#watch and learn grasshopper

[dinosaurwithablog]

I love the ninja sword dog!! That dog wields a sword better than most people could!! I love watching this dog kick ass 😍🤣😍 Watch and learn grasshopper. The student becomes the master. Fantastic 😍 😍 😍

The Legend Of SWORD DOG

From Mistymountainlegends on insta

[darkstaria]

Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul Animal AU

Chapter 2:

Chapter 1. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5.

Taglist: @moonchild-artemisdaughter @jjsmeowthie @madine11-blog @xxrougefangxx

----

“No!”

Screaming, you rushed up. Breathe!

In, out. In, out. Blood raced.

In.

Out.

With a shuddering breath, you sighed. You became aware of a presence at your pillow. Glancing, you locked eyes with your second robin. Well, you called this bird a robin, but it was barely that.

The bird was covered in black feathers, with the exception being bright red that covered its head and a small part of its chest. It hardly resembled a robin anymore. This one, you referred to as Hood.

Hood gave a little chirp, hopping over to your lap. It settled down, providing a reassuring weight. You started petting it, just a little. Hood could always tell when you had this particular nightmare.

You didn't have nightmares often, but if you did, it was always the same one. It started simple, an unlucky mistake leading to the meeting of a soulmate (which was nightmarish enough). Your brain never really elaborated on the meeting, as if it couldn’t quite comprehend what it could be like. Instead, the horror appeared when you met your own soul animal.

It was impossible to meet your own soul form until you've met a soulmate, as the animal orbited those you were bound to. Many a novel has been dedicated to those discovering that their soul has taken some unfortunate form, and their journey of self-acceptance. One particular novel you were fond of had the protagonist learning to accept that their form was a snail.

But… in the nightmare, your form wasn't that of a snail. It wasn't the form of a snake, a grasshopper or even a turtle.

It was a robin.

A little, fluttering robin. In green. In yellow.

In red.

You always awoke after that.

You continued petting Hood. Pet pat, pet pat. It always let you have little leniencies like this, after your nightmares. You appreciated it.

For you, a robin was the worst form your soul could possibly have. You had tried previously to logic yourself out of this fear. What was so bad about being a robin? You had four of them already; they weren’t so bad, albeit annoying. You just couldn’t… stand the idea.

It reminded you of the blood on your hands. The sight never really left you. The bodies of soul animals didn't remain, they disappeared just as the soul did after death. The fact both comforted and reassured you. You didn't have to bury the body, but you also didn't have anything to mourn.

You had made a small grave anyway.

You cried. Just a little. Hood gave a small tweet of distress, raising itself up to you. You took the offer, picking the bird up and cuddling its face. Just a little.

You felt sick.

You two stayed like that a while, two souls sheltering from the world. You wondered if your soulmates ever did a similar thing with your soul form. It was times like this that had you considering reaching out. You brushed aside some feathers on Hood’s chest, revealing a faint, scarred Y.

Maybe not.

A scutter of wings could be heard from your kitchen. You groaned, lifting Hood off your lap as you slowly got up. Who was it this time?

Bleary eyes blinked, you slowly made your way over. You were joined by Hood, as it made itself a steady weight on your shoulder. Hood was always a little too heavy for you to carry about easily, but you decided to be kind by not complaining this time.

Staring into your kitchen, it took you a moment to understand the sight in front of you.

A robin darting about, as a bat watched from the top of your fridge. It was a typical image for your home, but why..

Why was the robin… purple? And, was that bat a little smaller than usual?

…

Oh, no.

Strength left your legs as you crumbled to the floor, just staring at the two with an empty gaze. Hood squawked in alarm, fluttering off your shoulder.

You had two new soulmates.

Goddamnit.

~ ~ ~ ~

Somehow, Spoiler and Orphan (you later figured out their identities, none of your soulbonds were subtle) weren't your first surprise bond. No, that dubious honor belonged to the fourth robin.

You had been a little exhausted after a long day being tormented by Wing’s affections. Occasionally Wing has rather clingy days, and it becomes impossible to leave the house. It had only gotten worse after the second robin’s demise. You endured.

As a result, you were sleeping in. That is, until the sounds of high pitched peeping noises stirred you from your slumber. You slowly awoke, your eyes meeting bright green.

“Aaagh!” You shrieked, jumping back and falling off the bed. “Owww.” Groaning, you slowly sat up, taking in the situation.

There was a baby bird. On your bed. “What…?” You muttered. The bird didn't have many feathers, but the ones that it did have were a mixture of black and green. It was this fact, alongside the bird being a robin, that made you register exactly what was going on.

“Ohh my god.” Your head was in your hands. That was how done you were. Most people stopped getting soulmates at one. Sometimes there were bonds of two, maybe even three. Having four bonds was already rather extraordinary (which is why you pretended all your robins were the same one), but now there was a fifth.

Well, at least the baby bird was cute. You reached out, extending a finger to pet it, when it snapped at you. With its beak and everything.

Betrayal.

Since when were baby birds aggressive? All your other soulmates were older than you so you never got to care for any of them. Now you finally have one, and it snaps at you.

Turning away from the bird, you mean to sulk a little, but get interrupted by the Bat fluttering right in front of you. You blink, and the next second it's perched right by your new soulmate. You stare, eagerly anticipating a conflict.

The baby bird stares at the Bat for a second, before making an adoring noise and resting under its wing.

What.

Suffice to say, your initial relationship with Robin didn't start off perfectly. It did seem to warm to you within a few weeks though, so you didn't feel too bad about it.

In all honesty, you were more concerned about what the existence of a fourth robin would mean for the third. Would it be a smooth transition? A simple bestowing of the title like it had been for the first and second robin?

Or would it be tainted with blood, another robin bleeding out in your palms. You shuddered.

You didn't want to find out.

~ ~ ~ ~

Adjusting to two new additions to your bond was a little strange. All your bonds so far had been birth ones, formed at the start of your existence (with the exception of Robin, which formed when Robin started his life). Spoiler and Orphan were delayed bonds, also known as fated bonds. They started later in life, generally after significant events, but they can just randomly pop up too.

Were you going to get a new bond every time Batman trained a new vigilante? Was being a vigilante a requirement? That has some odd implications for you, actually.

You didn't really want to become a ‘hero’.

Enough of that. A few days had passed since the emergence of your two new bonds, and you suspected that the rest of your soulmates had found the change to be about as surprising as you did.

You could tell, because for the first time in a literal month, you were alone! No bat watching from a corner, no bird fluttering around you. Just you, and complete, lovely, isolation.

Honestly, it was so quiet you were a little unnerved. You had gotten so used to the constant chirping and fluttering of wings.

As a result, you've left the house.

You enjoy a nice walk, taking in the sights you usually rush over. Settling into a coffee shop, you treat yourself to a cookie. It was fun just to enjoy the atmosphere for once, without the paranoia of having what occasionally felt like a literal flock of birds following you around.

You've almost finished your drink when a shadow falls over you. A lean man stands before you, clutching a coffee to himself as if it contained the secrets to life. You blink.

“Sorry, I was wondering if I could sit with you?” He gestured to the cafe, and you noticed all the other seats were occupied. Huh, you were so busy being infatuated with your current freedom that you didn't even notice.

“Ah, yeah that's fine.” You replied, giving a small smile.

He smiled back, settling down and pulling out a laptop. Your time passes in simple peace, him on his laptop, and you on your phone. A scuttering noise drew you away from your scrolling though, and you looked up to see a familiar scene.

A blue bird had landed on the man’s coffee, shaking it as if it was trying to knock it over. The laptop man was fighting back though, doing his best to preserve it.

“Ah.” You muttered, staring. They both turned to look at you, exactly at the same time. It was a little creepy.

“Apologies for disturbing you.” Coffee man said. The blue bird jumped off the coffee, turning to you.

“It's alright. Is that your soul animal?” You replied, watching the bird hop closer.

“Ah yeah, he is. My family can be annoying about my caffeine intake sometimes.” There was a pause. “He seems quite interested in you, though.” There was a question in that statement, and you had the inkling that this was leading up to something you wouldn't like.

“What type of animal is it? I can tell it's some type of bird but..” The bird had reached you now, hopping onto your raised hand.

“It's a raven…” The man continued on, starting a tangent about raven facts, but you were too distracted to listen. Instead, you were fixated on the bird that was nuzzling your hand in a very familiar manner.

A bird that wasn't a raven. A bird that recognised you.

A bird that was a robin.

Wing.

You felt like both laughing and crying. Here you are, celebrating finally getting some space from your soulmates, and you meet one? How ridiculous. This was a nightmare.

You need to leave, immediately.

You stood up, your chair making an awful screech as you did so. Coffee man looked a bit surprised, as you peeled Wing off you and handed it to him.

“Sorry about that.” You smiled. “I had some extra bird seed on me from feeding some birds today. Perhaps your soul animal could tell. I've got to be going though, maybe I'll see you some other time.” And with that, you start marching out the shop.

Maybe your behavior was suspicious, but you really couldn't afford to stick around. All it took was for one of your soul animals to appear on you and the game would be up. He’d instantly know that the soul animal would have appeared from your side of the connection. It would be over, the efforts of years upon years.

You couldn't let that happen.

“Wait!” A voice called out, the tapping of footsteps following. You swung back around, meeting the gaze of your soulmate. He extended a card to you.

“This is my number, perhaps we can text in the future. I know we didn't really talk, but I enjoyed your company.” He smiled. It would have been a nice scene if the sight didn't make your gut twist.

You took the card.

“Oh! And before I forget, my name’s Tim.”

You answered back, giving your name.

You prayed that he assumed the shakes of your body were due to the cold.

----

And that's the second chapter! Woohoo! Hope you all enjoyed it, since the third chapter is already half way done! I'm rather excited for it haha ^ ^

As always, feel free to reach out!

[bks-writing-adventures]

Little Dancer (Aemond Targaryen X Lannister! Reader)

Summary: A wholesome little journey between the first time Aemond met his wife to the birth of their children.

Warnings: Mentions of childbirth, brief mentions of sex.

Aemond never thought he would be a father. He never even thought he would get married, until you came around at a ball. He forgot what it was, a name day of his nephews? Some celebration for his parents marriage? None of it mattered, because he sat still at his family table, watching the room dance and watching lords get drunk and stupid. And all of a sudden you had blocked his view, your hands on either side of his plate. 

“Do all Princes sit pouting at balls?” You asked. The question flustered him, his one eye meeting yours. It was like you were challenging him, and the thought made his heart spin in his chest. 

“Only when he has no one to dance with.” He answered. The words magically came to him, and he held his breath as he had waited for you to respond. 

“It is a good thing I am here then, is it not? Or would you rather sit here, eating scraps and wishing to be elsewhere?” You were so teasing- so confident, and before he knew it, his hand was wrapped around yours, and you were walking backward as you dragged him to the dancefloor. He did not have the time to be self conscious, and he could no longer let his eye wander as his hands landed on yours, spinning you, watching how your skirts swished and your hair got fluffy and frizzed. 

