type and sound pokemon, but I just remembered it so I don’t really know if it would fit on Fig’s main team or one of her box types so I put it here to give it a place.

Fabian

For Fabian, he’s a fighter, but as a swordsman not a martial artist so steel types seemed to fit for him and water types for his pirate background. Fitting with his sword fighter theme I included some steel types or bladed pokemon, and with the pirate theme I tried to include water types.  Quaquaval is a little goofy duck that I think Fabian disliked or pretended to dislike when he first got it, but it was the newest water type starter so why wouldn’t his parents give their darling boy what he probably asked for not expecting the outcome.  But seeing how the duck is based off dancing, I think it fits his character development in season 2 to dance now. I feel like Fabian’s starter would be one of the last to evolve because he had to be dragged kicking and screaming into his real self.  Aegislash and Corviknight are steel types which fit his swordsmanship ability, and Corviknight I think fits fighters even though Fabian is a wannabe pirate and not a knight.  Ceruledge I also thought it fit the theme even though it’s a ghost fire type, it has blades, it looks like it should be ghost steel or steel fire, so it was included.  While I think Houndoom would have also fit Fig since she’s a tiefling with fire powers and a father whose an Archdevil, I think Fabian should have a Houndoom because of the Hangman, he is Fabian’s bike and iconic companion.  Palafin is what I think a perfect fit for Fabian since it’s a water type and like Corviknight it’s a play on Paladin, while Fabian isn't one, he is a fighter and bard who loves his friends so it fits.  Fabian is one of the martial dps’ of the Bad Kids, using his speed and agility to do damage, hitting hard and fast like his team of pokemon.

 I think in this au, he would have started out with a bunch of really powerful pokemon that he inherited from his parents and him putting them in the box to fight with his own team alongside the other bad kids. Machamp is of course from Bill Seacaster since it’s a very powerful pokemon that a kid wouldn’t have which kind of fits with Bill trying to bribe Daybreak to bend the rules for Fabian on his first day at school.  Mantine as a water type fits the pirate motif. The Tauros as a Paldean aqua breed fits both of those categories as a powerhouse fighting type, but also a water type. I also think the Marowak in his box was a gift from his mother, not his father.  The whole Pokemon Tower sidequest with the dead Marowak and the whole Cubone pokedex entry fits as a gift from Hallariel.  It also uses its boneclub as a weapon, something most pokemon don’t do which sort of fits Hallariel being a secret swordmaster that later teaches Fabian the blade.  I also think she has a Galarian Farfetch’d that Fabian trains with but isn’t really part of his party fitting with the sword motif.  I think since Fabian is a rich kid with parents who are legends in their abilities its safe to say he has a lot of pokemon in the box that he doesn’t use

Kristen

Kristen was pretty hard for me since like Adaine she is a primary magic user and magic doesn’t always translate that well to Pokemon, healers are also difficult because healing is often done by the trainer not pokemon themselves.  I settled on a fairy grass team for her because fairies fit the healing motif and grass for her origins worshiping the corn god, but also slowly shifting to dark to signify her becoming a twilight cleric instead of a life one.  I also sort of incorporated a dog type motif for her because of her relationship with Tracker, specifically Mightyena because it’s a dark wolf like pokemon which fits Tracker to a T.  Venasaur as her starter fits to me because it looks big and slow as a grass starter which fits her -3 dex score. Galarian Rapidash because it’s a fairy type, but also because it sort of a sick joke since the Nightmare King’s Unicorn kills her and takes her out for a bit but lets her speak to the Unnamed Goddess at the time.  Appletun feels like a Kristen pokemon to me, I don’t know why but it fits the grass typing so it stays.  Ursaluna is probably an odd choice, but as a bear pokemon, it fits with her having the teddybear of helpfulness.  It also is an ancient pokemon from Legends Arceus that only the bloodmoon verison appears in Scarlet and Violet, which sort of fits her finding faith in Cassandra, an ancient forgotten goddess that everyone thought dangerous and gone.  And of course Blissey because it’s line is the pokemon Nurse Joys use which fits her role in the party as the healer and buffer of the group. Kristen is the main healer of the Bad Kids who also is the buffer, which is why she has the teddybear, and debuffer for their enemies.  I tried to get her team to show that.  Also to show her as the heavily armored but slow cleric with again her abysmal dex score which is why ⅔’s of her team are pokemon with good defensive/special defense stats that are relatively slow.

