#this specific approach is a little tough to me though

[lanawinterscigarettes]

Sweatshirt (Greg House x reader)

Summary: House gets jealous by a certain article of clothing you're wearing

Warnings: petty/jealous House (aka the best kind), heavily implied poly House x reader x Wilson in case that's not your thing, very mild and brief swearing

A/N: based off a random little thought I had. don't ask me when during the show this is supposed to be set because I have no clue

It was missing. Wilson's McGill sweatshirt was missing, and House was very upset. It was his turn to wear it, and although he could've sworn he left it balled up on his side of the bed before he left for work it wasn't there when he returned.

The thought popped into his head that someone might've stolen it, but that was just stupid. After all, who would break into his apartment just to take a sweater?

You, apparently, as he soon came to realize when combing back over his place to look for it. He hadn't noticed it on you at first when he walked in, but now it was hard to miss, like a bright red target painted across your chest.

He almost glared at the way you were casually lounging on the couch, reading a book as if you hadn't stolen from him. "You're wearing his sweater." It wasn't a question, rather a statement, which made sense due to how very obvious the fact was.

You looked up from where you'd been reading and gave him an unimpressed look. "And you walk with a cane. Tell me something I don't know."

The corners of his lips quirked upwards into an amused half smile, but he tried to push his fond thoughts of you to the side for the time being. "You know, it's my turn to wear his sweater."

Letting out a hum, you dropped your eyes back down to the book in your hands and lazily turned the page. "Technically, it's my turn, after you decided to hide it for three weeks so I couldn't wear it."

That was true, he did do that. It was for no reason other than to mess with you, but now he was really started to regret his past decisions, something that rarely happened, if ever.

"You stole it from me, right out of my very own bed," he tried a different approach, putting on a face of mock hurt and offense in hopes of swaying you and getting it back. "Shame on you."

"You stole it from me first." Damn it, you had him there. "I was just returning the favor."

House stood there in front of you for a few minutes more hoping you'd somehow break with no such luck. Sighing loudly, he flopped down in his armchair, giving you a dirty look. "You know, two wrongs don't make a right."

You glanced up from your book, peeking at him from over the top of it. "An ethics lecture coming from you of all people? Well, this oughta be good." Now, it was your turn to be amused, something that didn't bode well with his competitive nature.

Seeing as it wasn't going to happen any other way, he tried a more direct approach in order to get you to give it back. "I want it. I want to wear it. It's mine."

"Technically, no, it's not. It's Wilson's, and I'm borrowing it," you pointed out, appearing unbothered by the evil look getting thrown your way. "Go find something else of his to wear if it's upsetting you so bad."

"I don't want to wear something else, though," he whined obnoxiously, trying to get on your nerves. It was working, but not nearly enough to get him what he wanted.

"Tough, because I'm wearing it right now. You're just going to have to deal with it."

Part of you thought that maybe you'd won this argument when he got up and left the room, but that thought was soon diminished when he came back less than a few minutes later, throwing something at your head.

"Really?" You asked in obvious irritation while pulling the shirt he'd thrown at you off your head.

"Put that on, and give me the sweatshirt back. That way you'll still feel all cozy and close to your doting boyfriends without having to wear that specifically," he reasoned as he stood there, his hands resting on the top of his cane. He looked proud of himself, like he was a little kid who'd finally solved a puzzle.

Despite your annoyance, it was hard to keep the slight smile off your face. Still, you weren't going to let him win that easily. "I'm not wearing it because of sentimental value. I'm wearing it because it's comfortable."

He groaned loudly, becoming visibly annoyed. "Why must you always be so damn difficult?"

"Funny, I could ask you the same question," you muttered as you held up the shirt and took a good look at it. It was one of House's old band tees, which made you realize something. "Hold on, are you jealous because you don't get to wear the sweatshirt, or is it because I'm wearing Wilson's clothes and not yours?"

The obvious pout on his face quickly gave away the answer. "Just give me the sweatshirt now, and I'll promise I'll give it back later." He held his hand out expectantly, resulting in you throwing his shirt back at his face.

"Nice try, but you're going to have to pry this off my cold, dead body." You settled back into the couch with your book as he walked away, grumbling under his breath. It appeared as though you'd won the battle, for now at least.

End notes: I've never written for House before but I tried to capture his personality the best I could! Hope y'all liked the Hilson references sprinkled in lol

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[eloves-writes]

long time coming

[lance stroll x reader]

desc: lawrence stroll invites his business associate and his daughter to a charity gala in the hopes of lifting lance’s spirits after a rough few races, and it definitely works.

warnings: alcohol consumption, swearing, oral sex (f receiving), sex, reference to masturbation, reference to lance crashing (it’s a joke i love him), think that’s it😗

a/n: my first f1 fic!! hope you enjoy, this was fun to write. requests open for any f1 drivers if y’all have anything to request. love youse, mwah mwah mwah pls comment n reblog n all that

this post contains mature themes, minors do not interact.

———————————————————

cameras flashed as you got out of your father’s car, dressed in a gown suitable only for events like these where the whispers of wealth were loud and unabashed; a congregation of business men and women with billions to their names and a philanthropic point to prove. the cameras, of course, were directed mostly towards your dad, who blended perfectly with the other attendees, but a few snapped pictures of you too as you walked into the gala.

this was not your saturday evening of choice- your dad had insisted that you come along tonight, mentioning something about lawrence asking for you specifically. you’d met the man a few times, and he was always very nice to you, but despite his close working relationship with your dad, you didn’t quite believe that he’d want you there so badly as anything other than a kind gesture to his business partner. regardless, you were here and beelining towards the open bar. though small talk wasn’t your worst enemy by any means, it would be made much more bearable with alcohol. you had only just began to sip your first martini when the man himself approached you.

“y/n! i’m glad you could make it tonight, i’ve just spoken to your father and he said i might find you here.”

“he knows me well then,” you laugh. “this party is amazing, lawrence.”

he smiles and looks over your shoulder before looking back to you. “thank you, should be a good night. i actually have a favour to ask of you.”

your dad was telling the truth then, you thought to yourself, smoothing the fabric of your dress where it had wrinkled from sitting on the bar stool. “sure, what can i do?”

“it’s about lance.”

your heart jumped a little at the mention of the aston-martin driver. it wasn’t that you had a crush on him or anything, but you would be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t been scanning the room for him since you arrived. you barely even knew him, only seeing him across rooms like this one throughout the many years your fathers had worked together, and exchanging few polite words when you visited the aston-martin garage on race days. sure, you did genuinely enjoy formula 1, but it wasn’t really the racing that had you travelling around from circuit to circuit.

you tried to keep your expression neutral as lawrence continued.

“he’s had a tough couple of races, and i can tell it’s bothering him more than he lets on. you’re a sweet girl, i see the way he looks at you; would you mind keeping him company tonight? just have a drink with him, talk to him for a while? it’ll cheer him up.”

the way he looked at you? god that fed your slight delusion that lance might like you too. you didn’t mean to sound too eager, but you found yourself replying quicker than you meant to.

“yes. i mean, sure. i can do that.”

lawrence laughed and looked behind you once again, this time motioning for you to look as well. lance was walking towards you, expensive suit perfectly tailored to fit his tall, athletic form. when you turned back to lawrence, he’d disappeared into the crowd, leaving you to finally have a real conversation with the driver.

“hey, were you just speaking to my dad?” he asked, taking up the empty seat beside you.

it took you a second to stop ogling him enough to respond. he looked really good, especially this close up.

“um, yeah. he was just asking if i’d seen my dad.”

lance called the bartender over. “oh yeah! i like your dad, he’s nice,” he said happily before ordering a glass of what was surely a top-shelf whiskey. “how is he?”

“he’s good. i think he’s trying to get one of his companies onto your car, actually.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you smiled. “i’d tell you more if i was interested enough in his business to ask.”

he smiled back at you. “i haven’t seen you around the paddock in a while, you know.”

a wave of alcohol-induced confidence overtook you. “miss me?”

“i don’t know if i’d say that,” he teased. “i think my last good race was spa, though, and i definitely remember you being there.”

“you do?”

“of course, i always like seeing you in the garage.”

your heart was racing in your chest. you’d really thought this was one-sided, you weren’t even convinced before now that he remembered your name. for a moment, you just looked at each other as if you’d both had the same realisation.

“it’s nice to actually talk to you, by the way.”

his statement caught you off guard. “what do you mean?”

lance shifted slightly in his seat. “well, you know. usually whenever i see you at these things you walk in the opposite direction or make yourself busy talking to other people. and it’s so busy in the garage, we’ve never really talked in all these years.”

“yeah, we haven’t,” you replied awkwardly, making quick work of the rest of your martini as you thought about how you would have continued that pattern if it wasn’t for his dad. “but we’re talking now.”

“we’re talking now,” he said, staring at you thoughtfully.

an uncomfortably charged silence fell between you. the background noise of the gala hushed too, as lawrence stood with a microphone to give a speech.

as he spoke, you felt lance’s eyes on you, travelling from your face to the cleavage so perfectly displayed in your gown, then further to the slit that was supposed to end at the middle of your thigh, but had precariously ridden upwards as you sat down. the thought of him checking you out so intently made you involuntarily clench your thighs together, sending a small wave of pleasure through you and dampening your underwear. lance smirked as he noticed the movement, placing one of his large hands on your exposed leg. you turned to face him with blush rising in your cheeks, and the smirk still on his face had your thighs clenching again. testing the waters, lance moved his hand further up your leg with a look in his eyes that was daring you to tell him to stop, but you didn’t. you let him move his hand dangerously higher, hyper-aware of the crowd of people around you in the room who were thankfully giving all their attention to the man speaking at the front.

a low whisper in your ear startled you, as the hand on your thigh lightly brushed your centre. “you look really, really beautiful tonight, y/n.”

a breath hitched in your throat as lance pressed his fingers a little harder against you.