“So who are you, my little dancer?” He asked softly, holding you closer to him. You were warm, and he couldn’t tell what was making his heart pound. Your presence or the wine, or maybe an intoxicating blend of both.

 “(Y/N) Lannister,” You answered, licking your lips as the song ended. “If you wish to get to know me, we should move somewhere quieter,” You said gently, and he smiled as his eye wandered. 

“I know a place,” He said softly, his arm linked with yours as he carefully lead you out and into the gardens. It was quite the scandalous thing, he was well aware- but he didn’t care enough to stop. His brother was far from proper, he was a criminal and a disappointment. Speaking to a pretty girl in the garden would not be the worst crime. The garden hiccuped with the sounds of grasshoppers and frogs, and you smiled at the sound. 

“Do you know what that sound is?” You asked softly, and he gave you a curious look as you walked further into the great land of flowers. 

“Frogs,” He said simply, to which you nodded. 

“Mating frogs. Do you know how many eggs a frog can lay at once?” You asked.

 “Do you tell everyone your favorite amphibians facts, or am I special?” He smiled a little, trying not to let his interest show on his face. 

“There are facts much more interesting than that,” You answered, and for a few minutes, the two of you simply walked in the quiet. 

“How many eggs can a dragon lay?” You asked. 

“You take an interest in dragons, My Lady?” He asked in return, to which you nodded. He quietly sat on a bench, pulling you down to sit beside him. The moonlight did not do much to guide either of you, but he could make out the bridge of your nose and the slight shine of your eyes in the darkness. “Well, they can lay five, at most.” He responded, wondering if that would be enough for you.

 “Why is that? And what are they like?” You asked, resting your chin on your hand. You had always liked to learn about science, and this was your way in. Into the world of infinite books and knowledge. And he just had such a pretty face, which definitely helped the case. 

“The eggs? They’re hard and large and scaly,” He responded, reaching over to touch your hand. It was a daring move, but he wanted to feel you. In the darkness, touch the soft skin of your hand and wrist, and you didn’t move away.

 “Why is that? Are they not reptiles?” You asked quietly, and he had to lean closer to hear you.

 “Dragons cannot be put into a box, My Lady. They are everything and nothing. No mortal could ever learn to understand them,” He murmured, gently guiding your hand to his mouth so he could kiss it. He wasn’t sure what it was about you that attracted him so. You were just so unconventional, untrained. It was fascinating. 

“Not even Targaryens?” You asked softly as his breath tickled your fingers.

 “Certainly not. We only shout commands and hope they listen,” He chuckled softly. He was about to speak again when a loud shout suddenly broke the walls of intimacy around them. For the love of Gods, this did not look good. He wasn’t sure if he pushed your hand away, or if you pulled it back, but all contact was quickly broken as the two of you rushed to stand up. 

“Aemond, what is the meaning of this?” His mother sounded rather angry. She always was, whenever something like this happened. This was the worst possible time for her to wander over. 

“Mother, I was simply conversing with the Lady Lannister, and-” She cut him off, making his lips purse. 

“Without a chaperone, in the darkness, away from the sights of others? Do you understand how scandalous this is?” As you both shrunk under her lecture, neither of you argued back. And soon enough you and Aemond were sat before his mother and your own as they discussed. 

“We did nothing unholy. We were only speaking of the anatomy of dragons,” You frowned, to which your mother quickly shook her head.

 “Is that what they call it nowadays? This is out of control, and now your honor is ruined,” She huffed, and you stared down boredly at your hands. This is not how you thought your night would go, and the next sentence only made things more bizarre. 

“Her honor is not ruined, and I will ensure it. I intend to make (Y/N) my wife.” Aemond spoke, making your head quickly turn. All arguments died out like a flame without air, his eye soft and apologetic as he looked at you. But neither of you could claim to be mad about it. It was only the Gods’ odd way of making a match, and the next days were full of shy conversation and blushing cheeks, loomed over by your parents as they dissected every interaction.  

“I have a gift for you,” he said softly, pulling out a large book from his bag. It was bigger than your head, and the spine as so thick it could easily be mistaken for a brick. 

“Wow,” You mumbled, trying to read the front cover, but it is not in Common. Your eyes looked to his face, a curious look taking over your own.

 “It is in High Valyrian, its one of the oldest books in our library- well, not that one, that is a copy. The original would crumble like sand in your palms. But the language will be important for you to learn, I thought we could practice together,” He spoke, getting a little shy. It was a sweet sight, and you nodded as he explained. 

“Then you should allow me to teach you some Nyvia.” You responded. His brows scrunched a little. He had never heard of the language in his life.

 “And what is that?” He asked gently, intrigued. He didn’t realize you were bilingual, too.Your children would be an interesting batch. 

“My mothers first language. It is dying out, not many speak it anymore. Are you familiar with the island of Nyav?” You asked, and he nodded slowly. He had read about it in history books. It had been a brilliant place of beautiful plants and even more beautiful people. The stories said that it was lost to the sea, or to conquering, no one was sure. You were like a God of the old world, sitting right before him. 

“She lived there as a young girl, escaped before it disappeared, when she was betrothed to my father. I will admit that my own speaking is messy, but at least it is alive,” You spoke, slowly opening the book he had given you. You squinted a little. The letters were familiar, but the order was unlike anything you had ever seen. The longer he looked at you, the more questions formed in his head. 

“Do you think you have any Valyrian in you?” He asked. Nyvia had belonged to no one at all, no one knew where the people came from, only that they had not been there all along. Perhaps it had begun with Targaryen’s fleeing the Doom, or other Valyrians that escaped to the sea and washed upon its shores. 

“I do not think so. I do not look the part,” You reminded him, watching as his hand inched closer to yours, your fingertips brushing. It was perhaps the most touch you would be allowed until after you were married.

 “White hair does not make a Valyrian. It was only a thought,” He said, gently shrugging. His mind wandered to your children, the ones he would have with you. How many there would be. If they would have hair like yours, or hair like his own. How they would look on dragonback, and if you could all fly together as a family. Vhagar was more than big enough for two. You could hold his waist, and he would fly ahead of the children, and they would follow him like ducklings. Maybe you would have 12 children, one for every moon of the year. He cleared his throat as his mother called for him. Your meeting was done for the day. And when two more moons passed, it was finally your wedding day. Your dress clung to every part of your body, and your hair was covered with a heavy veil, beaded with pearls and gems big enough to pay off an entire house. 

The maids had tried to get you to agree to having pinned hair, or a more tradition style, but you declined. You never liked having too much on you, weighing you down. The air was stuffy with the breath of hundreds, and you tried not to look at the crowd as Aemond stood before you. “Kessa sagon sȳz.  Laesi va nyke.” He murmured softly, and you nodded as your eyes studied his face. He was wearing his fanciest eyepatch. You wondered how many were in his collection, and if you would ever see him without it. If he slept with it on. As you both repeated the words of the Septon, and it came time for the kiss- you stared at each other for a long, awkward few seconds, trying to figure out which one of you would lean in first. You may have been brave enough to approach him that first night, when he was just a sulking stranger. But now things were so much bigger. You had an audience. 

Finally, once he accepted you would not be the one to do it, he leaned down to press a brief, awkward kiss on your mouth, and you both parted with small, sheepish smiles. Once you were at your table, you both let out deep breaths from your lungs, and finally,you could curl up together, your arms looped around his as you giggled into his sleeve. “That was unbearable,” Your words were light, but the hit was strong, and he chuckled awkwardly. He had hoped the kiss was not that bad. But he felt a wave of uncertainty rushing into him. The first kiss was supposed to be magical, like you were bathing in fire and pureness and all that was good. But it felt like a child smushing two dolls together. 

He only hoped that with time, things would get better. And oh, how they certainly did. The bedchamber was full of soft sounds, and for every moan came ten laughs and raised brows. “Mm.. you sound like you are being murdered,” He murmured into your shoulder, and you smiled as you squeeze his hand. 

“And you sound like you’ve run 30 miles,” You responded as he panted onto your skin. 

“Oh, hush,” He smiled, gently biting your neck. 

“Little vampire,” You mumbled before he gently guided your face down to a pillow. He did not expect anything to come of your night of teasing and touch, but when six weeks had passed, he woke in the morning to you squirming from his arms. 

“It is too early for you to wake.” He grumbled. He had been an early bird before your marriage, before he was up into the early hours of dawn inside you, kissing you, teaching you High Valyrian as you tried to teach him Nyvia. 

“Yoane,” He spoke, and you shook your head. 

“Yo-awn-ee.” You repeated, and he tried once more.

 “Yoane,” He nodded, and you groaned into your hands.You were trying to teach him the words for love, your face pink with laughter. But as you rushed to the bathroom, your face took on an almost gray hue, and he found himself holding your hair in a big bundle as you spittled into the chamberpot, your belly soft and your nose sensitive. You were with child, or perhaps three or four, for when you reached your second trimester, you were a giant.

 “Mmm… you are like a dragon,” He mumbled as he kissed upon your stretched skin. 

“How so?” You asked softly, caressing his hair as his cheek pressed onto your belly. 

“You are going to lay a whole clutch. You must have three or four in here,” He marveled at the size of you, and you rolled your eyes.

 “I am telling your mother that you said that,” You responded, making his brows scrunch together.

 “You would not dare.” In the months of your marriage, Queen Alicent had grown quite attached to you. While she loved her son, she had always found him to be rather an intense man. She wasn’t afraid of him, no, but she never thought he would find marriage. Find joy. She thought he would grow old and become a knight or a philosopher, and she was quite pleased with you for bringing out these new parts of him. And so, if she learned of his comments of your size, she would beat him messy with a sock. When you were finally about to burst at the seams, you learned that there were things far more stressful than a wedding day. It was like everyone wanted to see your baby plop out, Alicent walking the room as they propped your legs off. 

“Would you mind leaving the room? This is a rather private matter,” Aemond spoke to his mother in a hushed voice, to which she gently shook her head.

 “And I am to be the grandmother of this child. I am close family, am I not? This is a huge deal for you, my youngest son having his first child!!” She gushed, and you shifted uncomfortably.

 “It may be hours before the baby arrives,” You groaned quietly, pushing the small wooden tools away from your legs. “I do not wish for too many to see my blood and my mess,” Your eyes held a certain fire, and your jaw clenched, and slowly her face filled with an understanding, nodding slowly. You were no Rhaenyra, and you were no enemy. You were her daughter in law, the wife of her youngest son. And so quietly, she left the room, leaving you to the midwives, the maesters, and your husband.

 “Perhaps you would like to leave, My Prince. It is not necessary for the husband to stay,” One of the Maesters spoke, to which you quickly shouted. 

“If you leave me I will ensure that you never get to hold the baby.” You said quickly. 

“I would not dream of it, my dearest,” He responded, coming closer so you could hold his hand. Several hours passed of loud noises and angry shouts, little crescent moons cut into his hand from your grasp. Child after child escaped your womb, until a whole batch of seven was swaddled. The midwives had to call for backup to tend to all the children, each of them around five pounds. It was a concerning miracle, and Aemond’s eye widened as he stared at all the squirming infants.