Honchkrow and Slowing in Kristen’s box are there because Honchkrow was a gift from her parents, there are no scarecrow pokemon that I can think of so there is a real crow type which was as close as I could get to the Harvestmen.  Slowking because in pokemon 2000, it sort of seemed like a priest type pokemon managing the shrine Ash had to go to and explaining how to summon Lugia to keep things in balance which fits her religious nature as a cleric.  My headcanon for this AU though is that she sort of manifested this Slowking when she came up with Yes as a god so like the god she sort of ignores this Slowking like she ignores the god she made.  Dashbun and Mabosstiff in her box to fit the dog theme and also being fairy and dark types respectively, I think Kristen swaps them out depending on her mood.

Riz

With Riz, I sort of fit a sneaky pokemon motif as a whole with a focus on dark types since he’s a rogue and an investigator.  I think he started with a Rowlet which evolved to a Decidueye as sort of a sneaky ghost type pokemon, Owls are also known for their wisdom and ability to see at night which I think fits Riz even though he’s an intelligence subclass rogue he tends to be one of the more level headed if socially awkward members of the party.  Weaville and Leipard are dark types, both based off of real life sneaky animals that fit Riz as a rogue.  Golisopod is a heavy hitter with first impression which gives it priority and only works on the first turn, which sort of resembles Riz’s sneak attack, his best ability in battle.  Absol is also a dark type, but I also think it fits Riz as a person, because Absols are considered dark and evil because they are sensitive to disasters, they would always arrive right before giving them a reputation of causing the disasters.  I think Riz as a heroic goblin living in a world where Goblins are seen as both evil, but also a joke according to Pok, it fits our sweet little angel boy, and also with him joining the Lower Planar Taskforce that seems to employ heroic people from ‘evil’ races.  As I stated in Adaine’s little blurb, I think Riz originally had a Haunter on his team since it’s a sneaky ghost type, but he traded it for Adaine’s Kadabra for friendship, also having a psychic on his team would be good for an investigator like Riz. As the Rogue of the party, it’s Riz’s job to hit hard and fast and get out of the way because he can’t take damage like Fabian or Gorgug.  It fits that his team is full of glass cannons that can hit for a lot, but don’t have much staying power if they have to take hits.

 For his box pokemon, I think it gets kind of sad since he would kind of inherit them from Pok, like the Arcanine I feel like is more of a pet that Sklonda raised since Growlith and Arcanine are police dogs in the pokemon world and she is a cop. I think for this AU Sklonda and Pok raised the Growlith together, and it sort of became a pet along with the Houndstone who showed up after Pok’s death. I think its arrival actually is what let Sklonda know her husband was gone before the reports came in.  Inteleon was Pok’s strongest pokemon, fitting the theme of him being a secret agent since Inteleon is based off of the same with its tuxedo like coloring and sniper g-max.  I think Riz found Inteleon’s pokeball the same way he found Pok’s crystal and magic gun in the campaign, but unlike in the campaign didn’t feel like making it part of his team/arsenal since pokemon are the same as magical equipment, and Riz would be too underleveled to control it anyway.  Riz let it out as often as he liked because it’s a living creature after all, but its purpose in the AU is more of a break glass in case of emergency. Kecleon I think is one of the few pokemon Riz has caught and put in the box, it fits his team well with it being based off of chameleons who can blend into their surroundings.  I just don’t think it could keep up with Riz’s team 

[peggy-sue-reads-a-book]

Bio: Hello. I am dead inside but strive to bring joy to others. Everyone is welcome in my public ask box, just don’t be weird. DMs are welcome but reserved for other adults. I’m going to block porn.

— Pegs

Click the bear for hopes, dreams, and wonders:

🧸

Fiction Masterlist:

Please enjoy, my babies. Get in touch for requests or to be added/removed on a particular tag list. If a content warning is missing, please tell me kindly in the comments. Thank you!