“i think we should go somewhere else,” you managed quietly.

he nodded in agreement, moving his hand to your waist and using the other to help you down from the barstool. you were sneaking out like naughty school children, catching a few funny looks as you made your way to the exit and into the corridor. your fathers saw you weaving through the crowd and smiled at each other across the room, knowing they’d finally succeeded in setting you oblivious lovebirds up as they’d been trying to do with no success until now.

when the door to the gala closed behind you, you looked at lance in slight disbelief that this was happening. another silence fell, the eye contact between you intense and filled with lust and apprehension, both of you hesitant to make the first move after years of long-distance admiration without ever really speaking. your breath was heaving and there was wetness pooling between your legs as you watched each other.

in a split second, lance lurched forwards and roughy grabbed your waist, crashing his lips against yours. you moaned softly into his mouth and let him start to guide you down the corridor, before he decided instead to pick you up and carry you to the nearest bathroom with your legs wrapped around his waist. he placed you carefully onto the counter in the single-stall bathroom and clicked the lock on the door, then came straight back over to you and put his lips on yours again as he pushed the skirt of your dress up to your waist. he dropped to his knees, placing sloppy kisses up your thigh until he reached your underwear, which he pulled down and stuffed into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. your hands found his hair as his tongue made contact with your pussy.

“fuck, lance,” you whined, grinding your hips into his face.

he smiled up at you, your wetness on his lips. “i’ve wanted to do this for so long, y/n, you don’t even know,” he almost growled before licking your cunt again and focusing his efforts onto your clit. his hands gripped your hips, trying to stop them from bucking into him as you whined with your head thrown back. it felt so good, better than any other sex you’d ever had. his tongue felt magical circling your clit between soft sucks, and he had you close to the edge after just a few minutes.

“lance, i’m gonna-”

“you gonna come on my face, baby?” he teased, lifting his head to take in the sight of you above him.

“yeah,” you whined, pushing his face back into you.

you had to clasp a hand over your mouth as you came to avoid making too much noise, especially as lance began to lick up the wetness coming out of you. you tugged on his hair and he got up, a beaming smile on his face. he kissed you gently, letting you taste yourself on his mouth.

“can i fuck you, baby? s’not too much?”

you nodded as you fumbled to unbutton his dress pants.

“use your words, honey,” he murmured into your kiss.

“yes, lance. please.”

he smiled and helped you with his pants, letting them fall to the floor with his underwear. he lined up with your entrance, checking again that you were ok.

“you sure, baby?”

“fuck me, lance, please. i need you.”

he pushed into you with as much restraint as he could manage, not wanting to hurt you but needing to fuck you like he needed air to breathe. you bucked your hips forward, forcing him in further and faster. you felt depraved, but his dick felt so good inside of you you weren’t even ashamed.

“so fucking perfect, y/n,” lance groaned as he thrust into you. “wanted you for so long, i’ve imagined doing this in more ways than you can believe.”

“you think about fucking me a lot?” you smile, panting as you tried to contain yourself.

lance smirked again, leaning to whisper in your ear.

“all the time. you feel so much better than my hand.”

this made you moan again, wrapping your legs tighter around him to feel him deeper.

he kissed you again, but it was messy and mostly just to cover the sounds you were both making until you both reached your climax. you came first, clenching around him as he rutted into you. he moaned when he came, filling you up and lazily fucking his cum back into you.

once you caught your breath, you started to laugh. lance looked at you confused as he fastened his pants again. “what?” he smiled.

“that was so good. i can’t believe it took your dad making me talk to you for that to happen.”

lance pulled a face and repeated himself, this time more alarmed than entertained. “what?”

you laughed again, sliding off the bathroom counter and smoothing the skirt of your gown. “your dad asked my dad to bring me tonight, because he thought you were feeling down after the last few races. that why he was talking to me at the bar, he was asking me to hang out with you.”

“oh my god,” lance laughed, hiding his face in his hands. “i can’t believe he did that. that’s so embarrassing.”

“all’s well that ends well, right?” you smile as you unlock the bathroom door.

“well i am feeling a lot better now. if i crash the car in zandvoort, does that mean we can do this again?” he asked following you back along the corridor he’d carried you down earlier.

“i'd much rather you finished the race,” you grinned, “but i do suppose you’ll have to give those panties back some time.”

you pushed the door open back into the gala, which had become lively again in the time since you’d snuck out, and disappeared into the large group of people. lance was left gazing after you, almost as if nothing had changed at all.

[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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[illusivedelights]

Call of Neighbors (König & Horangi Neighbors!AU)

Part 1

.....ok this one's really more for me. I just think they're both neat and I like 'em. (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)(⁠´⁠；⁠ω⁠；⁠｀⁠)

They're roommates in this AU! But not in that way y'all. This house is a nightmare LOL.

König

He is either somehow the most unassuming giant of a man or the most unintentionally really awkwardly off-putting guy you're going to meet.

Honestly it's not intentional, he just kind of doesn't know how to act properly/is slightly tone deaf.

He's quiet for odd pauses because he's either trying to practice what he says in his head or he's overthinking it a little.

He honestly hides his social anxiety well if you get him to talk. He'll sound pretty confident when he speaks/can come off a little arrogant (but that's really his way of masking his anxiety. 'If I sound confident enough, they can't tell' mentality.).

It's a hard adjustment and can piss some off, but when you look underneath it, it has sound reasoning and sincerity.

Lot of folks find him either a bit tough to approach or deal because they don't want to go beyond the superficial and he's kind of got a not so good rep, but he's used to it.

Honestly the really old folks are probably the ones who understand him the best/look past all the nonsense. He finds comfort in it and looks after them in his own way.

People always assume the worst in what he's doing, but then they see he's actually just doing normal stuff. It's a bit of a running gag. ("OMG! He's totally getting ready to bury a body!!" Actually he's trying to rake this elderly neighbor's yard because she's in a lot of pain, he just forgot to let her know he was doing it, and also he's a dingus that just makes it look like that).

You're gonna know cause you're gonna see this oaf awkwardly hang around and look like he's trying to do something. (He is trying to approach you, he really just doesn't know how.) He wants to show off to you about all the cool things he knows and can do and will talk to you for what seems like ages. (But it can come off abrasive and strongly opinionated)

It's his way of saying he wants to spend time with you and likes you. (And dear God if you can make it past it, still like him and interact again, he's sold).

Hobbies

Housekeeping (Ok hear me out, he's a pretty clumsily dressed guy and joined the military at stupid young teen age; but I think people would complain and once he moved out, he was like oh.)

Cooking (He's not really happy with the quality of food/lack of food he wants, so he has a "Well I'll make it myself then"/"They can't make it like home")

Antique/ Item Hunting (He likes trying to find things that remind him of home or his childhood or fits a specific niche he enjoys).

Community Service (mostly helping the neighborhood. He likes keeping it nice and safe.......in more ways than one)

Competitive Games (He's kinda garbo though, but trying to get better. But he can't help but get competitive regardless. Heskindaasoreloserthough.)

General Perception

That One Creepy Big Guy Who Doesn't Talk a Whole Lot.

Big Guy

Terminator

Lovely Young Man/Strapping Lad (by the elderly folks he helps)

Horangi

Neighborhood's local really aggressive Korean man. He's not even angry most times, he just talks like that.

He just doesn't like wasting time, and in his mind time is precious for everyone so he just doesn't mince words and just wants to get to the point. ("Tell me what I need to do to fix it and I'll do it.")

This behavior can be misinterpreted, so people assume he's just being insufferable.

I think he's actually really popular with cranky old men because he can keep up with them, throw it back easily and they don't take any offense to it. Do not approach if they're all shooting the shit, the conversation is indeed insufferable. (Good men but Jesus, they can complain).

Didn't want to bother with the pain of fronting the cost of living fully by himself , so he approached König about it because honestly König isn't too much of a hassle to him.

Left to his own devices, he's doing side gigs a lot, so he's in and out a lot of times.

He is a good character foil to König being the way he is and they bring out very honest facets of one another by accident. If you wanna speed run seeing their personality, just hang out with the two of them.

People jokingly wonder if he's a K-Pop idol because he often wears his sunglasses and a face mask. (It actually kind of annoys him because he's trying to keep a low profile and it's also been said mockingly to him too many times.)

Despite not being home a lot, he's actually really tidy and a neat freak. He will get slightly exasperated by uncleanliness or if certain things aren't the way he wants it.

You'll know with him because you make him pause. He's pretty much snappy with everything, so if you actually make him go quiet and think, you got him hooked. This man's tone and actions will be a bit more.....deliberate in between his usual self.

He is actually surprisingly clingy but in the way of "I want to be around you a lot during my few free moments, even if it's not doing anything productive" You make him actually want to waste time.

Hobbies

Cars (I feel like he has a light fascination with cars and mechanics of it, probably a 'I don't have this so it's fascinating' note. He wouldn't want to own one, but he has appreciation for sports cars)

Boxing/Sparring (A way to get out some aggression at times and solitary so he doesn't have to worry about most things. Probably a meditative act)

Cleaning (Probably a habit of covering his tracks, and is just oddly really good at it)

Side Gigs (they're mostly legal, trying to stay on the up and up, old money making day habits die hard, he's the guy who knows a guy from these things)

General Perception

That One Angry Korean Prick

Loud Guy

Angry Idol

Mr. Sensitive (sarcasm)

Bonus: The Roommates' Dynamic

Obviously this one's a bit special because they share space. So, extra HC time!

At a surface level, you'll think they probably actually hate each other because of how aggressive they talk and seem to butt heads.

But in reality, it's just two really nitpicky and straightforward people bantering. Plus working in the line of field they do, they're just both solution oriented and way too comfortable using coarse language with each other. ("Why the HELL is your shit laying around on the floor?" "I literally just put it down, I'm cleaning the tabletops?" "YOU DON'T THROW IT ON THE GROUND." "IT WASN'T THROWN." etc.)

Despite how they are, nothing's ever done in genuine mean spirit. They're just honestly two guys who are bad at talking in different ways but they mean well ......in their own way.

König is definitely more of a homebody and the common areas are more of his style of decorating. They actually have somewhat similar tastes so it works out, but if you look closely you'll see bits of Horangi's flare. ("I'm hardly around. Decorate how you want.")

They're particular about cleanliness in their own different ways, so they clash.

Both are living in a place with no family/have no family, so they're each other's emergency contacts.

It's definitely more of a roommate/coworker you live with situation. They don't actually have many hobbies they share.

They kind of keep each other in check honestly.

OK I FEEL THAT'S ENOUGH FOR THIS POST. IF ANYONE ELSE WANNA KNOW MORE JUST IDK. ASK. OR ILL POST ANOTHER LATER.

[stars-and-inkpots]

Could you possibly write more soft Gale fics? He just deserves so much love and healing. I really liked how you wrote Reverence. Sorry I don’t have a more specific ask, I’m not very good when it comes to fic ideas.