 “By the seven..” He murmured, quite literally. A child for every god. What a miracle it was. His heart fluttered with fear as he reached out to one of the infants, the only girl, her hand slowly curling around his finger. It was beautiful and scary all at once, like a comet scratching the sky. It was all so very real all of a sudden, his breath catching in his throat as his eye watered.

 “Are they all healthy?” You asked softly, sitting up slowly, your hands curling up. “Yes,” One of your handmaids quickly told you. 

“Small but mighty, they are all warm and crying,” She spoke, wiping sweat from your face. You smiled, taking a deep breath, your eyes slightly puffy as two of the babies were placed on your chest. Two of the boys, one with hair like your own, and the other with a head of snow, little curls still damp from birth. “Look at his little swirly wirlies.” You mumbled, and Aemond chuckled as he leaned over, two of the babies in his own arms. One with gingery Hightower hair, the other with hair like his own. What the litter you had. “How many girls?” You asked softly, reaching to gently take the blankets off, but Aemond answered you before you had to use your energy. 

“Just the one,” He said softly, placing her on your belly. The two of you laid in the bed for hours, covered in babies on every limb and surface. It was a mess, a loud swarm of little coos and crying. But neither of you had ever been happier. Aemond never thought he’d be a good father, but he sure could do his best.

Thank you to everyone who reads!! Feel free to send in requests :)

-BK ♡

[sporesgalaxy]

hey I updated the Pierre Document. The document with all the information about which version of events I consider canon to Pierre. the Pierre document where i write down random shit all the time. that document.

posting this as im on the verge of passing out so i dont have time ti regret it yayyyyyyy

•••

Pierra's family are avid travelers, possible for mild-mannered citizens like them due to their home island Old Tool's status as a travel hub and their family history of working in the Marine shipbuilding and sailing industry. Thus, Pierra being taken along on a pleasure cruise with the rest of her family would be an unheard of luxury in most of the world, but it wasn't originally all that big a deal to Pierra.

Things took an unexpected turn after the cruise ship Pierra was on had already crossed the Grand Line (using sea prism stone technology) and entered the East Blue.

Since the East is supposedly the safest of the four blues, the hired Marine guards were lazy in their security measures, drinking and partying to congratulate themselves on crossing the Grand Line without incident.

Therefore the ship's protectors were woefully unprepared when the Buggy Pirates suddenly attacked! The Pirates were on their way to Reverse Mountain, and energized after reuniting with their captain and escaping Marine custody!

The pirate attack happened while Pierra was avoiding her family (and especially her mother) on a quiet part of the ship and quietlt spiralling into despair about how she has no idea what to do with her life. The terrifying pirate attack was almost a welcome distraction.

With no one she knew close at hand to worry about the safety of, Pierra's first instinct was to hide, and she was scared enough to employ the devil fruit powers she swore never to use in order to hide in an impossibly small space! This gambit backfired however, and to Pierra's acute horror, her hiding spot inside a crate of alcohol was taken aboard the Big Top as loot.

Pierra managed to stay hidden as a stowaway on the Bigtop for at least a couple of weeks. Then, the Buggy Pirates met Portugaz D. Ace, who managed to be the first person to notice the giant red centipede sneaking around the ship. Luckily for Pierra (who spur-of-the-moment decided to go by Pierre and "pretend" to be a guy), Ace is nice and believes Pierre when he says that he never meant to cause any trouble. And luckily for the Buggy Pirates, Pierre is down to his very core desperate for approval and has a lot of chitinous helping hands he's delighted to lend as long as you tell him he did a good job.

--------

Tiny Pierra lets ants crawl all over her. She watches them tear apart a dying grasshopper in the garden, piece by piece.

Pierra looks with wonder in her eyes at a rotting fish covered with maggots. At a dead baby bird that fell from its nest too soon. At a bag full of bloody ducks her father shot.

Pierra gets too upset sometimes, and too frightened frequently.

Pierra hides as often as possible.

When Pierra starts getting big, she wishes she was still small. She used to like squeezing into tight spaces; inside a box, under a small desk, under a bed. She doesn't fit anymore. Sometimes she feels like she's stopped fitting anywhere at all.

Pierra sneaks into other people's rooms when she's alone in the house, just to look around without disturbing anything. Just to hear the silence.

Pierra takes food she is not supposed to eat, just to get away with it. Just to test how far she can go without being noticed. Just to be unnoticed and forgotten on purpose, instead of as a reflex.

When Pierra is 16, she goes to the market with her mother. While her mother speaks to someone, Pierra breaks off a tiny piece of the most interesting fruit at the stand. No one notices her do it this time. Pierra chews and swallows the piece of fruit, and it tastes bad, but Pierra is pleased to have learned what it tastes like without permission.

Later that evening, alone in her room, Pierra thinks she is dreaming, or maybe losing her mind. She wonders half-heartedly if the fruit was poisonous and she is dying-- but she doesn't want to disturb anyone if she's wrong again.

So, she does what she always does when she thinks she is losing her mind: distracts herself and waits for it to pass.

It passes, eventually, but this won't be the last time. She learns that it's not madness, but the curse of a Devil. She learns she can't swim anymore. She prays for forgiveness. She tells nobody.

When Pierra gets too upset and admits it her mother a year later, she is begged never to transform again. To hide it forever, for her own safety. Human traffickers could be anywhere, her mother says, and Devil Fruit users fetch a high price. Pierra promises to keep hiding. Pierra wonders if it will be easier now, having someone who understands.

Pierra's mother goes back to acting like nothing ever happened. It doesn't get much easier.

---

"It'll be okay," says Pierra's mother gently, drawing her daughter into her arms. Pierra wraps her arms around her mother as well, because she is supposed to.

"We'll figure this out..." her mother continues, "...we can fix this."

Pierra stares over her mother's shoulder as she feels the last remains of her hope crumble away in silence.

That's it, then. Despite everything, despite so many years of cyclical disappointment and pain... Pierra's mother would not give up on "fixing" her.

She and her mother had been repeating this painful exercise for Pierra's entire life. Over and over, every year, every month, every week, for as long as Pierra could remember.

Pierra is so tired of trying to be fixed. She is tired of trying to be something she isn't. She is tired, so so tired, of letting down people who see something in her.

She had hoped that after such a spectacular failure as this one, her mother might finally give up on fixing her. She had hoped that her mother might start trying to learn how to forgive her, instead.

That hope was gone now.

Now, Pierra can see that her mother will never stop waiting for someone less disappointing to take Pierra's place. Pierra can see that her mother's pity will always be directed at the less disappointing person Pierra is certain she can never be.

Wrapped in her mother's arms, Pierra has never felt more alone.

"We'll figure it out together," her mother adds, squeezing Pierra's shoulders tighter.

----

Humans have to be taught everything. We're very good at learning. It's what we evolved to do.

Some animals have to be taught how to do things. How to hunt, where to go.

But many animals exhibit behaviors that are never taught to them.

Humans have a precious few. Holding our breath underwater, hanging on with our arms.

The less social the animal, the less learning it tends to do.

The more its behavior is ruled by instinct.

-----

Most Observation Haki users learn to tune out the auras of nonaggressive bugs, consciously or unconsciously.

Otherwise, their senses would be overwhelmed by spiritual "noise" from hundreds of tiny auras. The glut of information can make it harder to notice actual threats, and the easiest solution is to ignore typically irrelevant details-- i.e., bugs.

It's something like mentally tuning out the sound of cicadas in a forest when you are listening for a distinctive bird call.

In his centipede form, because of his skittish nature and typical lack of malicious intent paired with centipede instincts from his Zoan abilities, Pierre's aura usually registers as a genuine nonaggressive bug aura. It can therefore go easily overlooked, despite Pierre's large size.

Like if our proverbial birder was listening for bird calls, but Pierre was a bird whose call almost perfectly mimicked a cicada.

It takes a very skilled Observation Haki user and a very sharp mind to take in ALL auras in an area without tuning out small details like harmless bugs. To these sort of people, centipede Pierre can be detected just as well as anything else, and his large size will even cause him to stick out.

In the cicada metaphor, these people are sharp enough to identify any bird calls and count the number of cicadas calling at the same time. And Pierre sounds like a cicada...but not a species of cicada the expert listening recognizes. Thus, Pierre sticks out.

Pierre's attitude can also ruin his bug aura camoflauge. If he is too focused on anything besides his own survival, his aura ceases to be nonthreatening or buglike enough and he will no longer go overlooked.

For bird-Pierre, this would be like accidentally letting out a distinctly bird-ish squawk rather than the mimic-cicada call.

-------

B: [unlocking a chest] This poster better be the best thing since sliced bread or I am completely SCREW--

[Pierre is revealed to be inside the chest. Buggy gawks at him.]

P: I- I know how this looks!

P: But it's not the same as last time!! I'll leave as soon as I--!

B: [snotty, sobbing, frantically grabbing Pierre's shoulders] NO!!!!!! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!

P: !!!! [Pierre is wide-eyed and speechless]

B: [stops sobbing] wait a second.

B: [shaking Pierre by his lapels, angry now] Where the HELL have you been, Chucklehead?!!!

P: [being comically shaken around too much to form a response]

B: I haven't seen you since we got arrested on--!!!

B: [stops shaking Pierre, squints at him] .....OHHHHH.

[Pierre has no idea whats going on, is still being grabbed by the lapels]

B: [angry smile] [lets go of P and crosses arms] I see what happened!!!!

B: [vindictive] The government took back your pardon because they abolished Warlords!

B: [pokes Pierre in the chest] So after two years of thinking you're BETTER than me,

[Pierre's eyes widen]

B: You had no choice but to come crawling back!!! [flicks Pierre's nose] GYAHAHAHAA!!!

B: [patting Pierre's head condescendingly] Don't worry Chucklehead, I won't make you grovel. Much. [mean grin]

P: Wait, what?! [earnest] I-I'm not-- I don't think I'm above you, Buggy!! That would be crazy!!

B: [smug aura cracks slightly] Eh?

P: [sheepish] I'm surprised you even remember my name! A famous pirate like you must meet so many amazing people, I didn't think I'd stick out at all...

[Buggy gets smug again, and a bit flustered]

B: Well, heh heh...

B: [remembers he's mad] Then why'd you ditch me?!!

P: I-I didn't ditch you!

B: Like hell!!! All the Buggy Pirates got pardoned when I became a warlord, but YOU never came back!!

P: Because I'm not a Buggy Pirate?! I was a stowaway!

B: [gawks again, like "are you serious??"]

P: ...you...wanted me to come back??

B: [dodging the question] YOU'RE DODGING THE QUESTION!!!

B: What were you even doing for th last two years that was so much better than ME-- MY CREW!!!!!!

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Pierre on the Snail. He is saying "No, Mom-- I-- I DO want to be here. The science is really interesting, I just--"]

P: ...Well, keheh... [drags hands down face] ...Ugh. Trust me, I did NOT wanna be there.

P: So, when the navy caught the Buggy Pirates, they saw my Devil Fruit power.

P: [before Buggy can ask] I know I told you I've had this since I was a kid, but I never used it before I was with you. It was always this big secret.