The Garden of Innocence — Dionysus x Ariadne | M | angst | love triangle

Fig Tree

Aphrodite

Campfire

Theseus Leaves

The Fountain

Red Cloak

The Water Nymph — Ares x Aphrodite | M | one shot | mutual pining

Oh, My Sunlight — Patroclus x Achilles | M | angst | violence | soulmates | one shot

Patroclus POV

Achilles POV

Wound — Patroclus x Achilles | M | one-shot | bandaging | blood | hurt/comfort

Solider On, Achilles — Trojan War AU | E | angst | violence | 🌶️ | Captive!Patroclus

Read here on AO3

Based on this post by request

Chapter 1

[frodo-with-glasses]

And for my next trick, I’ll make Frodo disappear!

[spacefinch]

Wild Field Trips headcanons: the Frogwater Pond Gang

(this is for my Wild Kratts/Magic School Bus crossover AU if you're curious)

First of all, the so-called Frogwater Pond Gang consists of the following kids: Gavin, Ronan, Jenny, Katie, Aidan, and Nolan.

HC's for each of the kids:

Jenny:

The second oldest of the gang.

Full name: Jennifer Kitt

Likes to watch birds.

Favorite animal: raccoon

Sometimes her friends and family affectionately call her "Jenny Wren." Out of the MSB kids, Phoebe does it the most often.

She never leaves home without her purple backpack or her pink tennis shoes.

In her backpack: acorns, a pocket bird guide, Fig Newtons, a notebook & pencil, extra hair ties, a water bottle, a guide to mammals, and a raccoon plushie.

Biracial (need more HCs on that)

Has two siblings, one older and one younger. I have not thought of names or personalities for said siblings.

Keeps button quails as pets. For the non-bird-experts reading this, button quails are not actually quail. They are in the order Charadriiformes, making them shorebirds.

Gavin:

The oldest of the Frogwater Pond Gang.

Full name: Gavin Johnson

Favorite animal: Largemouth Bass

"Average fourth/fifth grader knows at least 10 species of fish and their biology" factoid is actually a statistical error. Fishes Gavin, who spends all his summer free time fishing, reading about fish, or visiting the aquarium, is an outlier and should not have been counted.

Proud owner of two fishing trophies. The first one is the third-place trophy he won in the contest prior to "Bass Class." And the second is obviously the one he got in the actual episode.

He gets along really well with his little brother Ronan, and his cousins Aidan and Nolan. In fact, you'd think he has three younger brothers instead of just one!

As seen in the "Animals Who Live to Be 100 Years Old" episode, his weapon of choice is a broomstick.

Ronan:

Three years younger than Gavin, and two years younger than Jenny.

Full name: Ronan Johnson

Favorite animal: Wild Turkey (but blue jays are a close second)

Likes playing soccer, hockey, and other field sports.

Most likely to find a weird bug or critter and bring it home. It happened with the milk snake AND the praying mantis egg case.

For the purposes of this AU, Gavin and Ronan's last name is "Johnson" and so are their cousin's last names.

Favorite book series is The Lord of the Rings, which his parents read to him and his brother.

Named his pet hognose snake "Tolkien." Which led to this exchange over email one time.

"Tolkien is having his first ever egg. It's. Not going well."

"TOLKIEN IS A SNAKE. HE'S MY SNAKE. MY PET SNAKE. HE IS EATING AN EGG. AUTHOR JOLKIEN ROLKIEN ROLKIEN TOLKIEN IS NOT BIRTHING AN EGG."

(Gavin told him that J.R.R. Tolkien's full name was "Jolkien Rolkien Rolkien Tolkien" and Ronan believed it for an embarrassingly long time.)

Katie:

About the same age as Jenny.

Full name: Katherine Akiyama

Favorite animal: Pileated Woodpecker

Loves being out in the snow. (Favorite activity: sledding!)

She's the one who had the idea to build a tree house in the backwoods.

Enjoys drawing and writing.

I headcannon her as Japanese-American, but I don't know what else to do with that hc.

She speaks a little bit of Japanese, but not much.

Her other favorite animal is the snowshoe hare.

The name "Frogwater Pond Gang" for her friend group was also her idea. (All the friend groups in her favorite books had cool names, so her ACTUAL group of friends needed one, too.)

100 percent a daddy's girl.

Aidan

The third oldest of the gang (After Gavin and Jenny, in that order).

Full name: Aidan Johnson

Favorite animal: American Beaver

Co-founder of the "Creature Club" alongside Katie. (They meet in the tree house that Katie's dad built.)

He and his family moved to the Frogwater Pond area a few years before his little brother Nolan was born. (And a few years before the pond even existed!)