Absolutely I can, I love writing for Gale so much, and he really does deserve the world. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy!

Late Night Book Club | Gale x Reader

No matter what you try, you just can't seem to sleep. Between nightmares and insomnia, you start to think you might never get a good night's rest again.

Gale seems to share the same issue.

While you might not be able to completely solve your problems, at least the two of you aren't alone in them anymore.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: Cuddling, Insomnia, Nightmares, Comfort, Fluff, First Kiss, Love Confessions (kinda)

Notes: choosing a name for this was the hardest part about writing it

Ao3 Link: Late Night Book Club

Word Count: 2,150

For whatever reason, you find yourself awake far later than everyone else. This shouldn’t be too much of a problem, if it wasn’t for the fact that this was the second night in a row where sleep eluded you to the point of exhaustion. The little amount of sleep you did manage to get was plagued with uncomfortable dreams that teetered on the edge of nightmares, making sure the rest was fitful. You knew you had to sleep; you couldn’t hope to lead the group if you were barely able to stand tomorrow. It’s frustrating. It isn’t like you aren’t trying to sleep either; you laid there for hours before finally giving up and leaving your tent to tend to the fire that has steadily burnt down to the last embers. It’s here where Gale finds you. 

The look on your face only adds to his concern at seeing you up so late. You don’t notice his approach, another thing that makes Gale think something must be wrong. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks softly, though the sudden noise still startles you. He watches you turn and immediately relax when you realise it’s only him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” you apologise, but you aren’t exactly sure what you're apologising for. Perhaps it's for letting all of them down with your inability to sleep, knowing you’ll hold them back tomorrow. Then you notice that Gale looks just as tired. 

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks. 

You’re sure your exhaustion is evident enough, you can feel the weight under your eyes. A part of you hates feeling like you need to be taken care of. You don’t want to acknowledge that help would be both welcome and useful, but you know these feelings are simply a byproduct of the exhaustion that weighs on your shoulders. You can’t fault Gale for wanting to help. 

“No, it’s alright. You need your own rest.” The day had been tough on all of you. Gale, though talented when it came to magic, was pushed to his own limits today. 

“Very well. Would you at least allow me to sit with you for a few moments then?” Gale asks. 

You only nod, and Gale sits beside you on the ground. You’ve managed to get the fire going a little stronger again, and the warmth is appreciated by both of you. You’re suddenly aware of just how close you are, knees almost touching. You blame the warmth in your cheeks on the fire. 

“If there is something bothering you, I am more than happy to listen.” There is genuine care in his words. He is worried about you. As much as you don’t want to burden your companions with your troubles, he seems adamant that he wants to hear them. 

“I can’t sleep is all,” you admit. “It’s nothing serious. Just can’t sleep, and then when I do my dreams end up waking me up again.” It feels childish to say that your dreams are the primary culprit of your lack of sleep. You’ve been through so much in the past weeks, but it’s nightmares of all things that finally get to you. 

But Gale doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease you. Instead, he looks at you with only sympathy and understanding. He doesn’t pry any further, and you’re thankful. 

“What about you? Why are you still up? If you want to share, of course,” you’re quick to add. You don’t want him to feel like he has to tell you his own troubles just because you told him yours. 

“We have similar problems it seems,” is all Gale answers. You return his earlier kindness by not pressing him to elaborate either. 

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence again. 

“I understand if you wish to remain alone, but if you ever wish for company when you cannot sleep, you are always most welcome to visit me.” He says it so quietly, hesitantly, but not unsure. Knowing you don’t need to spend the nights awake alone, at least, is a comfort, and the thought of spending the time talking with Gale is pleasant; even if that time is simply spent sitting near to one another. 

You smile. “I might take you up on that offer.” 

Gale gives you a fond look. The golden light of the fire makes him look soft and at ease, though, maybe that’s only because he’s with you. 

“I think I’ll try to sleep again. Thank you for this, Gale.” You stand, and he does the same. 

“Anytime.” 

Sleep still doesn’t come easy when you return to your tent, but eventually you’re able to get, at least, a little bit of dreamless sleep before you’re awoken again. The gaps between sleep and consciousness are still more frequent than you want, but it’s better than nothing. 

---

The next day is rough. Gale doesn’t look like he had much luck with sleep either, and you’re almost thankful because he is more inclined to ask the group to slow down than you are. Maybe the others can tell that you’re also struggling, because no one complains when the steady pace is interrupted. 

Perhaps some god out there is looking out for you, because the day’s travel is mercifully uneventful. 

Setting up camp again is a chore. You do your best to help where you can, but you can barely stand as it is. 

“Get some rest, soldier. We’ve got it from here,” Karlach says to you, voice quiet. You know she’s trying to be nice, but it feels like pity and you hate it. You swallow your pride and thank her before returning to your tent. 

Even though your body aches and your head is starting to hurt, when you lay down, you only end up staring at the roof of the tent. You suddenly just aren’t tired. You know you’re tired, because your body feels tired, but at the same time you aren’t , and it’s only partly caused by fear of the dreams you know await you. It’s frustrating to no end. 

After another few minutes of laying there with your eyes closed, you finally give in. 

Only a few of the others are still awake, sitting and talking with each other around the fire. They don’t notice you skirting around the edge of camp towards Gale’s tent. It’s not that you feel like you need to keep this a secret, you just don’t think you have the energy to talk to anyone besides the wizard right now. 

“Gale? Can I come in?” You ask softly outside the tent. You know he’s awake; you can see shadows that dance across the walls. 

“Of course,” Gale answers. Before you can move to open the tent flap, he waves a hand and it opens for you. 

“What a gentleman,” you tease, but even you can hear how tired you sound. 

“Always for you,” he returns with a smile, but there’s a truth in his words that brings a warmth to your face. 

You finally notice how cosy his tent is. There are several books, all of them stacked in piles that must be organised in a way you can’t discern. The ground is covered in plush blankets and pillows. Fluttering around the top of the tent are small, almost iridescent orbs of light, some purple and others blue. They give enough light for Gale to read, but keep the tent dim enough to be pleasant. 

“Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable.” 

You sit beside him; closer than you were last night, leaning against his side slightly. You peer over at the book in his hands, surprised to find it isn’t some arcane tome. As far as you can tell, it’s just a normal adventure novel. 

“Don’t let me interrupt you, you can keep reading.” Even just sitting here beside him is enough of a comfort; the tension already starting to seep out of your shoulders. You don’t want to talk about anything yet, and you figure that Gale shares the same sentiment. 

“Do you want me to read to you?” Gale asks, and though you almost think he’s joking, you realise he really means it. 

“That would be nice.” 

And it is. You’ve always enjoyed listening to him talk; Gale has a lovely voice. He picks up where he left off when you got there. He wasn’t too far into the book yet, but he still pauses occasionally to explain something. Eventually you close your eyes, focused only on his voice, the details of his words getting blurry. 

“Can we lay down?” You mumble tiredly. 

“That’s a good idea,” Gale says with a smile, having already noticed the way your head has begun to dip forward as sleep begins to pull at you. 

It takes a bit of coordination, but eventually you’re both underneath the thick blanket that Gale pulls tighter around the two of you. You move closer to him, your head underneath his chin, and he wraps an arm around you. He’s warm, and you feel safer than you have in weeks. He starts reading again, fingers playing idly with your hair. Within another minute, your breathing has evened out and you’re fast asleep. 

Gale folds the corner of the page to mark where you two left off and closes the book before he sets it aside with the countless others. Eventually, he manages to fall asleep too. 

Both of you still wake up a few times in the middle of the night. You didn’t expect this to be some miracle cure for your sleep problems, but having Gale there holding you when you wake up makes getting back to sleep a little easier. The same can be said for Gale who wakes up several times, only to be calmed down once he feels your arms around him. The two of you are able to get a good rest, and when you wake up in the morning you don’t feel the same ache in your bones as you did the past few mornings. 

It becomes a sort of routine between you. In the evenings, after everyone leaves for their tents, you follow Gale to his or he follows you to yours. Then he reads to you, and sometimes you read to him, and you both let sleep find you in each other's arms. The nightmares are getting more bearable, and even on the worst nights when neither of you can sleep no matter how much you try, at least you’re there together. 

---

It’s been a week since you started this arrangement. The book is nearly finished. Gale had promised to let you pick out the next one. 

He brushes through your hair with one hand, the book held open in the other. You listen while he starts reading the last few pages. The hero who’s story you’ve been following through the novel culminates in one final battle against evil. It’s cliché, you think to yourself, and then smile because isn’t this exactly your own life now? And what hero story is complete without a lover to kiss them at the end, which is precisely what happens. Good prevails, and the hero gets their true love. 

Gale feels your smile against his neck and, for reasons he understands but doesn’t want to admit yet, feels a warmth flood his cheeks. 

“The End,” he announces, snapping the book closed with a flourish, earning a laugh from you. “What did you think?” 

“It was nice. It felt more like a romance novel at the end.” 

Gale hums in agreement. “Yes, but I think that's what I enjoyed most.” He puts the book down then returns to hugging you close to him. 

“I agree, it felt natural.” You hope Gale understands what you mean. 

He does. 

The two of you have been dancing around this for a while now, neither one of you ready to acknowledge it. But there’s something about tonight that feels different. 

You lean back to look at Gale’s face, bringing a hand up to guide a strand of greying brown hair behind his ear. Your hand lingers on his cheek, thumb brushing gently across his skin. He puts his own hand over yours, moving it to kiss your palm. It’s a careful gesture, tender and nervous all at the same time. 

When you move to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a soft kiss; a testament to these nights you’ve spent together. When you part, you rest your forehead against his. The way he looks at you makes your heart swell: like you mean everything to him. 

He kisses you once more before you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear, and you tighten your arms around him as if to answer: 'I could never.'

You both sleep the best you have in weeks, still there for each other each time you wake. 