P: Anyways, I was really afraid that I'd get in trouble for hiding it, so I told them I got the Devil Fruit on your ship and that I was a hostage.

[Buggy squints at Pierre. It's a good thing Buggy likes him and is exactly as cowardly]

P: They believed it, and I was hoping they would just let me go home, but they really wanted my Zoan powers, so I ended up stuck with the Marines...

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Marine representative says "You've got a unique ability, Ms. Pierra. Opportunities like this shouldn't be wasted! Please, consider our offer, at least--" Pierre interrupts: "I'll do it." He looks terrified and miserable as he says it. What's his problem?]

P: And that's where I've been for...two whole years.

[FLASHBACK PANELS: Pierre thinking "I have to get out of here." "I hate this." "I can't do this anymore." Pierre talking on the snail again, "Yeah, I'll look into research positions." "No, I haven't looked yet." "I've been really busy..." "I just haven't gotten around to it." "I still wanna do something different."]

B: Okay. So how the hell did you end up in my closet???

P: Uh.

P: They sent me with the guys who were supposed to arrest you, actually, but I ditched them.

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Pierre is on a Marine ship looking miserable and indecisive. Suddenly it is chopped in half by Crocodile. Pierre survives by hiding in a barrel & manages to paddle ashore.]

B: And you snuck all the way in here? On an island full of bounty hunters??

P: [manic grin] ...I guess!

P: I'm kind of just trying to not die right now!

P: Thanks for not killing me, by the way! Kehaha!

B: Kill you?? Of COUUURSE not, Pierro-chan!!!

B: [claps Pierre on the back] Why would I kill my own PERSONAL bodyguard!!!

P: ........HUH?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Point of View

Point of view (POV) - the position from which the events of a story are observed.

The author establishes point of view through the use of characters, dialogue, actions, setting, and events.

Authors rarely speak in their own voices. Instead, they assume a particular persona and adopt a "voice" that enables them to narrate their stories and novels. This voice is called point of view.

4 Common Points of View

1. Omniscient 2. Limited Omniscient:

Major character

Minor character

3. Objective 4. First Person:

Major character

Minor character

OMNISCIENT

The story is told in the third person ("he," "she," "it") by a narrator who knows everything about the characters, actions, and events.

The narrator is able to move in time and place, to shift from character to character, and to reveal or conceal as little or as much as he or she pleases.

This type of narrator is "all knowing."

Example from "Godfather Death:"

"He ought to have remembered his godfather's warning."

The narrator has unlimited knowledge, even knowing the mind of Death, and he comments on and evaluates the doctor as he is dying.

LIMITED OMNISCIENT

The story is also told in the third person, but only from the viewpoint of a single character, whether a major or minor one.

The author selects which character to see through, and the narrator is confined to knowing only the thoughts and actions of that character.

Such a character is the "lens" through which events pass in the story.

Example from Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary:

"Charles went upstairs to see the patient. He found him in bed, seating under blankets, his nightcap lying where he had flung it....The fracture was a simple one, without complications of any kind. Charles couldn't have wished for anything easier. Then he recalled his teachers' bedside manner in accident cases, and proceeded to cheer up his patient...."

It is only through Charlie's eyes that readers "see" and learn about the patient.

OBJECTIVE

The story is told in third person, but the narrator does not enter the mind of any character.

The narrator objectively describes events from the outside.

The reader is left to infer the character's inner thoughts and feelings.

The narrator knows which details to use to communicate deep meaning.

Example from Dashiell Hammett's the Maltese Falcon:

"Spade's thick fingers made a cigarette with deliberate care, sifting a measured quantity of tan flakes down into curved paper, spreading the flakes so that they lay equal at the ends with a slight depression in the middle...."

Readers must infer that Spade is deliberate, cool, efficient, and painstaking during a crisis; the author never uses those adjectives to describe Spade.

FIRST PERSON

The story is told in first person ("I"), through the thoughts and feelings of the narrator, not anyone else's.

What reaches the reader is subjective.

So, more important than whether the narrator is a major or minor character is the narrator's reliability.

An unreliable narrator can present a distorted picture of events; a reliable one can render events with accuracy.

Example from Aesop's Ant and the Grasshopper:

"Cold and hungry, I watched the ant tugging over the snow a piece of corn he had stored up last summer. My feelers twitched, and I was conscious of a tic in my left hind leg. Finally I could bear it no longer. 'Please, friend ant,' I asked, 'may I have a bit of your corn?"

Readers only know the thoughts and feelings of the grasshopper. They know nothing about what the ant thinks or how the ant feels.

Determining Point of View

The attitudes and opinions of a narrator aren't necessarily those of the author.

Don't confuse a character with the author.

To determine point of view, ask who the narrator is and what pronoun the author attaches to the narrator.

Also ask yourself what role, if any, the narrator plays.

By using a particular point of view, an author determines how much the narrator reveals about the characters.

If these writing notes help with your poem/story, do tag me. Or send me a link. I'd love to read them!

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ POV

[imagine-notnatural]

In my head Johnny is overly dramatic when he’s feeling sick. I'd say 'dont look at me, i dont make the rules' but in this case i do. Also im funny ( im not)

Part six:

No one thought you’d go through with your plans of revenge. No one. Hell, even you didn’t think you were going to go on with it after you’d cooled off. That was until you had to go home early to wash off after your uniform had gotten puked on. And so did your emergency uniform. And also your only set of work boots. Yeah…

You were borderline convinced a new virus had spread and it was only ever activated in your presence becAUSE HOW?!

then you learned that the rookies were coming from training w the 141… yeah that was it

The two sergeants began noting minor inconveniences they figured it was coincidental. It genuinely started as little things. Johnny had been laughing at your peril, saying how a little bit of puke was bringing you down…

He was going to be the first to get it. You’d told him so.

“Just watch,” you said casually. The blank stare that accompanied your knowing tone made him laugh.

"Aye, I'll be watch'n- watch'n you clear off anotha poor bastards guts offa wall"

Oh yeah... getting it good...

At first it was little things: drinks spilling on them at the bar, no luck picking up flings, missing targets they’d normally hit with their eyes closed, picking up extra drills, extra paperwork

Then, the following days, it was as if Johnny could smell the piss off a grasshopper’s ass. Everything was nauseating, and he struggled not to gag around even the blandest of the cafeteria food. His saving grace was the only food he actively hated. No overly pungent smell, nothing of the sort- just his genuine distaste for it. If he wasn't busy over a toilet, he'd be busy going to and from the medical building. The man had gotten so dehydrated he'd been given a banana bag by the medical staff, and he'd even been given a day's rest.

Kyle always had something by in his shoes. He’d been through worse, more serious pains, honestly, but it was driving him insane that in every change of socks, no matter which pair of boots he wore, after he’d finished tying his laces, he’d be on his feet and like clockwork something would poke and prod at his feet. Never both at the same time, but always one. Then he’d unlace his boots to check for a cause and he’d find nothing.

There were times recruits would see him walking normally, just to suddenly fold in on himself and rip his boot off angrily. Shaking the thing like it owed him money.

“Sarg, everything alright?” Someone would ask,

“Damn it- Yes, private yes!” Garrick would be hopping on a single foot

“Being in America is getting to the guy-“ another would whisper as they’d walk off into the distance

Then Ghost started being affected too. Shit was disappearing on him or just straight he never got something.

The spoon he’d set aside on his plate? Turned around for just a second?

Yeah hoe, gone.

The bar of soap he’d just placed on the holder while he washed?

Disappeared.

Right sock he’d set down for a moment?

Yeah pal, you know it. NOWHERE TO BE SEEN

Whenever he’d have a specific meal or drink in mind and he’d find he’d always been too late. The cafe had just run out as someone would have beaten him to the last of it. Whenever he was in the private rec. room, he’d only find the wrappers or empty box of whatever he’d been craving at the time. He’d been snippy with the sergeant’s over the fact.

“Oi,”

Johnny glumly turned around to face him from the couch while Kyle shut the door of the refrigerator. The two of them stared at Simon’s broad back as he stood before the cupboards, his muscles notably tense and his tone irritable.

“If y’finished uh’ box, a’least bloody toss it in the bin,”

The two sent a questioning glance at each other, Kyle was the first to speak,

“Yeah sorry ‘bout that,” he said, quickly moving to get off his feet.

“You bloody Brits n’ yur’ teas,” Johnny groaned, crossing his arms and tucking himself into the fabric of the old couch. His face gleamed under the overhead light from the vapor rub smeared under his nose as Marisol recommended. ("It's a Mexican thing," he recalls her saying)

It effectively broke the tension. The two gave each other another look before going back to their business.

Not long after this interaction, you walked in. Johnny laid on the couch tiredly, a mildly grim expression on his face. Kyle sat atop the back of the same couch, his feet intentionally not touching the ground. He gave you a quick smile, but the air surrounding him was of charged. Meanwhile, Ghost was leaning against the countertop, though his face was hidden, the way he’d gripped the cupboard door shut as you entered let you know something was up.

You gave everyone a quick ‘hello’. As you stepped in, you noted the empty tea rack and the empty boxes in the rec. trash. When you looked back up, you noted Ghost’s eyes were scanning the cart beside you, when he couldn’t find whatever it was he was looking for his eyes rested on you.

“Ah, sweet (Name), mah' sweet hen, save me-“

“Hi Johnny,” you chuckled and stepped around the couch to give him a quick greeting, not giving away your internal joy at his misery. He reached out a hand to you, not thinking much of it, you took it, expecting a quick interaction.

In a split-second decision he tugged you down to his level in a single movement, tucking your face into his chest.

You let out a (scream)sound of surprise.

Trying to avoid falling over him, your knee caught you just in time, resting beside the whiny Scotsman’s torso, and the arm you’d been pulled down by resting on the back of the cushions beside his head.

“Ya’ smell good” he mumbled, leaning into you. Your eyes widen and you felt blood rush up to your face. He adjusted you up slightly, just enough for the ball of his nose to barely scrape against your shoulder. The same arm that’d pulled you now wrapped in a loose but firm manner.

Oh yeah your touch deprived self is freaking jumping rn. Your dignity though?

MAN WHAT THE HELL MAN

“Johnny- what the-“ you tried prying out of his grip, fighting for your 'untouchable nonchalant baddie' image... (reader be for real...KIDDING)

“Izz’at a new soap?” Johnny asked, as if in a daze. Your face darkened as heat consumed you. WHY ARE YOU SMELLING ME?!

You gave another try, digging your palms into his chest in order to get some leverage. "McTavish you shit-"

“Soap, mate let up,” Kyle swung around and gave the Scot a quick ‘tap’ on the head. It worked, and begrudgingly (to your internal dismay) Johnny let go. He gave a grunt as he began sitting up. You smacked his arm, eyes narrowing

“I should tear you a new asshole”

Johnny gave a tired smile and rubbed the sore spot. "Makin' me blush"

You rounded the couch while giving the scotsman a glare(not as intimidating when you're still flustered) and gave Kyle a side hug. He gave a a gentle squeeze and let you go. His gaze lingering on you as you nodded at Ghost and began to unload your cart.

Ghost raised a brow, Kyle could tell .. but he ignored it.