Has a pet hamster. (This is actually canon, but I don't remember if the hamster canonically has a name.)

Nolan

The youngest of the gang. (Five years younger than Aidan)

Full name: Nolan Johnson

Favorite animal: Box Turtle

Very energetic, always ready to go on an adventure.

Often imitates his big brother and older cousins.

Other notes:

Jenny, Katie, and Aidan are about the same age as Mikey (Carlos's younger brother) and Evan (DA's younger sister) in this AU. It's an interesting dynamic, since you have:

Eldest sibling (Aidan)

Middle children (Mikey and Jenny)

Youngest sibling (Evan)

Only child (Katie)

In addition to Tolkien the snake, Gavin and Ronan also have a pet cat named Lightfoot. She's a tortoiseshell with white paws, like socks.

The first MSB kids that the Frogwater Pond Gang met were Phoebe and Ralphie, who come to their neck of the woods almost every summer.

More on the cats:

Lightfoot (named after Gordon Lightfoot) is one of Brandy's kittens. The others are Joxter (currently living with the Terese-Tennelli family), Cleo (currently living with Katie), and Scotty (currently living with Uncle Brian).

Backstories for the other cat's names: Brandy is named after the song "Brandy, You're a Fine Girl," Joxter is named after the character in the Moomins series, Scotty is named after the Star Trek character, and Cleo got her name from a song that Katie's dad used to sing to her.

[griseldabanks]

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Requested by Princess of Words from the Fig Tree Discord server

Fandom: MCU Characters: Steve and Bucky (and Sharon) Prompt: "No, I don't care what 'they' think."

Please note this is an AU. I tried to make it work for both of my main AUs, Worth a Thousand and Whole Shards. Basically all you need to know is that Steve and Sharon are married, and Bucky lives with them.

“We have a problem,” Bucky growled.

Steve looked up from the crossword puzzle he and Sharon were working through together in the paper at the kitchen table. Sam always laughed at them and said they were like an old married couple, but...well, they were a married couple, and at least one of them was pretty old. Besides, it was fun.

A brightly colored magazine slapped down on top of the newspaper, and Steve found himself staring at his own face. STEVE ROGERS: TROUBLE IN PARADISE OR POLYAMOROUS THREESOME?! The main photo depicted him walking through a crowd somewhere, holding Bucky's hand. After a moment, he remembered that day, when they'd all gone to Coney Island. He'd grabbed Bucky's hand so they wouldn't lose each other in the crush of people heading towards the Cyclone.

Down the side of the front page were smaller headlines, like No heterosexual explanation for this! and The Open Secret of Captain America's Queer Lifestyle. Quirking an eyebrow, Steve took his arm from around his wife's shoulders and reached for the tabloid, beginning to flip through it. “Oh, apparently I'm bisexual,” he said mildly. “You learn something new every day.”

Sharon laughed, but Bucky's expression was stormy as he dropped into a chair across the table from them. “That trash is all over the place,” he growled, jabbing a metal finger at the magazine. “I could hardly turn around without seeing our faces everywhere.”

“Well, that's hardly new,” Sharon said reasonably, putting a calming hand on his arm. “You're probably always going to be in the public eye somewhat, and it's not always going to be positive.”

Bucky pulled away from her, leaning back and crossing his arms tightly. He sat there, looking uncomfortable for a few moments, before awkwardly muttering, “I can...move out. Today, if you want.”

Steve looked up in surprise from a cursory and not particularly relevant overview of public opinions of homosexuality in the 1940s. “Move out? Why?”

Except for when Bucky had gone off to war before Steve, and the stretch of time when Bucky had been captured by Hydra and didn't remember who he was, Steve and Bucky had lived under the same roof since Steve's mother had died. Even after they'd been reunited and Bucky was stable enough that he could have managed on his own, neither of them had even questioned it. Of course they were going to live together.

Now Bucky scowled at him. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“You can't let something like this scare you away,” Sharon scoffed, flipping through the magazine to a page plastered with photos of her. “Look—they're actually trying to call it incest!”

“What?” Steve laughed, craning his neck around to look at the article. “How do they figure that?”

“Because the love of your life was my great-aunt, obviously.”

“Peggy and I never went on a single date! And that wouldn't even—“ Steve gave up, groaning into his hands.

Sharon nudged her shoulder against his. “This is the part where you're supposed to say I'm the love of your life, dear.”