[the-s1lly-corner]

TADC cast x supportive!reader (platonic)

except its hyper specific and applies to my oc specifically because i need a little pick me up today reader is like the circus members anchor as well as a generally serving as a support system and has been in the circus for a while. havent decided on how long but definitely getting close to kinger in terms of how long theyve been stuck. kind of gives off dad energy have not shared the oc here on this blog but i have shared them elsewhere, wont say where because im embarrassed </3 this was originally gonna be a ship chart dynamic but im too tired to draw everyone plus this feels more fun using 'you/your' pronouns for the reader even though its an oc so you guys can at least like, insert yourself REMINDER requests are closed, this is a personal request from myself. any requests sent now will not be answered even after they reopen. please respect that and understand that requests are closed

CAINE:

saved caine for last (yes i know hes the first one in the list hush i dont actually write these in order) i think you and him would have friendly back and forth banter. youve accepted your place in the digital circus long ago so you dont see much point in trying to interrogate him for information on a possible exit. and sure, i dont know if caine can abstract, but i think he enjoys the conversations between the two of you... that said, given how accepting you are with everything as well as having a "roll with it" outlook on the digital world, he probably uses you as plot stuff and props for IHA; be it as a false hostage or as a means to progress the adventure... definitely has a soft spot for you, i think... jax and bubble have a dark bet on when you will finally abstract/j

RAGATHA:

ah yes the optimistic duo, the hopeful pals, the sillies. you two are probably the main reason why everyone else is... mostly... fine, i mean i think having someone be so friendly and open cane make things a little easier for other people. as well as this you two mutually lean on each other for support and uplift one another when things get tough. i mention it in kingers part, but you too are also afraid of bugs but you would help ragatha clear her room of centipedes in a heartbeat, even going as far as to collect them with your bare hands.. so uh... take that as a testament to yalls friendship

JAX:

now im a little stumped on this one because i really dont think the "reader" would be buddy buddy with jax... or maybe they would be... hmm.. on one hand i can see them scolding him for pushing his pranks 'too far' (ex. the ragatha centipede thing, assuming he actually did it), but i can also see a "supportive figure and rebellious kid" dynamic. except jax isnt a kid but you are old enough be his dad, probably.. i think ill just leave that here since i dont have any other ideas

POMNI:

youve been here for a while, so i think naturally pomni would gravitate towards you in order for possible solutions and escape routes, perhaps she would approach kinger, too... but this isnt about kinger </3. fine line between outright shattering their hope but also instilling it, neither are great options... one can lead to despair and the other to obsession; both will lead to abstraction... but theres also the fact none of your past attempts at escape had been successful, nor did you ever find any leads. as for actual potential friendship i think you would take the same route as ragatha in the pilot; show her around and explain things to her in a fairly digestible way. as well as this you tend to gravitate towards her during her first IHA until she gets the hang of them; typically making sure she doesnt get lost or hurt, as well as giving her pointers that could help with the task at hand

KINGER:

writing kinger first, you guys are like the dads of the circus. you more so because you still have a decent hold of yourself. you were there when queener/queenie abstracted, and you were there for kinger during the still on going grieving process. as for actually friendship ideas, you two just sit and talk to one another. thats it, really. i could go on about all the things you two do together, and i probably would since kinger is my favorite and this post is literally about my oc... but i truly dont see these two getting up to anything insane outside of IHA. kinger needs someone to help him fill the silence, and you would be there. and vice versa, i think... bonus, you dont like bugs but you still grin and bare it while listening to kinger rattle on about his cool bug facts... i think that would be nice..

ZOOBLE:

optimistic dad who likes fishing and moody teen who bullies kids on roblox. thats literally the dynamic, except again, zooble is an adult and the reader has no kids... but hey its the same energy. tries to get zooble to engage with IHA but not in a pushy way but more in like... an inviting them to pair with them for comfort and security kind of way. sure you understand that they dont like them because theyre just so over everything but you want them to be included, especially since the IHA are meant to stimulate your minds and keep you guys grounded

GANGLE:

honestly i think you just adopt half of the cast at this point, the only people who arent your kids are ragatha caine and kinger... everyone else gets passed around in split custody/j now onto gangle, you probably try to give her peptalks to make her feel better as well as fixing her comedy mask anytime it breaks. as well as this i think you and her sit down and do arts n crafts together, perhaps even making new masks altogether... i like to think gangle hears a few... things about the others and knows things since shes so quiet and in the background so theres definitely some 'gossip' between the two of you... but not in a shit talking way, no i dont think either of you are like that, rather more so just talking about the others

BONUS STUFF:

you call gangle, zooble, jax, and pomni generic 'dad nicknames' so like. think sport, champ, bud, pal. stuff like that, with varying reactions... i think gangle wouldnt fight it and actually appreciates it. zooble scoffs and rolls their eyes, jax plays into it while loudly and obnoxiously calling you dad. (whenever you ask him to do something he loudly goes like "okay DAAAAAAD" before likely not doing the thing that was asked of him), pomni is just confused really since shes not all that used to it. huh. guess youre a dad of 4 now

you and ragatha tend to clean up after the others, leaving you two alone and you guys just. talk as you clean. probably do impressions of the others in a really comical and dramatic as well as exchanging stories

you and kinger hunt for new pillows to add to his fort. you try to coax him into stepping out of the tent and explore the grounds, so far you're unsuccessful

touching on the gossip thing from gangles part caine probably tries to ask you for some "juicy drama" about the others. who is having issues with her, whos crushing on who, stuff like that... i think caine would try to play matchmaker if there actually is someone who has a crush on someone else... this goes for the current cast as well as those who have come and gone from the digital circus (cough cough abstracted)

[dukeofdelirium]

your top 5 kataang moments? 🩵🧡

oh god that’s a tough one but I’ll try

1) the desert scene when Aang goes into the avatar state and everyone else runs away, but Katara stays and pulls him out of it.

I cant believe love was invented in 2006! seriously though, everything about this scene was so well done from the music to the animation to the writing. it’s one of my favorite episodes in the entire series and one of their best moments imo

2) the scene when Aang tells Katara how much she means to him/how much he loves her at the end of the Serpent’s Pass. It’s seriously such a beautiful scene for them and the fact it’s the episode that follows up The Desert makes it even better. The emotional weight of the scene is so good and it’s just so so sweet

3) the finale scene/the final kiss

It isn’t even specifically the kiss that I like the most. I actually love the hug more. The animation is so beautiful and they look so in love with each other 😭 it’s so well done and the second I hear that Cave of Two Lovers music start playing I start crying fr

4) the entire Kataango dance scene in The Headband. Listen, this remains probably my favorite episode in the entire show. There is something so comforting and feel-good about it! And their little dance is the cutest thing ever. I especially like when he approaches her to dance and she starts nervously playing with her hair (something she does a few different times around him in the series if you pay attention). I just love all the cute details like that and this scene is just so great to see especially since it follows up The Awakening which is also a heavy kataang episode!

5) the “I did get to meet you” scene in the second episode of the show. Idk why, but it’s always just stuck with me. There’s just something very wholesome and pure about such simple dialogue from Aang, and I think it really embodies their entire relationship. That yes, they have suffered extreme loss, but they also would never have met otherwise, and through their meeting they can make something new. And I think that’s such a wonderful message

I could yap about them all day. They’re one of my favorite ships ever, and are very special to me bc they were the first pairing I ever shipped :)

[creative-kny-fics]

ok hear me out

Lee Muichiro Tokito

lers Inosuke,Genya,Tanjiro

Uuuuh, I like the idea! (I'm so sorry for taking this so long!)

Lers: Inosuke Hashibira, Tanjiro Kamado and Genya Shinazugawa

Lee: Muichiro Tokito

'Genya, can I ask you something?'

'Huh, sure, what's on offer?'

'Well... I would like to know, look, maybe you don't know, but, I'm Muichiro's partner...', what a revelation, no one would have known, by the way, it's sarcasm.

Genya pretended not to know, it's a shame he doesn't know how to hide it, well, that wasn't the point.

'Well, what do I have to do with that?'

'The thing is... I don't know, I don't fully understand Muichiro, I know I am his boyfriend, but, I would like him to treat others the same way he treats me...'

'Can you be more specific?'

And so, the story began that occurred during training at Tokito's estate, the preference was evident, it was obvious that Muichiro, although he loved spending time with Tanjiro, had to have some "toughness", but he couldn't, he was softer and understanding with him than with the others.

Let's say that was their "first fight", it wasn't anything serious, it was just that they hadn't agreed on how to treat each other, but they were still exchanging letters, so it wasn't that serious.

'I understand, and why don't you ask Zenitsu better? I mean, he's this stupid boar's boyfriend.'

'WHO ARE YOU CALLING STUPID?! MONJIRO! GET OFF ME!'

'I did, I asked Zenitsu, but he says that not even he himself knows how he puts up with Inosuke and his mood swings... So, I wanted to know, you're Senjuro's partner, right? How do you understand him?', eeeem, there was quite a difference.

Genya sighed, he had to admit that he thought the only reason Senjuro "respected" him was because of his height, but, he didn't know exactly.

He didn't deny that he loved him, but, it was a little complicated to understand, but I think he understood Tanjiro's point of view a little.

'Well, uuuuuh, let's say that our relationship is just starting to be stable, if you can put it that way. Senjuro, he's a good boy, but we're not always on the same page, and the only thing I do when it's a somewhat childish reason is to tickle him until he accepts that I'm right or make him accept that he's right.'

Tanjiro is not going to lie, that was one of the options, but when he tried to do it, the roles ended up being reversed and thus he discovered that hashiras had an amazing power to blow raspberries, he did not want to repeat that.

'Eeeem, Tanjiro? All good?'

'It's a bit difficult, considering the difference in strength between Senjuro and Muichiro, I tried to do it... I ended up crying and barely breathing'

'You're weak Monjiro! I wouldn't let them do that to me!', it's because your boyfriend is Zenitsu, Inosuke.

Anyway, Tanjiro asked Genya for help and he agreed, and do I know where Inosuke came from? Well, he was nosy where they didn't call him

'Tokito-San! There's a savage here!'

'What? Ginko, it's daytime... Demons don't come out during the day...'

'PIG ATTACK!!', and you will already know who the 'savage' Ginko was referring to was.

However, Inosuke doesn't know anything, even though he tried to tickle him, guess what, he didn't succeed and only earned Muichiro slapping him and Tanjiro and Genya having to separate him so he doesn't slap him back.

'LET ME GO! HOW DARE YOU DO THAT TO THE GREAT INOSUKE?!'

'Tanjiro, I thought I told you that... Inosuke... Wasn't a good influence on you'

'Ehehehehe, he's someone you can love, just, it's necessary to understand him...'

Yes, well, Muichiro sighed, he doesn't wanted another fight, but still, he told Tanjiro that he had to calm Inosuke down if he wanted to be on his estate and that's how it happened.

'So, how's your training going...'