“You ‘blokes’ been alright? Anything interesting happening?” You asked, still putting away items, changing the subject from your hostage situation to something else.

The more vocal men chuckled, Ghost huffed, but you could tell it was in that laughing-out-of-your-nose kind of thing. 100%...

okay, like 85% sure... 65%... 50%

anyways,

“Things are amazing” Johnny said sarcastically, forcing an American accent, making himself comfortable in his seat.

“Oh you wee baby,” you smirked, closing the cupboard door. “Sounds like just desserts,”

You held back the smile, focusing on passing a tin of tea to Ghost. He took a look at the label and sighed, going to get the tea kettle.

“What?” Kyle rose a brow,

“I said ‘Sounds like just desserts,’, like yall’ve got a case of karma,”

The men shared a brief look, then Johnny noted the rancid, gut turning and gag inducing smells ha d faded. Kyle stood and no longer felt anything in his boots. Ghost was finally making himself something he enjoyed.

Kyle and Johnny both stared at you, who was starring at them with an all too innocent smile.

“Almost like y’all earned it,” you shrugged, your smile turning into a smirk.

“How-“

“You couldnae-“ Johnny jerked up, his eyes wide and reluctantly accusatory as they bore into you and your smug face

None of their issues could be justifiably tied to you.

Realistically.

But you don’t get nearly murdered by a supernatural being and not pick up some supernatural (trauma) life hacks.

A call to a certain grump and a promise of some Scotch delivered to him and he’d pointed you in the right direction. (You called him thirteen times after he’d initially said no)

But now, just as promised, your revenge. A week with minor inconveniences for the three of them, only eased in your presence.

No one said a word. You finished restocking the cupboards and the fridge without saying anything else. The room had a strange tension as you began stepping out. The two sergeant eyes following you to the door.

You smiled innocently as you left the room.

The sergeants turned at each other, ghost continued to watch in silence.

“They couldn’t have? Right?” Kyle stared at the open doorway

“Nah.. they couldna’” Ghost shrugged

“Is naw even possibl’” Johnny began to get up “is nawt -“

They all sat in silence. Ignoring the screech of the tea kettle for a few moments, trying to shake off the feeling of imaginary boot on their necks

[nephtheless]

Wanted to do more action poses, so here are the Time Buddies having a friendly Capoeira match.

I just love watching capoeira videos. The level of buzzing excitement it creates in me is on par with watching figure skating and parkour. Like, it literally makes me pace from pent up energy.

Physical disability prevents me from doing anything even mildly sporty, so I'm living the dream of being athletic vicariously through drawings ::D

This is literally my first step into poses with so much movement, so I relied HEAVILY on references for this. It's still a little stiff, but I'm quite happy with how these turned out, nevertheless.

Once upon a time I believed using references was a sign of being a "less-than" artist, but I'm seeing more and more that it's just a way to learn and get better at drawing. So, no guilt feelings here!

In my head, Gabby-wabs would bounce around like a grasshopper for like 30 seconds, then drop to the ground and promptly take a nap ^^

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Petal By Petal

Summary: Azula is trying to feel like herself again. Mai and TyLee take her on a picnic.

Mai watches dragonflies. Azula counts the spaces between the cattails that surround the pond. TyLee skips stones. Azula counts the rigglets on the pond. 

The world around smells like damp moss and burnt wood, the best of all of the elements. Azula digs her fingers into the soft dirt and hopes that she won’t find any worms. She doesn’t think that she is digging deep enough to worry about the things that wriggle. She finds it to be rather dull, their trips to the pond. But maybe that’s what she needs. Duller days.

“This is a red swampdragon. It’s a dragonfly that favors ponds and, of course, swamps.” Mai explains. “But they also like creeks…”

It’s kind of nice to hear her talk about things that interest her, she hadn’t done much of that when they were out chasing Zuzu and the Avatar. Mai says that it is nice to have someone to talk to—that Zuko listens, adds his input, and insists that he is intrigued. But she can tell that he’s not all that interested, that he seems to be a bit squeamish about bugs. 

Azula is interested enough. She likes learning new things.

“And the bug by your hand…”

Azula jerks her hand back.

“...is completely harmless, it’s a firefly-grasshopper. When they jump, their bulbs glow. People usually confuse them for firefly-crickets.” Mai takes a seat next to Azula and holds her finger out, waiting for the firefly-grasshopper to crawl or leap onto her finger. 

Azula looks away from Mai to where TyLee busies herself chasing a moth-mantis. 

“Here, why don’t you try to hold it.” 

Azula rubs her lips together. “I…well. I suppose. Just don’t let it hop onto my face.”

“That’s not up to me.” Mai says as she holds the grasshopper firefly out.

“I thought that these were nocturnal.” Azula touches her pointer to Mai’s. 

“Nope. You’re thinking of the firefly-crickets.”

“Then what do they have bulbs for?”

Mai is more than delighted to explain. “To ward off predators. The flash their bulbs when a predator gets too close and if the predator is something like an arachnid it will be temporarily blinded.”

Azula nods. “Fascinating.” Her tone falls a bit flat, but she does mean it. She hopes that Mai understands that. But she is still tired sometimes, still worn out and…

And sometimes she wonders if she will ever truly feel like herself again.

She wonders if Mai and TyLee will start to get sick or bored of her by the time she does.

She knows that she probably shouldn’t be poking at the firefly-grasshopper if she doesn’t want it hopping onto her face, but she is curious about how that little bulb feels. 

“Hey look! I found a ladybee!” TyLee calls. Azula wishes that she could muster up a fraction of that enthusiasm. 

“You should probably leave that alone if you don’t want to get stung.” Azula says. 

“Ladybees don’t sting.” Mai replies. “Bumblebees might sting you but only if you bother them.”

TyLee giggles. “They’re like you, Azula!”

Azula cracks a smile. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe.” She reaches for the small pitcher of dandelion wine that rests on their picnic blanket. It sits next to the plate of watermelons that she had cautioned TyLee to cover up before the ants that now crawl over it could get to it. Azula sighs, she guesses that she won’t be having any more watermelon slices.

“Want another glass?”

“No thanks.”

She probably shouldn’t have one either, she would hate to have Mai or TyLee have to drag her home clumsy and stumbling. She pours herself only a half a glass. She doesn’t want to be like her grandfather anymore than just her name. 

“Rough day?” Mai asks.

Azula shakes her head. No rougher than any other day. All things considered it has been a pretty good day. She shouldn’t be so glum. “It’s a fine day. I guess that I’m just…” trying to claw her way back up. She climbs excruciatingly slowly. 

TyLee plops down next to her and takes her hand. She gives it a squeeze. The firefly-grasshopper propels itself off of her other hand and right onto her head. She jerks and goes rigid. “Mai! Remove the insect from my head!” 

Mai chuckles. 

She grimaces. She can feel its little legs shifting strands of her hair. Through gritted teeth and in a pitch a touch higher than she’d like she says, “Mai…”

“I know, I’ve got it.” 

And she does. She gently untangles the firefly-grasshopper from Azula’s hair and returns it to the grass.

“I didn’t realize that you were scared of bugs.” Mai lifts a brow. 

“I’m not afraid of them, I just don’t like them in my hair or on my face or…” She might be a little afraid of bugs.

“I think that the ladybees are cute. The caterpillars too! Oh and that caterpillbugs.”  TyLee declares. 

Azula has yet to figure out which ones are the caterpillars and which are the caterpillbugs. She wonders how long of hanging out with Mai it had taken TyLee to begin to identify them without having to ask Mai. Not that Azula minds asking. In fact it makes conversation easier when she finds that words aren’t coming to her very readily. 

She leans herself upon Mai’s shoulder and TyLee leans against hers. They stay like that for quite a while watching the clouds drift by. It feels kind of like the old days. When they were kids on the playground of the Academy. A breeze rustles the grass and for a moment she can pretend like it has always been like this. That there hadn’t been anything between their playground days and this moment. That she hadn’t been so lost and so alone for so long. That her her heart and mind haven’t been bruised and bandaged, hemorrhaging and then stitched. Sometimes she fears that the wounds won’t heal and that her soul will be covered in bandages for the rest of her days. She squeezes Mai and TyLee’s hands. The clouds float on by, untroubled. 

And then shades of pink and orange begin to appear on the horizon. 

“Ready to go home, bumblebee?” Mai nudges her.

And Azula manages a laugh. A light, lilting thing.

The sound of it is unfamiliar even to her, she hasn’t made it in quite a while. 

TyLee is beaming from ear to ear. Mai smiles too. She holds out her hand and helps Azula to her feet. And Azula helps TyLee to hers. 

“I’ll shake out the blanket.” Azula says. “But I’m not touching that ant infested plate.”

“That is TyLee’s job.” Mai side the woman in question. “We told her to cover that plate up.” 

TyLee gives a mock pout but makes her way over to the plate and dumps the ants and their watermelon slices into the tall grass for the animals to eat. Azula shakes out and neatly folds the blanket before tucking it back into the picnic basket. Mai loads the uneaten food and some utensils on top of that. The three of them scan the grass for anything that they might have left behind.

TyLee takes Azula’s left hand and Mai takes her right.

And they begin their hike back to the palace, three silhouettes against a sunset. 

“Today was nice.” She muses aloud. 

She feels a bit better. A bit lighter.

“Yeah.” Mai agrees. 

“We can do it again next week.” TyLee says.

“I would like that.” Azula nods. 

“Are you going back to the flower shop with Mai?”

Azula nods. “Where will you be?”

“Here and there.” TyLee replies. It is a very TyLee answer. “But I’ll be sure to be here and not there by next week.”

They reach the flower shop in what seems to her like such a short time. And TyLee is pecking both she and Mai on the cheek and makes a third promise to show up bright and early a week from now.  Mai tells her that bright and midafternoon would work just fine too. 

Azula laughs again. 

Sometimes she doesn’t have much to add to the conversation. 

But she is alright with that. She just likes hearing their voices and being surrounded by people again.

She and Mai watch TyLee disappear down the road where several Kyoshi Warriors meet her. 

“Tea?” Mai offers.

Azula nods. Mai doesn’t have to ask. They always check on the flowers and then take tea before bed. The routine helps. Little by little, petal by petal, outing by outing, and laugh by laugh, Mai and TyLee help her piece herself back together.

[hellodaydream1111111111111111]

Some yummy HxH headcanons that are mostly Hisoillu

Hisoka is a pretty good cook and cooks for Illumi whenever he comes over however, when he’s alone the kitchen isn’t even touched and he just orders takeout.

Illumi is no longer allowed in the kitchen because he will burn water.

Hisoka is not getting his deposit back as he has painted all his walls pink, replaced all the doorknobs with heart shaped ones, stained the bathroom red with hair dye and most definitely messed up the ceiling above his bed by throwing cards at it when he’s bored.

Hisoka is a maximalist so his apartment is very cluttered it’s clean but there’s stuff everywhere, Illumi was appalled the first time he came over.

Illumi barely has anything in his room other than books but he does have a rather large collection of moths and beetles that he pinned.

Hisoka buys most of Illumi’s clothes, terrifying Kikyo.