Before either of them could continue, Bucky burst out, “So none of this bothers you? The things they're saying?”

“Well, they're certainly being very rude.” Sharon picked up the magazine and walked over to the recycle bin, dropping it in with a satisfying flump.

Steve shrugged in answer to Bucky's question. “We know it isn't true. So does anyone with enough of a brain to not believe everything they read in a tabloid.”

Bucky still looked troubled, tapping a finger against his metal arm. “You don't think it would be better for me to move out or...something? Just to make it clear they're wrong?”

Steve wondered if that 'something' included things like holding hands as they'd done in the picture on the front page, or the dozens of other ways he expressed his affection for his best friend. Wouldn't they have a field day if they knew how many times we've slept in the same bed.

Aloud, he just said, “It sounds like they've already made up their minds. Not much we can do about it now.”

“So you don't care what they think?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “No, I don't care what 'they' think. I never have. And neither should you.”

Their eyes met, and Steve wondered if Bucky was also thinking about the days when he'd been skinny and beset with a whole laundry list of handicaps and ailments. Back then, there were plenty of people who'd said he was nothing but a drain on society with nothing to offer in return. Not worth the effort it took to keep him alive. Better off dead. Some people had even said that to his face.

But two people in his life had made sure he never believed that assessment of his worth: his mother and Bucky. Especially Bucky. Because if someone like Bucky still thought it was worth it to go out of his way to keep Steve around...he must really be worth something.

“Exactly,” Sharon said, taking her seat again and lacing her fingers through Steve's. “You can move out if you want to, Bucky,” she added, holding out her hand to him as well, “but do it because you want to, not because someone's never heard of friendship before.”

Slowly, Bucky's arms unfolded and he let Sharon take his right hand in hers. “I, um....” Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze. “If...you don't mind, I'd like to stay here...for now.”

“I don't think we mind,” Steve laughed, “do we, darling?”

“Of course not!” Sharon said with a bright smile. “If this is what a threesome is, I want it to stay like this forever.”

Steve and Sharon both started laughing, and this time, Bucky joined in too.

[hp-fruit-fest]

For all the Drarry lovers...Here are all the Drarry works created for this year's Fruit Fest! Check out these yummy treats, and give them some love if you like!

ART. Fruit: Apple. Rated: E. Drapple. Digital art. NSFW art.

Draco does a photo shoot for Witch Weekly, in which he shows his appreciation for his favorite fruit.

View on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Strawberry. Rated: T. Words: 3,062. Postwar. Established relationship. Baking. Domestic fluff.

Baking is an unexpected hobby that Harry fell into a little over a year ago, nearly a decade after the war ended.

Read on AO3

ART. Fruit: Mango. Rated: T. Muggle AU. Meet cute. Fluff.

"And it might sound silly but let's go home"

View on AO3

ART. Fruit: Lemon. Rated: M. Digital art. NSFW art.

Symbolism: longevity, purification Song: "Lemon Eyes" by Meg Myers History: in ye olden fandom days, "lemon" referred to explicit erotic content.

View on AO3

ART. Fruit: Apple. Rated: G. Mpreg. Pregnant Draco. Cravings.

peace, beauty, wisdom, joy, fertility, and youthfulness OR Song: Rotten Apple by Alice In Chains OR Song: Apples by Lily Allen

View on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Blueberry. Rated: T. Words: 964. Getting together. Fluff & Humor. Vet Harry & Healer Draco.

Draco wasn’t sure if it was palpitations or a crush. Best to find out.

Read on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Blackberry. Rated: T. Words: 749. Established relationship. Werewolf Draco.

Long fingers pluck a blackberry from the bramble bush, and place it onto a pink tongue. Rolling it around his mouth, savouring the sweet-sour taste, before biting it with white, sharp teeth, and it goes pop in his mouth. 

Read on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Grape. Rated: M. WIP. Postwar. Vineyard. France.