'Well, I guess, some leave a lot to be desired... Others, they're good but still lacking, I'm trying to be a good teacher, but it doesn't seem to be enough'

Genya motioned to Tanjiro, he nodded and approached Muichiro, giving him a hug from behind, smiling as he snuggled up and seemed to relax.

'What if you take a break?'

'No need, I can handle this, I'm a hashira.'

'But still, a break isn't a bad thing at all'

'I guess not, maybe I'll consider it', well, this was too boring for Inosuke.

Genya coughed (sneakly), Tanjiro nodded and Muichiro's eyes snapped open when he felt a pair of fingers gently brush against his back, quickly stopping Tanjiro's fingers, no, he couldn't...

'What were you trying to do?'

'Well, convince you to take a break and be cheerful...?'

'Bad choice, now I'm gonna...'

'I'm sorry Tokito-San, but, I'm helping Tanjiro...'

Muichiro frowned, who did he think he was?! He only allowed that to Tanjiro, to no one else, but it didn't bother him, he just had to get it off his back and the matter was settled, shame about the height difference.

'Do you have any idea what trouble you just got yourself into?'

'I won't do anything for now, the one who will do it will be Tanjiro'

'He's not able to... GRK... Ta-Tahanjihiro...'

'If you're not allowed to relax because of training, then I'll help you to do it!'

And that was what Muichiro feared, why? Almost no one of the hashiras could make him laugh, if someone tried to tickle him, he would immediately bite them or kick them, but he didn't know how to let anyone touch him, so... Tanjiro was so far the only person who seemed to be able to do it, no.

He knew how he did it, but his touch was so soft and precise that Muichiro couldn't even think of an excuse or a plan to get out of there.

'WHY HE LAUGHED WITH YOU AND NOT ME?!'

'Maybe you were too rough with him, there's no need for that, Inosuke, a few strokes will do. For example, see if I gently trace his name on his belly'

'Tahahanjirohoho! Hehehey!! Stohohohoooop...', well, that was weird, wasn't it?

Inosuke didn't understand, how could soft and imprecise touches be better than hard and precise ones? Tanjiro showed him how he could do it and boy did Inosuke learn quickly.

Muichiro couldn't even get angry, it wasn't something that bothered him, even if the touch didn't come from Tanjiro, he seemed to like that activity.

'Do you feel more relaxed? He hasn't asked us to stop!'

'It fehehehels go-gohood! Ehehehehe! I-ihihihit doehehehesn't ahahahahaha bohotheheheheher me! Ahahahaha!! He-hehehehehey!! My neheheck!!'

'Thank goodness, I thought he would bite me for trying'

'Hahaha, calm down Genya, Muichiro can't be mad at you for this, he's liking it!', man, what a shame.

Muichiro could only nod as he continued squealing and laughing at the soft touches of his boyfriend and his friends, it wasn't that bad, he was even able to say that he didn't want them to stop, he liked that way of relaxing.

[alilixx]

hihi this is a weird one but do u have any ideas for a platonic house&reader fic? like reader n house having a kind of familial bond maybe

Heyy sorry for the time, school just start again sadly soo, i didn't know what type of platonic like brother/Father relationship so i made it differently!

"If only you were my dad"

Dad! Gregory House x Daughter!FemReader

Your patient is in critical condition. The diagnosis is complicated: a rare infection that's rapidly worsening, and traditional treatments don't seem to be working. The symptoms are evolving too quickly, and you're faced with a difficult choice. The standard protocol recommends aggressive antibiotic treatment, but its effectiveness is uncertain in this specific case. Meanwhile, an experimental approach, inspired by House's unconventional methods, lingers in your mind. This treatment, much riskier, could potentially save the patient, but it could also cause severe complications, even death.

Faced with this dilemma, you feel lost. You've learned to follow the rules, to respect procedures, but you've also spent enough time with House to know that rules aren't always enough. You're still hesitating, so you decide to go see him. Maybe he can offer a different perspective, though he'll probably never tell you exactly what to do.

When you enter his office, he's lying on his couch, playing with his cane. He throws a sideways glance at you, then turns his eyes back to his puzzle. He already knows why you're there.

"Let me guess," he says without even looking at you. "You're wondering if you should listen to your little medical manual or your gut—your gut being the best doctor, of course?"

You sigh. "The patient has a serious infection, but the recommended treatment only has a 30% chance of working in cases like this. I'm considering a riskier intervention, a cocktail of antivirals and immunosuppressants, but it could make things worse if his immune system can't handle the shock."

House finally looks up at you. "And you want my opinion?" He smiles, slightly mocking. "Following the rules is great for avoiding trouble. But if you want to avoid killing this guy, you already know what you need to do."

You stay silent for a moment. It's always like this with him. He'll never give you a direct answer, but he pushes you to think, to go off the beaten path. He looks at you in a way that no one else does. You know that beneath his detached demeanor, he sees you as someone special. It's almost as if, despite his sarcasm and cynicism, he plays a fatherly role, guiding you in the most critical moments.

"And what if it goes wrong?" you ask, seeking a bit of reassurance.

He sighs, sits up a bit. "It might. But the protocol is almost certain to fail in this case. Your patient has a weakened immune system already, and if you hit him with those high-dose antibiotics, you'll finish him off. Your approach, on the other hand, might work. Or it might not. But at least it's a chance."

You nod, reflecting on his words. You know he's right. As a doctor, he's always taught you that each patient is a puzzle, and sometimes you have to break pieces to see the whole picture.

"Are you ready to take risks, or do you just want to save your career?" he asks with a piercing look.

Those words hit you hard. It's not just about protocol or rules. It's about doing what’s necessary to save a life, even if it means stepping outside the lines. And House, with all his cynicism, has always encouraged you to be bold. He'll never say it outright, but you know you're more than just a colleague to him. In a way, he sees you almost like a daughter, wanting you to be capable of making tough decisions, as he does every day.

You head back to the treatment room, heart pounding but determined. You choose the risky treatment: a combination of powerful antivirals and low-dose immunosuppressants to avoid completely wiping out your patient's immune system. The first hours are critical. You monitor his vital signs closely, fearing every minute for a deterioration. But after a few tense hours, his condition starts to slowly improve. His immune system responds better than you had hoped.

Later, when everything stabilizes, you return to see House. He’s still in his office, looking as nonchalant as ever. You tell him that the treatment worked.

"I would have been surprised if it hadn’t," you say, a wry smile on your face. He raises an eyebrow, ever faithful to his sarcasm. "Congratulations, you chose not to be an idiot. Kudos."

But you know him too well now. Behind his harsh words, there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes. He’ll never tell you directly that he’s proud of you, but you can feel it. You’ve become a version of him, but with your own style, and he knows it.

"I learned from you, after all," you say.

He shakes his head, a small smile stretching his lips. "No, you learned to make tough decisions. Which, in your case, means you might almost resemble me. But not too much. One House is quite enough."

He looks at you again, this time longer, and without a word, he gives you a light pat on the shoulder. For anyone else, it would be insignificant, but coming from him, it’s almost a paternal gesture, his way of saying he's proud of you. You smile even though he’s gone. There were often moments like that; for example, once after a long day at the hospital, feeling exhausted, both mentally and physically, you ran into House in the corridors as you were leaving. He looked at you strangely, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

"You should go home," he said simply. Then, after a moment, he added, almost in a whisper, "You did a good job today."

Surprised, you realize that this kind of compliment is rare from him, but this time, he seems sincere. Without thinking, you lean in and give him a quick hug. He freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to displays of affection, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lightly pats your back, uncomfortable but not resisting.

"Okay, okay, that's enough. We’re not in a family sitcom here," he grumbles, but he gives a slight smile as you pull back.

"Shut up kiddo"

Big brother! Gregory House x Little Sis! FemReader

It’s your first night shift alone at the hospital, and the pressure is intense. You have a patient in crisis, and you’re unsure about the decision to make. House isn’t supposed to be there, but you know he often stays late, whether to work on his own cases or play games on his computer.

You head towards his office, secretly hoping he’s still there. And of course, he is, watching an episode of "General Hospital" with his headphones on.

"House, I need help," you say, a bit nervously.

He doesn’t even look up from his screen. "It’s your first night shift and you’re already ready to throw in the towel?"

"My patient has symptoms that don’t match anything I’ve learned. I’ve tried all the standard diagnoses, but nothing works."

He takes off his headphones, sighs loudly, and fixes you with his piercing gaze. "Are you a doctor or just playing doctor for Halloween? Trust yourself. You don’t need me to solve this."

You bite your lip, a bit frustrated. "I’m afraid of making a mistake."

He finally stands up and approaches you, his expression slightly more serious. "Welcome to the real world. That’s what it is. Tough choices, mistakes. And guess what? This won’t be your last mistake. But it’s by making them that you get better."

House gives a quick pat on your shoulder, a brief but meaningful gesture for him. "Go back out there. Show that patient why you’re here."

You take a deep breath, feeling both the weight of his words and a strange surge of courage. House isn’t the type to give compliments or encouragements, but somehow, this strange mix of cynicism and support has struck a chord.

"Okay," you reply in a voice more confident than you actually feel. You turn to leave his office, but one last thought crosses your mind. "And what if… what if I really make a serious mistake?"

House rolls his eyes, visible exasperation on his face. "If that happens, you’ll come back here, tell me how you completely screwed up, and we’ll fix it. Now, go."

You nod, this time more determined, and leave the room. As you head back to your patient’s room, House’s words still echo in your mind. Trust yourself. It won’t be your last mistake, but that’s how you learn.

When you enter the room, you notice the patient is becoming increasingly agitated. The heart monitor emits rapid, regular beeps. You grab the chart, quickly re-reading the medical history, searching for anything you might have missed. Nothing quite matches. It’s frustrating.

You approach the bed and observe closely. Something suddenly strikes you. A detail you had overlooked initially. The slight tremor in his fingers… not just a symptom of stress, but maybe a more subtle sign of a neurological condition. A rare disease, something you had vaguely studied in passing but had never seemed relevant… until now.

A wave of understanding washes over you. You pull out your phone, quickly jot down some notes, searching for confirmation. That’s it. Medication toxicity that the patient hadn’t mentioned. An old migraine medication, prescribed years ago, but never listed on his current list.

The appropriate treatment starts to form in your mind. You take a deep breath and call the nurse. “Prepare a flumazenil infusion.”