Illumi has to set aside 20 percent of his assassin money to bribe Milluki and Kalluto, unfortunately when mother’s precious baby Kalluto is involved there’s only so much threatening he can do.

Silva has forbidden any of the Zoldycks from smoking however that doesn’t prevent Kikyo for running off into the forest, only to be caught by one of her children.

Kalluto is a clean freak and everything in his room has a place.

Milluki didn’t mind watching Kalluto when he was a toddler because he was quiet and didn’t pitch fits however he found it amusing that Illumi looked like a tried mom most of the time with Killua and Alluka both running about.

The Zoldyck children never really interact during the daytime however like normal siblings they find each other in the kitchen at 3 am making cereal and eventually end up in Milluki’s room playing Mario cart.

Illumi never told Kalluto and Milluki that he was married to Hisoka but Kalluto found to from the phantom troupe in ways he definitely didn’t want to, he swiftly told Milluki and they got enough pizza to send a horse into a coma.

Illumi wakes up really early but if he could he’d sleep all day.

During summer Illumi avoids the sun like the plague and Hisoka doesn’t put on nearly enough clothes.

Hisoka has a pile of magazines just on the floor next to his couch.

Illumi gets cat called a lot and Hisoka finds it hilarious.

Machi and Illumi dislike each other and Kalluto is stuck in the middle of their feud.

Killua and Gon like to sit in fields together and listen to music.

After Killua and Gon separated, Killua and Alluka met up with Bisky so Alluka could learn the basics of nen. Bisky yelled at Killua because he didn’t know how to do Alluka’s hair and she showed him how to braid it.

Since Kalluto is around the phantom troupe so much he’s started talking like them and Illumi constantly has to remind him not to use foul language.

Everyone talks to Kalluto about their problems because they think he won’t tell.

Illumi doesn’t know slang and so he is constantly confused when speaking to Milluki, he has to text Hisoka for answers who will gladly jump at the chance of causing drama.

Kurapika constantly gets emails from Hisoka about random stuff.

When Killua found out Hisoka and Illumi were married he was eating dinner with Gon and he immediately curled up into a ball and kept repeating “Im related to a clown…”

Gon gets grasshoppers and collects them in jars, he gets very sad when Mito tells him they are not allowed in the house.

Leorio makes a lot of gay jokes.

Hisoka really dislikes Kikyo.

When Gon and Killua have sleep overs, they usually get tangled in blankets and fall off the bed.

Whenever Gon does something stupid Killua tells him he’s “Engaging in fatherless behavior”

Chrollo stole an ambulance and named it the spider-mobile.

Chrollo drives the spider-mobile and every time they see one of those crosses for people who’ve gotten into an accident on the road he pulls over and prays for them.

Phinks bet Kalluto that he couldn’t eat a spoon of hot sauce with a straight face and lost 50 Jenny and his dignity.

[therealslimshakespeare]

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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[roostersbby69]

Special chapter for my story “Brothers best friend”!

Summary: So I had this idea for my “Brothers best friend” storyline and just wanted to give a little extra chapter of a few moments between them.

Warnings: little bit of age gap, nothing else really

Check out the whole story!

When Jake and Bradley were fifteen, and you were eleven, they were stoked to be starting ninth grade. Jake had went over Bradley’s and if he went, so did you. The Bradshaws didn’t mind, Carol loved having you around. She kept coloring books, puzzles, a couple barbie dolls and some boxes of cake mix for you to bake when the boys were playing football or play wrestling in the living room.

Today you chose to sit at the table and color, Carol took note you were a lot quieter than Jake was. You kept to yourself and weren’t as rowdy as the boys were. You were gentle with the Barbie dolls and would gently step over a grasshopper or inch worm if you were playing outside.

You colored the princess sheet Carol placed in front of you as she sat across from you and worked on her 1000 piece puzzle. The boys were wrestling in the living room and Nick was mowing the lawn.

“That’s some great coloring skills, Y/n.” Carol smiled as she watched you color the princesses dress pink.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carol.” You smiled and kicked your feet back and forth.

“Boys! Watch my vase!” She yelled to the boys as Bradley threw Jake into a choke hold.

“Yes ma’am!” Bradley called back as he held Jake down.

“Uncle! Uncle!” Jake yelled through a fit of laughter. Bradley let go, laughing himself, and watched as Jake rolled away from him in a laughing fit.

“How’s your mom, Y/n?” Carol asked as she tried to fir a piece of puzzle into another piece.

“She’s okay, shes excited for my brother to start big school. “ You said as you continued to color. Your mom was always overjoyed with Jake’s accomplishments, sometimes she was a little too proud.

“I bet, I’m sure shes excited for you to go into the sixth grade. You must be too.”

“I guess, I am a little nervous though.”

“That’s normal. You’ll do great. You can always get the boys to help with school work.” She smiled at you. Nick walked in with grass all over his forearms and kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Hey, squirt.” He walked over to you and ruffled your hair.

“Hi, Mr. Goose.” You continued to color, you sometimes wished that your parents were like Bradley’s, but then you wouldnt be able to experience this, and you liked this.

The boys walked into the kitchen where you and Carol sat and grabbed a drink from the fridge. Bradley grabbed his and came and sat at the table by you. Jake also joined and sat by him, “What are you coloring, Y/n?” Jake asked as he cracked open the soda can. You looked up at him then at Bradley as your face reddened, “A princess.”

“Aw, looks just like Bradley.” He teased his friend, “That pink really brings out your eyes, Brad.”

Bradley rolled his eyes but a small smile sat on his lips as he watched you finish the princesses hair.

You finished and Carol smiled as she grabbed the sheet and stuck it under a magnet on their fridge. You had a smile on your face as you picked up the crayons and placed them back in the box.

“Can’t you boys learn a thing or two from Y/n and clean up after yourselves?” Carol asked as you cleaned up.

“Nah, shes pretty good at it.” Bradley laughed.

“Bradley.” Carol warned.

“I’m just kidding.” He surrendered as his dad walked in and hit him on the head with a rolled up newspaper.

—

Three years later

At the start of ninth grade you had your first boyfriend, his name was Jackson. All of the girls liked him and you should’ve been excited to have a boyfriend who was popular, but he wasn’t the best boyfriend.

He was in a grade above yours and he liked to party, a lot. He drank, vaped, and fell into the frat boys group, and that wasn’t really your kind of life.

Bradley’s parents had gotten him a small pickup truck and Jake had yet to get one from your mom. You usually rode with Jackson after school, but today you decided to break up. Since you didn’t have a cell phone, you had no way of contacting Bradley or Jake to catch a ride with them.

You walked on the sidewalk and yanked your backpack higher up on your shoulders as a truck stopped beside you and honked, you looked to your left and saw Bradleys green truck. The window rolled down and Jake and Bradley looked at you like you were a ghost.

“Y/n, what the hell are you doing walking on the side of the road? I thought you were riding with Jackson?” Jake yelled over the cars honking at them and passing by.

“Jackson doesn’t give me rides anymore.” You said.

“Get in.” Bradley called to you as Jake got out and opened the door for you to get in on the bench seat. You slid in and put your book bag in your lap as you thanked Bradley who was beside you.

“Why doesn’t Jackson give you rides anymore?” Jake asked angrily as he slammed the door shut.

“We broke up.” You said as you played with a loose string on your book bag.

“Why?” Bradley asked.

“I know why, he’s a good for nothing asshole.” Jake spoke for you.

You sat quietly as Bradley drove off once you were buckled.

“He didn’t hurt you did he?” Jake asked, still sounding angry.

“Can we please not talk about it right now?” You stared down at your lap.

“No, Y/n, you tell me now.” He grabbed your shoulder to try to get you to look at him.

“Jake! Knock it off, man.” Bradley looked at him.

“I just want to go home, please.” You whispered. Jackson had small anger issues sometimes, at parties, when he was drunk, he would get angry at you for not drinking with him and force you to drink. You hated the taste of alcohol, that wasn’t how you wanted to spend your high school years.

Once you got to Bradleys house you got out silently on Bradley’s side and he grabbed your book bag for you. “Are you okay, Y/n?” He softly asked you as he noticed your face was red.

You nodded, “Yeah, thanks.” You reached to grab the bag from him but he held it higher, “Do I need to have a talk with this, Jackson?” He raised an eyebrow and asked.

You smiled and shook your head, “No, Bradley, but thanks again.”

-

Four years later

“Have you talked to Y/n lately?” Bradleys mom asked him as she made supper.

He raised his head to look up at her from the kitchen table, “Um, no not lately. Why?”

Carol shrugged, “I don’t know, it’s not like she was over almost every day and suddenly she just disappeared.”

Bradley nodded to himself, “Well, she is a bit younger than I am.”

“So?” Carol asked.

“So…I don’t know.” Bradley couldn’t think of words.

Carol sighed, “Boys are so oblivious.”

“Oblivious to what?” He asked.

“You’ll figure it out one day.”

“Can’t you just tell me now?”

“Nope, it’ll make its way there.”

Carol always watched them two grow up together. When Bradley ran to Y/n when she fell and scraped her knee when she couldn’t keep up with him and Jake in a game of tag. When she cried when her mom was having one of her episodes, he was there to listen to her.

Carol knew bradley was always keeping an eye out for her. And she knew there would be something special for them in the future.

—————————————————————

[sharksfrommars]

For the Reverse portal AU.

Say I wonder what does, Bill do to Stanley and what he thinks of him? He must obviously disregard him as a non threat because he wasn’t a genius like Ford or he tried to take him hostage to have Ford open up the portal again?

Little did he come to underestimate him, and be the greatest threat to him and his plans. I wonder when Weirdmagedgon happens he goes after Stanley for being the bigger threat?

basically, Stan ruins ALL of Bill’s plots and schemes. Number 1 bill hater fr

—-

When Stan fell through the portal, bill saw it as an opportunity. Ford’s inferior clone, full of self loathing and misplaced loyalty. He knew Sixer, knew that for whatever reason, he cared about him. That when push came to shove, he’d do anything for him. Well, the way Bill saw it, push really was coming to shove now.

The first thing Stan saw upon waking up in a land of living nightmares is this dorky looking triangle, Bill.  He claimed to be a friend of Ford’s. Stan didn’t believe it for a second. His bullshit detector was going haywire, so when bill offered him a deal to help him get back home, Stan sucker punched him in the eye and ran in the opposite direction. And so began Bill’s unending hatred for Stanley Pines.

It was a few years later when Stan ran into bill again. It was a medieval dimension, where the king worshipped the “great triangle”. Something about it seemed familiar, but Stan didn’t remember. Not until Bill appeared in his dreams again, this time threatening him and goading him. Stan hated this guy. So, when he awoke, he destabilised the monarchy and set up a representative democracy instead. They voted to outlaw Bill (thanks to Stan’s meddling), and did some ritual to block him from the dimension. It was REALLY funny watching a yellow triangle crash out.