The thick, wooden door, held together with ancient iron straps, swung open with surprisingly little noise on well-maintained hinges despite its age and size. The absolute last person Draco could have ever expected stared at him in a subdued, frozen kind of horror once it was open. “No,” Harry Potter said evenly and calmly, as if Draco had asked him if he was supposed to be alive. “How?” Draco choked on the question so it left his mouth as little more than breath. “No!” Potter shouted as his hands flailed back and forth in desperate negation before diving into the bedlam of black hair, like they sought shelter from the moment. “‘Arry?” a feminine and heavily French voice called out. “Is it ‘im?” “Yes!” the presumed dead man in question shouted too loudly, as if he could no longer control his own volume. “But no, he won’t- we couldn’t- I-” A woman maybe just a bit past her middle age came up behind him as he stammered. Draco continued to stare. He couldn’t even sneer; he was shocked to his core. His chest held onto his surprise like a barely contained explosion. Harry Potter wasn’t dead. It felt like it should change everything, yet they remained staring at each other as if nothing ever would.

Read on AO3

FIC. Fruit: Fig. Rated: T. Words: 16,873. Unspeakable Draco. Lost Souls. First Love.

Draco struggles with infertility and hopes to find the answer in a magical fig tree. His journey takes him to Aydin Turkey, where he meets another lost soul named Harry.

Read on AO3

[sempersirens]

sempersirens' masterlist

hello! i'm dee. i currently write for joel miller (tlou) and my requests are open

i do not have a taglist, so please follow my updates blog @sempersirenswrites to be notified each time i post a new fic

last updated: 05/04/24

all fics are 18+ and have specific content warnings for each chapter. no use of y/n. mdni

a bird in your teeth

pairing: neighbour!joel x f!reader status: completed since moving into the neighborhood a couple of years ago, you've become close with the miller family. as a young woman living alone joel is protective of you, and he intends to show you how much so. part one | part two | part three | part four | epilogue

sun bleached flies

pairing: previous dark/raider!joel x f!reader status: ongoing stumbling upon the settlement of jackson whilst 4 months pregnant had almost felt too good to be true. for the past seven years, you had been able to raise your daughter, mia, surrounded by a safe and supportive community. however, your small slice of paradise comes tumbling down the day joel miller arrived. despite only crossing paths for a fleeting encounter all those years ago, you would never forget the face of your daughter's father. chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six extras: cut monologue from chapter three

yes, chef

pairing: chef!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus joel miller is the head chef of a prestigious michelin star restaurant in the city. after working for him for over a year, you're determined to not let his ill-temper and cutting words dampen your spirit and love for your career. you won't give in at chipping away at his tough exterior, living in the hope of finding something sweeter below the surface (request) | part one | part two | part three extras: playlist i imagine joel x reader dancing around joel's kitchen to

raising hell all over town

pairing: best friend's dad!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus you've been a friend of sarah's since you were old enough to steal bottles of her dad's whiskey for parties. sarah was always the sensible one in your friendship, getting you out of the trouble you usually started. but now sarah has gone off to college, who else but joel could pick up the pieces? part one | part two coming soon

the fig tree

pairing: au therapist!joel x f!reader status: ongoing a twenty-something woman, on the brink of everything and nothing at all, takes on a new therapist to heal from her traumatic past. however, lines become blurred when you discover dr. miller has skeletons of his own. series masterlist

daughter lessons

pairing: jackson era!joel x f!reader status: completed (one shot) would it kill joel to just touch you?

[teddywesworl]

if you're still doing the wip thing... The last mile? your mass effect au makes me feral

I just tried to answer this and tumblr fucking ATE my response but yeah i'm working on it, it's set half at the beginning and half at the end of the Reaper War with the Hawkins assigned to Project Crucible (part 1) and the London assault (part 2). tonally it's very me3 so im gonna be kinda nervous about posting it, especially as it may require a MCD tag lmaoooooo (not them though. never them)

i have no idea when it's going to be completed, though, so here's a sizeable chunk of the opening, complete with epistolary-ish framing device to match DTA:

EDDIE 1

Fig. 1: Perspectives on Tayseri Ward, an award-winning photograph of the Citadel by acclaimed asari photographer Lidilya Ranis, ca. 2182. Note the near-atmospheric effect of the gas and dust of the Serpent Nebula creating depth of field between the camera’s lens and the Presidium Ring.

*

The Citadel is different than he remembers, but it’s also the same.