The nurse looks at you with a mix of surprise and curiosity. “Flumazenil? But he doesn’t have any sedatives in his history.”

You nod. “No recent sedatives, no. But there’s an old treatment that could be causing these symptoms, and it should work. Do it.”

The minutes that follow are tense. The drug slowly infuses into the patient’s veins, and you watch every sign, every movement. Then, finally, you see a difference. The tremors subside, the breathing becomes more regular, and the heart rate slows to a normal level.

You lean back against the wall, a wave of relief washing over you. You did it. You took a risky decision, trusted yourself. And it worked.

Deep down, you know it won’t always be this clear, not always this “easy.” But this moment, this feeling, gives you the strength to keep going, no matter the challenges ahead.

As you leave the room, you sense a presence a few meters away. Turning around, you see House leaning against the corridor wall. He looks at you with an unreadable expression, but his eyes gleam with a mischievous sparkle.

“Not bad for a first night.” You smile, a mix of pride and relief. “Thanks, House.”

He turns away, hands in pockets. “Next time, I’ll charge you for the advice.” Then, without another word, he walks off into the dark corridors of the hospital.

You stand there for a moment, savoring the victory. Before getting back to work. Because, as House said, this is the real world.

[danikamariewrites]

Hi would u write something similar to the adhd head anon but with social anxiety instead? Maybe with Eris or Azriel please?

Azriel x reader social anxiety headcanon

Warnings: anxiety

You’re a quite person just like Azriel

The difference is he liked to go out with his brothers to bars and loud places

That wasn’t really your scene

Neither were parties that Rhysand hosted

It took a lot for you to talk to Az when you first met

And it took a lot for Az to gain the courage to ask you out

Your first date was a quiet picnic in the park he planned

You didn’t mind restaurants as long as they weren’t overly crowded, you felt like people were staring at you or judging Azriel for being with you

You talked yourself into going to the annual Starfall party with Az which he was surprised but happy by

It was time to step out of your comfort zone and if you panicked you could cling to Az for the rest of the night

Before you left he gave you a little pep talk since it would also be the first time you were meeting his family

“Just a little warning, they can be a lot. They’re so nice and welcoming but they get over eager with new people. And we can leave any time you want.” You nodded, “Thank you. I’m going to try to tough it out though. Make a friend and all that good stuff.” You smiled up at him and he stroked your hair

Getting to the party you had a little anxiety. Was your dress good enough? Was your makeup ok? Did Azriel want you to meet his family? What if you said the wrong thing?

You clutched Azriel’s hand harder as he pulled you through the crowd to the back yard where his brothers were

You didn’t know Azriel was warning them about your social anxiety/nerves in his mind specifically begging Cassian to be kind to you

As you approached them you stood a little behind Azriel but forced yourself to make eye contact with the very very tall high lord and general

They we’re both very kind in welcoming you to the party, happy that you were there etc.

Then you met Amren who scared you a little, Nesta and Elain who were so sweet to you

You and Elain really connected bc she was a pro at navigating social events but was a little nervous with a new crowd like this

Then you finally met Feyre. She was so not what you expected. She was kind and graceful and you wish you had her confidence

As the night got a little rowdier after the stars started to fall that’s when your anxiety hit you full force

You don’t what set you off but you started squeezing Azriel’s arm

Your heart was racing and your breathing turned shallow

Az noticed immediately and brought you upstairs to his room at the River House

“Hey it’s ok, it’s ok, I’m here with you.” He cooed at you while pulling you onto his lap

He wrapped his wings around to provide a soothing darkness

“Take deep breaths with me ok .” You nodded and started to match his breathing

Once you calmed down you were exhausted

Azriel pulled back from you, “Do you want to just sleep here tonight?”

You got out a small ‘yeah’ through a yawn

Az gave you one of his shirts and helped you take your makeup off

Once you were both settled Azriel pulled you on to his chest and you snuggled into him

He rubbed your back as your eyes got heavy and sleep took you under

[lenaellsi]

What are your gomens s3 predictions for crowley?

WELL

I have three categories of predictions. I know where I would take the character, but the show surprises me so often that I don't expect to get it right. Just for fun, though, and under the cut because it got so fucking long:

1. He sleeps/binge drinks/otherwise disengages from the world straight through to the start of S3.

The Crowley of S2 is, in a lot of ways, more stable than the Crowley of the Crowley of S1, but I think he's also more depressed. His only purpose was survival from the moment he Fell to the moment he and Aziraphale quit their jobs, and now that he has to live, he's completely directionless. He doesn't understand (and has never understood) how he fits into the universe, how angels and demons generally fit into the universe, and what the point is if God can just wipe them all out for any reason. He doesn't believe in any part of the Good/Evil system. Aziraphale leaving--and confirming some of his greatest fears about the foundations of their relationship along the way--could be enough to send Crowley into an apathetic coma for a bit.

So I can see it happening, but my instinct says that's not where they'll go with it. Crowley tends to fall back on his escape methods only when he truly sees no other way out. In S1, he tried to drink himself to death only when Aziraphale was gone and, to his knowledge, there was no way to locate the Antichrist and even try to stop Armageddon. A few episodes before that, he proposed leaving only because Aziraphale hadn't shared Adam's location, and because Hell was actively hunting him. Once he learned where Adam was--once there was a sliver of a chance to save the world--he drove through Hellfire to do it. Crowley's not afraid to work through tough situations, he's just always aware of how fragile things are, and is prone to feeling angry and hopeless when he sees no path forward. And of course he is--it's his oldest wound, and his deepest, that he and everything he loves will always be at the whims of ineffability, and that there's nothing he can do about it.

But in S3, since he's not at the point where the destruction of the Earth seems inevitable yet:

2. Crowley will form his own plan to stop the Second Coming.

This is what I think will happen. Crowley loves Earth. He loves humanity. He was the one to talk Aziraphale into stopping Armageddon, the one to toast "to the world" at the end of S1. The planned destruction of the universe is the exact thing that caused him to Fall. Crowley is his own person outside of his relationship with Aziraphale, and that person has a long history of fighting and scheming and suffering for the sake of humanity.

He's also a very active character. He is consistently the one making plans, moving the plot forward, trying to enact change. He saw the schematics in Heaven, and I really do think he'll do his best to come up with a plan to stop them, even though he's understandably very upset.

I don't think it'll be a good plan. If I had to guess (without knowing any specifics of the plot) I think he'll either try to disrupt the delivery of Christ to Earth or try to cut Heaven and Hell off from Earth entirely. He has no allies, no support, and very little reason to be cautious in his approach, which leads me to why you probably sent this ask:

Option 3: As above, only this time the plan is either not something he plans to survive, or his own survival is not something he is particularly concerned about.

So the thing about Crowley is that I really don't think he has any substantial issues with self-loathing, or any active desire to do himself harm. He is a survivor; he values safety and contingency and isolation above most things. But he values three things more: 1) freedom of choice, 2) Earth, and 3) Aziraphale.

He's a very angry, very impulsive person, and he is dealing with a lot unresolved feelings on the issue of demons and angels existing in the universe at all, and he loves Aziraphale and the Earth so dearly that sometimes he doesn't think straight. He's reckless, he's pissed off, he's feeling hopeless, and, after their fight, he's also convinced that Aziraphale would probably be able to move on from losing him. (In his mind, 'Crowley' is not the person Aziraphale would mourn; he would mourn the dead angel he's been chasing since the Fall.) If a plan presents itself that would be dangerous to him, I think he would see no reason not to try it. If you've gotta go, go with style.

So, yeah. I don't think it's likely, for all sorts of reasons--this is a comedy show, a Bible parody, and the tone is always going to be a little lighter than the angstiest possible conclusion, final fifteen aside. But the self-sacrificial route is one I can see Crowley taking, and his inevitable survival and reunion with Aziraphale would have an aftermath that would be messy and painful and fascinating to watch. It would also have some obvious thematic resonance with Christ, a figure I assume they'll be exploring quite a bit in S3, so that would be kinda cool.

(Thoughts on the Duke of Hell theory, with a general warning it's not my favorite, so don't read if that'll upset you:)

Very much not for me, sorry. Crowley, for all he is a master of on-the-fly (ha) bullshitting, is not suited for playing politics. (Neither is Aziraphale, for what it's worth.) Crowley is too outspoken, too honorable, and too prone to fits of temper to have any patience for that kind of role. Besides that, he absolutely does not want it. He hates Hell just as much as he hates Heaven. I don't think he would ever go back to either of them, consequences be damned.

I also think that there's no practical way it could even happen? Beelzebub only offered him the role out of desperation to find Gabriel, and even then, it was almost certainly a lie. With Beelzebub gone, every single person in a position of power in Hell hates Crowley. And if they tried to dupe him into it the way the Metatron did, he'd run and not look back.

[artemis1214]

HAZBIN HOTEL OC DEMON HEADCANONS

Hello! 👋🏼

These are some headcanons for my Hazbin Hotel OC, Esme! If you would like to read more about Esme's story, you can check out my Wattpad stories "A Siren's Spell" and, "A Siren's Hunt."

HELLA SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Demon Afterlife (1932-Present Day) 

Siren Demon (technically considered a succubus considering that's what a siren is). 

No memories of human life when manifested into hell. 

Her ‘siren voice’ tells her all she needs to know about feeding. 

Must feed on other demons and blood in order to stay alive (she will grow weak and powerless if she doesn't).

Cannibal 

When she sees her tail in the water she FREAKS out and tries to wiggle out of it. 

Has trouble walking at first when she's out of her siren form.

Waddles like a penguin at first.

Regular appearance: Luscious long black hair with slight curls, light seafoam green skin, emerald eyes. Flawless skin and glittery scales. 

Her regular appearance is more seductive and human like in order to attract more men for her to feed on.

Full Demon Form: Icy blue skin, glowing green eyes, sharp fangs, fins on head, shinier scales throughout her arms and hips, long black claws, sea serpents in her hair, strong melodic alluring voice.

Her voice will echo lightly when she's frustrated. 

Still present transatlantic accent, very seductive sounding. 

Soprano. 

SIREN VOICE (Theme)⬇️

“Darling” is her go to word for everyone.

Can alter the soundwaves of music.

Can play the piano and the harp.

Is 100% a cat person

Like to collect little sea rocks and shells.

Always wearing her wedding ring, although she has no memory of who her husband is. 

Does not come off. 

Embedded into her skin. 

Has names for all her different sea serpents.  