This kept happening. Every time Stan saw bill, he ruined his plans. Bill claimed absurd things that Ford was doing, none of which Stan believed. Then Stan would ruin his fun, just to annoy him. Bill kept getting angrier and angrier, eventually sending people after him. But Stan always escaped. The time he got closest was with Pyronica, with Stan sleeping with her then losing his arm to bill. But he still managed to make bill look like a fool. He even managed to stop weirdmageddon in the grasshopper dimension. He was well known across the multiverse for ruining Bill’s plans. People would hire Stan for that alone.

Stan eventually met with the oracle, who told him that he “had the face of the man who would defeat bill cipher.”

“That guy? The yellow dork with the top hat? No shit, I’ve beaten him like 12 times already.” Stan had said. The oracle rolled all 7 of her eyes, but also laughed. He learned a lot from her, about travelling dimensions and rifts, about Bill, his powers and his weaknesses. He got the metal plate, so Bill would stop bugging him for a deal.

By the time Ford got the portal open, Stan was the biggest pain in Bills ass. He’d already thwarted one wierdmageddon, even if it was just the stupid grasshopper one. Bill’s plans for this one were much bigger, that was just a practice run. This time, he couldn’t have Stan interfering. So he took him off the board, turned him to stone almost immediately. He didn’t deserve to be encased in gold. He figures that after all these years, Ford should be easily dealt with. He was still Bill’s toy, no matter what he did or said. Right?

[hope-to-hell]

Red Sky (prelude to a storm). Agent Stone x Robotnik. Pining, pre-smut (is that a thing?) light angst, Agent Stone's masochistic tendencies. Agent Stone is approximately ten pounds of yearning in a five pound sack, doing his best to keep his thoughts in check. Ivo Robotnik is an asshole with an ego the size of Texas. Still, somehow, they are stumbling toward the first steps of something more than a professional relationship.

----------

So here’s the thing. You go where you’re told, when you’re told, and if this time you’re stuck minding this notoriously ill-tempered, sharp-tongued doctor, well, then you just pack your bags and go. It’s not like you can choose your assignments, in the same way that you can’t choose from what direction the sun will rise, or the speed of starlight, or the color of the blood that surges through your veins. It is what it is, and so you go along because one job is as good as another and anyway there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Liar. 

For him you’d compel the sun to rise in the west. You’d bring the stars to him in a jar, soaked in the red of your blood if he so willed it. Do you deny it? No, there’s no point. It is what it is. And even if you could change it, you wouldn’t. All of your cleverness, all your skill, is bound to him now. 

And this is the first meeting: you, a little younger and a little less sure of your place in the cosmos, wrapped up tight in a suit that doesn’t quite fit —that’ll come weeks later, when he says you’d look better in black and what do you know but the next time you see him next you’re sleek and tailored with your fingers bearing pinprick scabs from learning to work the needle but that’s neither here nor there— anyway, this is how the meeting goes: 

It’s good to meet you, Doctor. I’m— and you won’t get to finish your introduction, not with how he looks you up and down, sizing you up; your outstretched hand grows cold and lonely but you’ll hold out as long as it takes, even when the effort sets your arm a-tremble. Don’t be a flighty, frightened rabbit. Be your namesake. Be a stone. Seconds slip by and leave minutes in their wake before he twitches his mustache up in a lopsided expression— not quite a smile but maybe something close to satisfaction— and turns away. 

Robotnik has a tendency to neglect— well— everything except for whatever project has hold of his mind. In many ways it works in his favor; the man has earned his title several times over: dissertations of years past litter the floor of his office like so much confetti, but catch him in the right mood and he’ll talk endlessly about nanotech, robotics, renewable fuel, weapons of mass destruction— and all with the voice of a lover, all heat and flame that grips your balls tight and oh you can’t help all those filthy thoughts that crowd your mind when your focus slips.

(put yourself on your knees, you know what to do) 

Get yourself together; let fantasy wait for the cool dark night. Bring yourself back to the here and now. Strike yourself across the face, just as you would if he asked (and you would dearly love that, wouldn’t you; that masochistic streak isn’t hidden quite as well as you think). Feel the heat of your own handprint blooming across your cheek; he’s watching with the beady stare of a rooster that’s just spotted a grasshopper across the yard and he doesn’t lay a hand on you— never has, not even in a fit of temper (not yet, anyway, but when it does happen it’ll be all exhilaration tangled up with shame and a white-hot bolt of pure unfiltered need)— but he might as well have for the way your body responds. Again, he says, just to see what you’ll do. 

Later, when the hot pulsing ache has begun to fade from your cheeks, you’ll pass through a room lit by the glow of monitor screens; the Doctor is snoring wetly onto the keyboard even as the tips of his gloved fingers still twitch, chasing the calculations that permeate even his dreams. It seems that once again he’s pushed exhaustion away until it snuck up and bashed him over the head. If you’re quick and quiet, you can leave a cup of coffee on the desk for him. 

Robotnik tends to drink his coffee bitter-black like it’s a penance, sucking it down quickly. It’s just refueling, practicality without pleasure. But tonight you leave him a little something special: a latte made with espresso from your private stash, goats’ milk— biting and decadent and sour enough to make your toes curl all at once—, set on a warming plate directly in his eyeline. It’s a gamble, but so is everything else in this strange new life of yours. And who knows? Maybe he’ll like it. 

(Of course he does, although he never says a thing about it; the lattes just find their way onto his list of daily needs. Bring me my Oingo Boingo records. Thirty meters of gold wire. One of those drinking bird things.  And my latte.)

Don’t think of gloved thumbs pressing bruises into your wrists. No, don’t fiddle with your cuffs either; he’s bound to notice and even if you can picture it so clearly, he’s not about to grab you by the wrists and pin your hands above your head.  He’s not going to burn day-old stubble across your jaw so he can whisper low and deadly in your ear: give me your complete attention. I want your every molecule tuned to me and when I speak I expect it to vibrate down your nerves so that before you even parse the words you’re moving to do exactly. what. I. need. 

Yeah, maybe it’s a dream, but you know that next time he lays a hand on you, you’ll still be looking for that wicked spark, seeking meaning in actions that seem to be at best a game and at worst a thoughtless reflex. Keep watching, lovely. These things tend to turn up in the most surprising places, and for all his cleverness he is not all-knowing, least of all about himself.

Now, listen. He’s been called away to the ends of the earth– or to Bumfuck, Montana, at any rate, chasing strange energy signatures. He’ll work his magic and you’ll run interference. Enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, and relish the acid in the Doctor’s voice as he verbally eviscerates everyone in earshot. Watch his back as best you can, but just know that as soon as he slips away he’ll be needling at the locals and getting himself punched in the face. Oh, he's not going to like that one bit.

Agent Stone.

 (It’s not weakness if you want it.)

He grabs you by the teeth and pulls you close; he tastes of leather and machine oil and this time it’s not a dream. His fingers dance slow and firm over your tongue and if you were lost before, now you’ve burned the map and thrown away your compass. If you so chose, you could grab his wrist and turn his hand palm up; you know how to bite and tear and make him forevermore unfit for fine work: vein and tendon march in familiar patterns down his forearm. And he sees, doesn’t he, gaze dragging from your stretched and spit-slicked mouth to your eyes and catching there; 

(Like recognizes like)

the faintest huh. falls from his lips as the gears begin to turn. You’re aching around his fingers, jaw strained, drool beginning to shine over your lips, a hair's breadth away from moaning low and needy. Suddenly, he knows. This time when he says your name it’s not with anger but something else entirely.

Stone.

Hnngh? It could be yes Doctor, or maybe is this for real, but when he takes away his hand for an exploratory lick at the saliva shining wetly on his glove, the only word you can get out is a thick rough fuck. And now he’s moving, like he knows exactly how you’ll yield to him. Wait for his first step, the one that puts his thigh between yours: it’s lean, firm, bowstring-tense just like the rest of him; he moves through the world with ears pricked and eyes afire and he misses nothing 

(except for that one thing. You know. It’s what now and then drives you to stand behind his chair rather than beside him (you’d kneel there if he asked and why won’t he ask); it’s the thing that keeps you up at night, counting your own heartbeats when you think about what the man could do to you, feeling your pulse as it pounds below your jaw; you can force away the thoughts but you can’t prevent the gasping sticky need they leave in their wake)

His second step leaves you unbalanced, stumbling backwards to fetch up against the kitchen table. Revel in the ache building between your legs, cock thick and hard and oh, he feels it and he is wicked, palming you with that same slick wet glove, artless and harsh enough to hurt and it is so. fucking. good.

Down, he says, crows’ feet cutting deeper as he watches you fall. Land hard on the tabletop, fluid and boneless, wind knocked out of you with a single gut-punched unh. Try to breathe if you like– as if you could– but his mouth is on yours now and so even your breath belongs to him. I want, I want sings through your blood; if this is real then let it remain so and if this is a dream then may you never wake. And he breaks away to speak, biting sharply at your lips between words:

To think of all the fun I’ve missed. 

[sleeplesssmol]

Vertin Headcannons

1) Sotheby asks Vertin for help when she's gathering ingredients and materials for her potions. Vertin is really experienced at finding things and catching them. From agile grasshoppers to the most elusive spider, Vertin is a pro.

Bonus: If there's something particularly special in their haul, Vertin will show it to her crew members, like a proud cat bringing back it's most recent hunt. Smoltin energy.

2) Vertin does a lot of sneaking around in the game. This makes me think she defaults to quieting her foot steps and moving like the tiniest sound will rock the Suitcase. The stealth is built in and she can't turn it off.

Bonus: She doesn't usually knock since she spent so much time alone in the Suitcase, but after nearly giving Sonetto a heart attack when she "snuck up on her like a ghost" (it wasn't on purpose. She's too nimble for her own good) she does try to remember. Except when Matilda is around. Sneaking up on her is fun. From the voicelines it sounds like she catches her off guard often but Matilda will scold her if she's prepared for the Timekeeper's antics.

3) If Druvis is sitting on a tree branch, Vertin will climb up to talk to her instead of asking her to come down. Druvis told her she doesn't mind coming down, but Vertin insists. Besides, she's great at climbing! Sometimes they don't say anything to one another and just watch the Wilderness together. From time to time, Mr. Apple will also accompany them.

4) Vertin pays attention to Sonetto's interests. Whenever her assistant lingers on an ad or article in the paper, she'll offer to take treat Sonetto to whatever it is or take her where she wants to go. This is based on her dreams and a few voicelines.

5) She likes Dr. Papper. While she prefers tea, whenever she's with Regulus they end up drinking it so now she associates it with happy, peaceful times. However, she can't drink it when she's alone because it reminds her she could be enjoying it with her favorite, obnoxious Pirate.

6) She knows she should put the leather coat and feather dress back in the closet but she's afraid she'll forget, which is absurd. She never forgets. She had them dry-cleaned before folding them up and putting them back on her desk. When asked why she responds "In case she comes back for them someday."

7) One time she was bitten(?) by one of Sotheby's Catus Cats. However, she didn't freak out and flail around because she was scared to hurt it. Instead, she endured while they carefully removed it. She assured a teary-eyed Sotheby she wasn't mad and it barely hurt but that made the crying worse.