He and Steve see it differently. Steve thanks air traffic control in person on their way through security and comments on the Sur’Kesh native trees freshly planted in the commercial district. Eddie marks the C-Sec man tailing them while they eat tacos from a super gimmicky Thessia-Earth fusion restaurant and spots a pickpocket watching them from an alley. It’s a human girl, maybe thirteen. No visible tattoos or marks, but that doesn’t mean much when the kid is wearing a beanie and a scarf and a bulky jacket that’ll hide plenty of take. Eddie angles himself so the cop can’t see his face, makes eye contact with the girl, and shakes his head.

They’re in the Mid-Ward, a part of Zakera that Eddie should know intimately. It feels strange not to recognize the large majority of the storefronts, replaced as so many were in the aftermath of the geth attack in ‘83, but the longer he looks, the clearer it becomes that the bones are the same. Eddie rebuilds the map in his head from the position of keeper ports, maintenance panels, walkways—and vents.

He falls behind Steve just staring at a vent tucked between an Armax vendor and a pop-up shop selling the elcor equivalent of beer. Steve walks another dozen feet, maybe, before he notices Eddie’s not beside him and doubles back.

“You okay?” Steve says, fingertips brushing Eddie’s elbow.

Eddie shakes himself off and nods. “Yeah, sorry,” he says. “Um. I used to sleep in there, I think. I’m pretty sure that’s the one.”

Steve frowns, his eyes moving from storefront to storefront, gliding over the vent like it isn’t there until he remembers. “Oh,” he says. His hand slides down Eddie’s forearm, and he laces their fingers together.

Eddie feels oddly disconnected from his own body. He doesn’t think he would fit in that vent, now, but that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? That’s what a duct rat is. You stop being a duct rat when you can’t fit anymore. Or when the wrong fan powers up and chews you to pieces.

Eddie unfocuses his eyes and doesn’t quite look at the C-Sec man still pretending not to follow them. It’s a turian, hanging around some fifty paces behind them, and he’s obvious in a way that’s kind of aggravating, because turians make up something like half a percent of the Mid-Ward’s population, and the real residents don’t dress business casual. There’s a tension welling up, raw from the vents and the cops and the collision between memory and immediate reality. He bounces on the balls of his feet, indecisive. Then he squeezes Steve’s hand, locks eyes with the turian, and crooks his finger at the guy, beckoning.

There’s a strange hanging moment where the cop looks like he’s gonna try to disappear into the crowd, but then he accepts that he’s been made and approaches. Steve looks surprised to see him; his posture gets a little guarded, so Eddie squeezes his hand again.

“That’s close enough,” Eddie says at a distance of ten or so paces. He’s not in the mood for this, doesn’t feel like playing a game, so he just says: “Why?”

Steve stays quiet, apparently satisfied to let Eddie handle this.

The turian’s mandibles twitch. “I’m,” he says. “I don’t…”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Why’d they send you?” he says.

“They didn’t say,” says the cop. Eddie’s not sure he believes him, but at least he’s not playing completely dumb.

“Get out of here,” Eddie says. “Tell them you were made. Also tell them the Alliance doesn’t appreciate C-Sec harassing its N7s on shore leave.”

The mandibles twitch again. Turian hearts aren’t quite like human hearts, but the rhythm of this one changes enough to confirm Eddie’s suspicions that the guy at least didn’t know who Steve was. “Right,” he says. Leaving is an awkward thing, but he manages it, walking off in a straight line.

Eddie sighs when he’s gone.

“How long’s he been there?” Steve asks.

“Since security,” Eddie replies. “Fuckin’ amateur hour, sending a turian. Especially since there’s a ton of human cops now.”

Steve hums thoughtfully. “You ready?” he says.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and it’s the truth. He wasn’t sure it would be, when Hop offered to call in a favor, when the message hit his inbox, or even when he stepped out of the Hawkins airlock and onto an Alliance dock this morning. He just kept saying yes and moving forward because he knew he’d regret it if he didn’t.

He keeps holding onto Steve’s hand as they move through and past the crowds toward Oji Way Warehouses, a row of storage units guarded by sectional doors and the occasional krogan hired gun. One such krogan, a scarred old brute with a cracked green frontal plate, approaches to grunt at them about what they’re doing down here, to move along if they don’t have business.

“We do,” says Steve. “We’re looking for somebody.”

“That so, soldier boy?” says the krogan. Eddie ducks his chin to hide a smile, because yeah, even in civvies, Steve sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Munson,” says Steve. “That’s the name.”

The krogan turns his head to get a better look at them out of a single eye. “What d’you want with Wayne?”