“Oooh you look like a George! Do you like that? George?” 

Hopeless romantic, will torture men and devoure them in order to cope with her need to be loved. 

“I'm not loved, I'm lusted over.” 

Thinks she's tough shit when she manifests, quickly becoming feared. 

Approached first by Rosie who introduces her to Cannibal Town and eventually the overlords. 

Still thinks she's better than everyone. 

Super close with Rosie. 

Long morning chats about how she feels forgotten about. 

Rosie is basically her therapist. 

Brings her blood-roast coffee every morning to soothe her cravings. 

Steals other demons' voices when making deals/taking souls to use for a stronger siren song. 

Strong hypnotic abilities, psychic abilities, magic, and more. 

 Hydrokinesis (can feel the blood within people since they're made of water) 

Has to keep moisturized or her skin will dry out. Takes swims daily to help this. 

Rosie eventually gifts her different face lotions and serums.

Fearful of The Radio Demon when he comes to hell, but quickly befriends him.

“I think we get along just swimmingly, don't you?” 

Naturally takes a liking to him since he's radio and she's basically music. 

“You remind me of someone, though I can't remember who.” 

He just smiles at her. 

The three of them, Rosie, Esme and Alastor often spend time in cannibal town. 

Lots of whiskey, vodka, and more when going out. 

R: “Shit, you two can sure drink!”

E: “Always loved me a good speakeasy~” 

A: “Likewise.” 

E: “Oh? What a coincidence!”

Alastor leaves her alone for most of his carnage, never batting an eye to her or being threatening. 

Rosie finds this suspicious. 

Immediately takes a liking to Vox when he shows up. 

“Ooooh tell me more! What's life like now?!” 

Giggling, kicking her feet hearing about Golden Hollywood. 

He plays her old movies on his screen. 

Specifically Casablanca 

Vox will offer both her and Alastor to form the Vees. 

Esme immediately agrees to control the music industry. 

Alastor denies in order to avoid Esme. 

Vox comes on to Esme after living with her in the tower. 

“I apologize if you were charmed by my nature, but I am wed.”

Will sleep with other men, but it's just for fun, and refuses to be with anyone for emotional connection.

Valentino introduces Esme to Marijuana. 

Doesn't do it often but is very relaxed and creative when high. 

E: “This is nothing compared to some good ol’ snow.”

Adores Velvette when she shows up. 

E: “YOU'RE SO CUUTEEE!~” 

V: “Get off me!” 

Is a popular singer in the Pride Ring, her records sell like crazy. 

Her voice hypnotizes demons to keep buying.

Makes up little tunes as she works around the tower or her recording studio

Wakes up about 30 minutes before her alarm is set to go off just so she can write down any songs or little melodies she thought of in her sleep.

She's extremely self-conscious about her laugh. She thinks it's too shrill and too high pitched.

She's still a big bookworm, this time drawn to romance novels. 

Big sweet tooth

Favorite food is sushi (specifically salmon) 

Drinks water bottles full of blood 

Always filing her claws.

Gets more hungry when around Alastor for whatever reason. 

Still sits next to Rosie during overlord meetings. 

Very protective to the children she sees in Hell, although she doesn't know why

Angel is the first person she recognizes from her life. 

“Bambino? *tears up* Bambino!!” 

Wants to know everything about his life since she's missed so much. 

Angel stays in her room for the first week that they're reunited.  

They share the same bed, just staying close to one another. 

Does not know the conditions about his deal with Valentino. 

Often cooks for the Vees. 

She once got into a fight with Valentino because he insulted her cooking. 

Vox and her have morning coffee chats. 

She likes to watch the news with him in his office but secretly catches Alastor's broadcast afterward to get the real scoop.  

Vox hates how the two get along so well. 

Going out to the club with this one is not a joke. You better come prepared to put on a SHOW. 

She steals the spotlight wherever she goes.

BIG THANKS TO @hoomandoescosplay for sharing her headcanons of Esme's dry skin AND THE LITTLE NAMES FOR HER SNAKES AHHH!

There will be a part two to these headcanons, so if you didn't see yours - don't worry!

~ Artemis 🦌💗

[softxsuki]

Hi! Hope you’re doing well. I was hoping i could make a urgent request for something? :)

TW - Self harm

I’ve been clean from sh for a few weeks now but I recently lost count of how long It’s been, and for some weird way that just makes me want to relapse even more. My head is just too loud lately and I’m still dealing with a loss of a friend so everything is just really hard lately. It makes me feel weak and even more undeserving of every good thing I have in my life. As if I don’t deserve to be sad about anything just because I have all the necessitates to survive.

If I could, I was hoping to make an urgent request with Rengoku? With what he would do to comfort gn reader after he finds out that they self harm. A small scenario I had in mind is if he like, accidentally nudges reader’s arm, hitting one of their still-healing sh wounds. And Rengoku, being the sweet guy he is, gets curious and gets reader to tell him about it so he can comfort them

Of course, if you for any reason don’t want to write it, feel free to ignore this, but if you do decide on writing it, take your time and thank you so much in advance :)

Rengoku Comforting Reader with Self-Harm

PLEASE DON'T READ IF MENTIONS OF SH WILL MAKE YOU RELAPSE AND DO YOU MORE HARM THAN GOOD

Pairing: Rengoku x Gn!Reader

Warnings: mention of self-harm, wounds, scars, feeling down

Genre: Comfort

Post-Type: Headcanons

Word Count: 910

Summary: In which Rengoku finds out that you've self-harmed and gives you his support in response

[A/N: Hey! I'm sorry you lost a friend! That's never easy, but it does get better as the days pass so hang in there. I promise it gets better. Thank you for trusting me with your urgent request! I've decided to write all my urgent requests as headcanons because it helps me write them a little fast for you guys, so I hope that's okay! I do hope that this provides you with some comfort through the tough time you're having right now. I'm here if you ever need anything <3. Enjoy!]

Rengoku:

As we all know, Rengoku is the sweetest man out there–he’s literally perfect

So essentially, he’d have a perfect reaction to this of course

You were outside with him, doing some sparring with a few swords he had hanging around; it’s something the two of you did together for fun whenever he wasn’t actively on duty as a Hashira

It gave him the chance to train you so you could defend yourself a little if a demon were to approach you while he wasn’t around, but you found yourself enjoying the quality time together, doing something he has dedicated his life to

Though as he steps behind you to correct your stance, grabbing your wrist to fix the way your arms are positioned, you wince back in pain

Self-harm was a way you dealt with the pain in your life–it had become something you’d relied on in your loneliest, darkest moments

Specifically moments when Rengoku wasn’t around, like that night when he had to rush off to fight a demon in a neighboring village

Things had been hard aside from always having to be away from him, so this was your way out

Rengoku releases you immediately, and apologizes for hurting you

He initially thinks he accidentally grabbed your wrist too hard, but the guilty look on your face proves otherwise

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes anyways with sincerity. He had been the cause of your pain, whether it was because he held you too tightly or not, he wanted to apologize…and maybe his apology ran even deeper than that

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong! I’m sorry for being over dramatic like that,” you don’t want him to feel bad for something that you did on your own

Your fresh wounds were still throbbing from the sudden contact, but you tried to hold in the pain

Rengoku doesn’t respond, but gently, he holds out a hand, signaling for you to pass him your arm

“May I?” He asks, wanting to see the wound for himself

You hesitate, you trusted this man with your life, so why were you questioning whether this was okay or not?

You knew he’d never treat you differently or make you feel bad about doing what you did to yourself–if anything maybe he could offer a solution…

You decide to allow him to see your arm quickly before you changed your mind and chickened out

He lifts your sleeve slowly and beholds the jagged lines on your arms–proof of the turmoil that’s been clouding your mind over the past few months–evidence that you had been fighting a battle within yourself

Rengoku’s face stays the same, a small smile graces his lips as he looks at you, not an ounce of judgment within them, just love, like usual

“I see you’ve been fighting some pretty hefty battles on your own. A warrior just like me…though it seems your fight has been much more difficult than mine. Please allow me to treat your wounds from battle just like you’ve done for me so many times.”

You agree wordlessly, allowing him to softly wrap your wounds and treat them so they stop throbbing

A comfortable, yet heavy silence falls between you both

“I’m sorry…” you apologize once again, scared of what was going through his head, but Rengoku was honest and sincere as he looked at you with a smile like he always did–nothing had changed

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. I am the one who’s sorry–for having you fight this battle on your own. If you allow it, I’d like to know why.” He was genuinely curious, not meaning to sound nosey or judgemental at all

So you do

You open up to him about everything that has been eating away at you for a while now; from the smallest of things to the overwhelming things–you said it all

And he listened to every word silently, nodding along and humming in acknowledgment, wanting you to know that he was following what you were telling him

“I suppose life can be overwhelming, sometimes it throws everything on us all at once. I’ve been in your shoes before. Feeling like everything was against me and feeling utterly alone in my household until I eventually found my place with the Hashira, but things at home were always cold. I know this is just one chapter in your life that will move on. And as any chapter goes, this is something that will become your strength in the future. Something you’ll learn from as you  grow into an amazing person. I know it. Just know that I’m here and you’ll never be alone. No matter who leaves, I’ll always stay.”

They were words you really needed to hear. Knowing that he wasn’t upset about what you did and was still willing to give you his support meant the world to you

“Thank you…I’m still working on it. I keep falling back into these old habits, no matter how much I don’t want to do it and end up regretting it afterwards,” you explain

“No need to be so hard on yourself,” he ruffles your hair and leaves a comforting hand on your shoulder, “These things take time. Healing internally is a huge battle, but I won’t let you go through it alone. You’ll get through this.”

No matter how hard the days ahead of you got, it was comforting knowing that at least you weren’t going through it alone

Rengoku would always have your back

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Posted: 6/8/2023

[asher-agere]

aaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!! sorry i didn’t word that correctly, i meant anxious regressor kyouka😭

No worries! So sorry it’s taking me forever to get to this (╥﹏╥) I have so many requests- I tried asking to confirm as soon as I saw your initial request so it wouldn’t mess up the order hehe. I just wanted to make sure though!

Anxious Little Kyouka

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

✧₊⁺ Kyouka is already a non-verbal little, very quiet. The loudest sound she’ll make is a giggle. So when she’s getting all anxious and sad it’s dead silent. She doesn’t want to be a bother… She’ll just curl up into a little baby ball, her pacifier in her mouth and clinging to her favorite bunny plushy. When she cries there’s no wailing, just silent tears. This makes it tough for a caregiver to notice sometimes, the solution? Her caregiver should give her all of their attention of course!