8) She agreed to Sonetto's proposal of greeting each other il bacetto style, but then some of her crew started teasing her and jokingly said they should practice "Italian cheek kissing" too. Sonetto was not a fan of this idea. Vertin goes along with most of her crew's antics so why not?

9) Druvis is secretly working on a special wand that can compensate for Vertin's weak arcanum.

10) Vertin tries to make the Suitcase a Sanctuary for her crew in any way she can no matter how small. There are Forget-Me-Nots in the garden, visible from Druvis's favorite tree. She convinces X to give Regulus a toolbox so she can tinker with her projects. She assists Sotheby in her experiments and tries to procure the exotic ingredients she needs. Whenever she runs errands, she always returns with a snack for Sonetto, even if it's a single chocolate. Their funding isn't much, but she finds ways to make up for it.

11) Vertin takes on odd jobs. She meets new people, learns things, and makes extra cash on the side. However, now that her crew and her expenses are growing, she struggles to find a balance. She's used to doing most things on her own. The crew holds an intervention when they realize what's going on. Regulus "You're our boss not our dad!"

Vertin doesn’t quite understand what she means since she never had a dad but she gets the gist. Now everyone brings something to the Suitcase.

Bonus: Druvis rakes in the most money, Regulus brings in the least. Vertin manages to come back with things that aren't money but still useful like box of fresh fruit or spare parts they could use to improve the Suitcase.

12) Vertin didn't know what homesickness was until one day she woke up to silence. The same silence she thought she was used to by now.

And then she smelled something absolutely delicious. Rushing outside into the Wilderness she found the source.

Everyone was outside barbecuing. They let her sleep in since they figured she needed it. They ask her to join them, smiles all around.

She realizes this is what it meant to be "home."

[dark-elf-writes]

Do you think that in BOTW not only Zelda is watching but also Ganon and they are both very confused?

Like, "I am going to spy on you so that l can learn your attack patterns MUAHAHAHA ... What are you doing? There is not a single pattern in your attack. Why are you following another grasshopper, you don't even use them for elixirs. Why is it standing naked on the snow??"

Meanwhile Zelda "I told Impa she had to take care of the bug population on the road to the Divine Beasts if she wanted Link to hurry, it's a miracle the fireflies led them to Kakariko. DID HE ALWAYS KNEW HOW TO ENTER IN GERUDO TOWN"

Zelda is absolutely not in the slightest surprised that Link is chasing crickets and lizards. The only thing keeping him in line in the past was years of training as a soldier and now that he doesn’t remember that? He is going to pick up every rock in Hyrule looking for something shiny. He’s also going to take out a Hinox with a stick. She would expect absolutely nothing less of him. She is however a bit surprised that he keeps putting on the Vai outfit despite having already bought the Voe outfit and makes a note to discuss it after all this is over.

Ganon on the other hand cannot wrap his head around the fact that the fated hero is playing dress up and catching livestock when he should be on his way to die at his hand. He caught a horse twice his size! He cooked a little girl dinner! He walked all the way from the Rito Village to Goron City and back because an old man wanted curry! This is the hero that the goddess chose?!

[camcorderstatic]

(THIS IS NOT RP THIS IS LORE)

…

Alone. Sat in his bunker filled with booze and assorted snacks. What a life he lived. He woke up hungover, rubbing his eyes groggily, mumbling to himself about how much he slept, feeling like he went through a whole season of hibernation. However, when he was about to go back to sleep, somehow still not feeling well rested after all of that time spent sleeping, which was about 18 hours, he heard a voice that made him jolt up.

“Wake your ass up, camera boy.”

That got his attention real quick, as he looked over at wherever the voice was coming from, quite spooked by this. He looked around, before asking-

“Wh … where are you coming from? … what do you want now? …”

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, which made him recoil and twist to look at the man. It was his old self, Terry. It was him from a past life. After losing his life in a setup which not only left him dead, but about three others, due to others having uncontrollable envy towards the fact that he seemed to finally be growing independent from the mafia family he grew up in, he seemed to stick in Cam’s head as not just a memory, but a voice of “reason”, since Terry was the life he had before dropping into the dimension which all the events of the house took place.

Cam stared up at Terry, he gave him a firm frown. Cam never liked Terry, as he felt it represented the worst aspects of himself, and that Terry was always out to get him and make him even more unstable than he already was. While that was partially true, Terry making Cam feel paranoid about his actions and if the people around him were being fraudulent in nature, he was only doing it because he himself died from getting too comfortable around people he trusted. Symbiotic relationship, where Terry was just trying to make Cam aware of his surroundings and position, even if harsh. But recently, it felt like he was going just beyond trying to warn him … like he was actively trying to make him a beyond salvageable paranoid …

“… what is it? What now? Which one of the people I talk to do you have beef with now?”

“Cam. Cam. Innocent naive Cam. After Sagan, I thought you would’ve learned your lesson about blindly trusting anyone. Little do you know … I’ve been watching and-“

“I know you have! You’ve been watching me when I record like you’re the audience and you tell me what I dontpickupon- I GET IT! ALRIGHT? JUST … just fucking tell me who I have to stay away from, aright?”

“My my, why getting so flustered young grasshopper?”

“Don’t fucking call me that, you posh and privy prick.”

“Heheh, you’re so easily agitated. You push off yourself as a nonchalant type of person, whatever comes and goes, it’s all for show. See, you-“

“I understand, Terry. I’m not relevant to anybody. What’s fucking new? I’ve been accepted this fact a long time ago. Are you going to say something of substance? Or do I need to take substances for you to fuck off?”

“Easy, camera boy. Don’t expose your true film for too long. I’ve just came to-“

Cam shot up, hastily putting his mask on as he stood chest to chest with his taller and older self.

“Say something stupid again and I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

Terry looked amused more than anything, chuckling softly as he looked away, then back into Cam’s eyes.

“You know damn well you throw a punch at me, you’re breaking your fist. Sit down and listen.”

Cam huffed, and after standing there for a bit, he eventually sat. Terry nodded softly in approval.

“Now. I wanted to go ahead and prepare you for something. See, remember that encounter, that EGREGIOUS encounter you had with Elizabeth and Ebrofour?”

“… yeah? I haven’t gotten the chance to properly apologise to them about it, and it’s mainly your fault since you were the one fucking with my head the whole time.”

“Now now, don’t pin your mistakes on me. I’m just your guidance, your brain, not that little scared child you got in your heart.”

“You quite literally-!”

Terry raised his hand up, silencing Cam.

“Enough. Now. I want you to know, that whilst nobody explicitly has shown it yet, they’re all starting to turn on you. They’re all starting to hate you.”

Cam shook his head subtly. Why would they? It was just one incident.

“…. you’re taking the piss, none of them hate me, including Ebro and Elizabeth. We just got off on the wrong foot is all, it’s not that hard to apologise, take accountability and move on.”

“They don’t want your apology. See, you’re an NPC. NPCs are replaceable. With the snap of a finger and a push of a button, you’ll be nothing but lost media. Nobody needs you. You’re not a dummy, and you’re most definitely not a friend to anyone there. You’re just there. You’re existing. So, they’re going to give you less chances to act a fool. That incident with Elizabeth and Ebrofour? That’s tarnished your reputation forever. They’re not going to forgive you, they won’t make amends. All the care about now is crossing you out the picture.”

“… how does that make sense? If I’m an NPC, and I’m so irrelevant, then wouldn’t they not care about-“

“They care about you now only because you’re seen as a trouble NPC. A piece of code needing to be deleted. You’re like Camilla. Except they couldn’t care enough about you to actually hate you, they just want you gone. It’s spreading, whether you want to admit it or not, they’re spreading the word about you, about what you’ve done and who you are. Nobody wants to be friends with you, Cam. Not the Ebros, not Star, not Asa, not Grat, nobody. You’ve got no leverage and you’ve got no pulling power. You’re just a polar opposite to their magnets of attraction. And by attraction, I mean the want to keep someone around. One by one, they’ll start acting cold towards you, until you’re isolated completely. If you don’t leave on your own, someone will put that final nail in the coffin.”

“… No, no you’re fucking with my head, you’re not … this isn’t real, you’re just-“

“I’m afraid so, Sonny. Even your little boyfriend? Moon?”

“… don’t you fucking … don’t you bring him into this, he loves me, and I love him, alright? He’s stopped me from killing myself several times! He’s saved me from freezing to death, from bleeding to death! He’s … we’re more than just some gay hit and run, hookup fling thing! We’re … we …”

“You two are what, exactly?”

Cam thought for a bit, going quiet, before muttering out in a voice just barely above a whisper-

“… we love each other, damn it …”

“… and can you prove that for certain? Sure, I can’t disprove it to you, but what I can do, is make you second guess yourself. I’m only doing this for your safety, Cam. You must understand this. You try to stand back as your son so to speak runs into incoming traffic. My mistress set me up the night off, took down me and my brethren, just because someone paid her enough. What you need to know, is that as you are coded, and as you stand … there’ll always be a price above your head. You’ll never be priceless in anyone’s soul. You’re pixels, waiting to be corrupted and decayed until you’re nothing but a bad gateway to something that should’ve never existed in the first place.”

Terry’s voice grew more damning and booming as he spoke, as if he was preaching gospel.

“Nobody wants to be your friend, and Moon would turn on you faster than you could realise that daggers gone straight through your gooey heart, because he’s “the man you love”. Remember, he kills people not only for sport, but for their belongings. What do you have? Archives. Of everything. That’s valuable. You aren’t valuable. What you make is valuable.”

Cam slowly gripped into his arms, his nails digging into them so much that he started to tear at his own skin. He curled up, pulling his feet to his chest, as he breathed sharply, almost hyperventilating. Terry walked over, and rubbed his back, almost kindly, as he smirked and said-

“Theeeere ya go … now you’re really getting it.”

Terry chuckled, before saying-

“Take that mask off and look at me.”

Cam refused, looking away from him. Terry sighed a bit, and said-

“Look at me, you brat.”

Cam threw his mask off, the bands slapping across his face as he practically ripped it off, frisbeeing it across the room as he looked Terry in the eyes.

“WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT FROM ME?!”

Terry just smirked, and said-

“Do it. I know you want to.”

Motioning to the bag of morphine and other narcotics that Cam had been illegally acquiring. Cam gripped into his fists, shaking with rage, as he let out a primal screech of rage, and hatred, for what was merely in his head. A caricature of his flaws and shortcomings. Himself.

He hated himself more than anything else in life.

He lunged forward, trying to punch Terry, only for him to vanish in a blink. His fist made contact with the concrete wall, and he shattered his hand in several places. He didn’t even cry out in pain, just kept punching the wall with his now broken hand until it was nothing but calcium powder in a floppy meat glove. There was blood splattered all over the wall, and his hand looked like about five semi’s had ran over it, before he promptly stuck it in a blender. He stared at it for a bit, hunched over and watching it drip with blood, crumpled up and disfigured, before grabbing a syringe, pulling a full dose of morphine, and jabbing it into his forearm. The pain began to fade away, as he picked up a bottle of vodka, dousing his hand in it to disinfect it, before downing it himself, and within minutes …

He had blacked out yet again.

… Pathetic, honestly …