✧₊⁺ Luckily as long as her caregiver is watching, it’s pretty obvious when Kyouka is getting upset! Usually she’s pretty happy! Playing with her plushies or coloring. But when she’s upset she’ll space out a lot, not able to focus on anything. Of course she doesn’t want to talk to explain what’s going on. It feels impossible to form words. So all the poor little baby can do is cling desperately to her caregiver and cry into them wherever she’s decided to bury her face

✧₊⁺ Kyouka loves being held! It’s so soothing! Being carried around, rocked… Definitely the kind of baby where if there’s a car ride she’s falling asleep. Only a 5 minute drive? Yeah… She’s still asleep. Something about the motion just makes her so relaxed! Especially if her caregiver is praising her! It makes everything feel soo much better and she loves it so so much!

✧₊⁺ I think for Kyouka, looking the part of a baby is huge for her. She wants gentle pastel colors, baby toys, she’ll put cute hair clips in her hair… Looking into a mirror and seeing a baby look back at her is so comforting! When she’s upset her caregiver will carefully brush out her hair, put it into her usual pigtails, and decorate with hair clips! If she wants they’ll even let her pick which ones to use! She’ll point at the clip she wants, then tap her head where she wants it put!

✧₊⁺ Sometimes Kyouka can be shy, especially if she’s feeling anxious (,,>﹏<,,) Talking to someone, even if it’s her caregiver that she knows and loves, it feels so scaryyy. But y’know who isn’t scary to face? A plushy! If her caregiver plays with the plushy to make them approach Kyouka, it helps a bunch! She won’t bother trying to hide away and she’s quicker to get in a happy mood! Funny voices for the plushies helps a lot too if her caregiver is able to do that!

✧₊⁺ Kyouka is definitely a milk baby. So tiny… Need milk… But I think she’d like strawberry milk specifically! It’s pink, which is sooo pretty. Plus it tastes extra sweet! It reminds her of a crepe! Sad little baby gets a nice cold bottle of strawberry milk, in a bunny themed bottle of course! Her caregiver holds her and feeds her the bottle… Happy baby in no time! She loves all the special treatment! Getting bottle fed feels so soothing and it makes her feel sooo tiny! Even better hehe

✧₊⁺ I also think Kyouka would find story time soothing! Just getting to lean on her caregiver and listen to their voice… When it comes to story time she actually doesn’t like funny voices! During story time she’ll just peacefully space out, focusing on her caregivers voice not the story. A sudden silly voice knocks her out of that, and while it is very funny! She just wants to relax…

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

Yay Kyouka! She’s so baby. Just a tiny little girl. Some of these feel like more general headcanons rather than specific to her being anxious? But in my mind at least these are all things that would help calm her down so… Yeah. I SWEAR IT’S ALL CONNECTED

[archandshri]

9th feb '24 - [arch] characters, interactions and emotion - making a mini webcomic

Gahhhh Shri this has been an absolutely crazy couple of weeks!!!! Hope you are doing well :)) First of all, WOW! You have a lot of goals, and I’m sure you’ll get them done! I’ve worked a lot on my graphic design during the process of making Winter Wellbeing. If you wanna see a blog post dedicated just to that, I can do so! It would be cool to compare notes on the approaches we take for graphic layouts. If you wanna share your knowledge of camera skills when you build that up that would be awesome 😭😭

It’s been a tough few weeks, art wise. I have been reflecting on my process, motivations to create, the ego and all the baggage that’s lumped into the creative process for me. It turns out there’s a lot. I took some space from my illustration practise (literally for a weekend!) and began to realise how dysfunctional it is. I’ve been writing a lot about that so there may be a larger piece of writing coming about that at some point (no promises!!)

But for now, let's talk about little successes!

I’ve been playing with some characters for a while but I’d hit a bit of a block with the plot. I realised the expectation of having a finished project of high quality soon is unrealistic, and an unhealthy expectation to put on myself. I rarely give myself time to play with concepts for a long time and let the characters, plot and interactions evolve naturally. Maybe this in part came from sticking to the short university module turnaround. I noticed that that short turnaround was causing a lot of block, so I have decided to bench it as a comic for now and focus on using it as a playground - falling in love with the characters, creating stories and drawing them for fun. Maybe years down the line I’ll make them into a comic - we shall see! 

I *tried* to do hourly comics day this year and it didn’t quite work for me. I think I made 3 comics? And then got distracted with a bigger project that ended up taking a week or so to complete. Let’s have a look at it, shall we?

[you can find the full version here]

First of all, it’s based on an unfinished fanfiction I started a couple of months ago, which was mostly bad, but there was one nice scene that I liked and wanted to expand on. I started by having a look at the script I wrote and thumbnailing on the iPad. I’m away from home at the mo and usually would prefer to do most of my artwork traditionally, but because I don’t have access to a scanner, the whole process was digital this time. A lot of the pages got scrapped because the dialogue wasn’t necessary, and I’m not drawing pages that aren’t necessary.

some more development screenshots

I thought a lot about posing during the process, acting the scenes out in my mind and sometimes physically, really understanding the emotions of the characters, why they’re saying what they’re saying, their tone and how to convey that though their body language and expression (i find grian really annoying normally [affectionate] but I want this grian to step on me).

Pearl was hard with this because she’s quite erratic and unpredictable in this series, so I wanted her to switch from raw explodey anger to playful jabs at Grian. I’m hoping this comes across as somewhat insane, rather than tonally off and inconsistent. I did super enjoy drawing her and her explosive nature though, especially in comparison to Grian’s coldness.

I played with levels and monotone colour too - I’m not working with multiple colours much at the moment so I’m able to focus on things like values composition, characters and backgrounds. My skills limit the kind of stories I can tell currently, so I’m working to improve those foundations. Maybe when I’m back in the riso studio I can play with colours a little more.

Colours - despite the simple pallete it gets a bit nerdy here.I stuck to specific flat percentages for most of it - Pearl’s hair and Grians jumper are 60%, Grian’s hair and Pearl’s cloak are 20%. Then I added a 14% layer for shadows, using a ahrd blend eraser tool for highlights, making the images quite dark. I fill a layer with texture from Forystr’s riso brush for procreate, and turn it into a 40% opacity colour dodge layer. This gives it some much needed texture and makes the lighting feel low and nighttimecore. It also pushes the values to look really nice - I tend to be too scared to push them by myself.

I tried a few different colour layers to get a *vibe* but settled on a low percentage riso blue in a colour layer. All layers besides the riso blue are in a riso black, colour picked from a riso colour pallete. I learnt these tools - using percentages to get good values - from working with risograph. I really recommend having a look at these techniques and doing some monotone work. It's really improved by character designs, page layouts and compositions.

That's all from me today, though I have had MANY other thoughts over the past two weeks about creating, but perhaps we'll dive into them another time. If you (or anyone else) has any questions, hit me up with a reblog or an ask and I will get right to it. Lovely to hear from you! Hope your art is going great too :)) Arch :)

[inventors-fair]

Fault Lines

Oops, I did it again...

I think that there are two approaches to this contest that speak to who you are as a creator. And you are a creator—you know that, right? You're making something, a game piece, action based on your knowledge and love of MTG. This week, you're making mistakes.

Where will it come from, though? Sometimes we have to imagine a mistake that we've made and translate that through a card. Other times, the mistake will be one channeled through a character. Perhaps it's a choice that was only a poor choice in retrospect. Perhaps it's a decision that was risky to begin with. Perhaps ignorance can lead to the best teaching moments. And perhaps, one will never get that second chance to learn. But what will you make of the situation?

Design a card thematically based on a mistakes, mishap, slip-up, miscalculation, regret, etc.

This prompt is intentionally broad, but the end result is that the card needs to make clear two things:

Who is making this mistake?

How was this mistake made?

Each color will have its own approach to mistakes. What would happen when a character aligned with one color makes a mistake in a situation based around another? e.g. A white cleric walking into a red mage's lava trap, or a demon attempting to desecrate an ancient wilderness.

Each card type will have its own approach as well. So consider:

Creature: Is your character the one making the mistake, or the one benefitting from mistakes being made? How does your character's background or colors change the way they interact with mistakes?

Instant: This will probably be one of the easiest types to design because of the thematic prevalence of things like counterspells and combat tricks. If you're going down this road, your card should be pretty darn perfect, because it will be held to a higher standard.

Sorcery: Same thing as instants, really, but with a less reactive nature. So what happens when mistakes aren't realized until after the fact?

Land: I really don't know how you would approach this, honestly. Perhaps the aftermath of a mistake? Don't force yourself, but maybe if the idea strikes...

Artifact: In recent years, artifacts have had a lot more tech around them. The degrees to which you can use an object to demonstrate a mistake are pretty wild!

Enchantment: Same thing as artifacts, but you can get a little more esoteric, I think. Keep in mind that Auras and Curses are in your wheelhouse here.

Planeswalker: I'm going to put this in the same category as lands; I don't know how you'd really go about this, but if you can find a way to make it a genuinely well-balanced card that fits the prompt, have at it.

Battle: Battles are always tricky to design, I think, but I'm glad that we ran that one contest so that folks can get an idea of what they're like. Everyone's picked a fight they regret, though.

(Cards like Conspiracies and Dungeons have been intentionally omitted. As a rule of thumb, please don't make weird/format-specific card types unless a contest specifically calls for it.)

On a thematic level, consider the following questions:

Is this a mistake that an individual involved can easily come back from, or are there permanent consequences?

Are we seeing the mistake right before the consequences, in the middle of the regret, or after the fact?

Is this a mistake that can be laughed off at face value, or will the audience be horrified by what's happening? On a similar note, does the player feel bad for the individual, or is this a case of just desserts?

Flavor will be key here. The card name, the mechanical action, and any art description & flavor text will all have to be in conversation with one another. How do all the parts of this card coalesce?

I know there's a lot of text up there, but please do read through it all and make this week a tough one for me. I want to see diversity, variety, strangeness, and a range of strengths. What can you make that nobody else can make?

Remember, the only real mistakes are the ones we don't learn from. Good luck, and have fun!

@abelzumi

Don't get boxed in by the inbox: >> SUBMIT! Revise and reassemble: >> DISCORD!