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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

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Monsters in the Garden (Ettore x Reader) 18+

No one comes to your garden but you, not even Dr. Dibs. So what is the most dangerous man on the ship doing leaning against your doorway and watching you work?

Pairing: Ettore x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT SMUT; hand job; kissing; blood; mentions of rape, murder, and violence; female genital mutilation; vague mentions of corpse mutilation

Author's note: This was inspired by a session I had with the Ettore AI made by @harrenhalhottie (RIP). It was just so good I had to write it out for y'all. This Ettore is a little different from normal, but I can't help but look at a one-dimensional character and want more. Hope you enjoy, and let me know if you want a Part 2, because I have ideas...

This song also heavily influenced the vibe:

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3

Monsters in the Garden

You were on your knees, leaning over one of your raised garden beds when you noticed him leaning against the open doorway. He wasn’t quiet on his approach – he wanted you to know he was there.

Ettore was always there, in some dark corner, watching you.

By this point, you were almost used to the burning feeling that crawled beneath your skin whenever his eyes were on you.

In the right light, those eyes were a mesmerizing blue. The color reminded you of the sky back on Earth. If he hadn’t been so goddamn creepy, you might have been happy to stare into his eyes just to remember home, even briefly.

But he was easily the most unsettling person you’d ever met. Always leering at the other women on board – though in the past weeks, you had apparently become his one and only target– and using the Box proudly, far more than anyone else did.

It was no wonder why. You knew what he was.

Everyone on board was a killer, including you. But Ettore was the worst. The most dangerous of you all. For he was the only one who had… done worse than just kill his victims.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

Well, some would say what you had done was worse. But that was different. Your victim was already dead by the time you started your work on his corpse, and it had been more than deserved.

You did not let yourself linger on that. You never did these days. The further away from Earth you got, the more distant it seemed. The rage, the guilt, all of it.

Ettore wasn’t distant. He was mere feet away from you, intruding on your garden.

Not yours, not really. Because of your past – specifically, the degree in horticulture you were only one semester away from completing when you were arrested – you were assigned to look after the gardens instead of something more related to the actual mission of the ship like the rest of the crew.

Or more basic, in Ettore’s case. Dr. Dib’s called his assignment “ship maintenance,” but you all knew what he really was: the janitor.

But he never came in here. You made sure of it, keeping everything meticulously clean and fixing all your equipment yourself so no one – least of all Ettore – would ever have a reason to intrude on your space.

You didn’t even allow Tcherny, the other gardener, in here. He was fine with it. He preferred the vegetable and grains and left the medicinal plants – kept in their own room – to you. The only person beside you who ever came in here was Dr. Dibs, and she hadn’t been here in months. She didn’t like the dirt.

Yet there was Ettore, just staring at you.

His eyes weren’t that beautiful, bright blue you so rarely glimpsed. His chin was slightly tucked into his chest, his strong brow casting his eyes into darkness. His face was blank, unfeeling, and unmoving, save for those eyes.

They almost didn’t look human, but animal. Yes, that was the look of a predator. And it was directed at you.

You turned away from him to face the garden bed again, hoping he would lose interest if you didn’t engage. But if he didn’t, and he did try something…

Well, you had your spade next to you. It was probably sharp enough to dissuade him from doing anything you didn’t approve of.

So, you resumed your work, carefully tending to your poppies.

Once the lovely purple-pink petals that were just unfurling fell in a few days, you would harvest the sap from the seedpods so Dr. Dibs could synthesize more of the sedative the crew was forced to take each night. Only a handful, carefully selected by you, would be spared and allowed to produce the seeds that would become the next crop.

Though you hated playing a part in producing the drugs, the poppies were still your favorite plant. They were the only flowers you had left.

The garden was always your happy place, even on Earth, and you quickly found yourself concentrating not on Ettore or the sounds of the ship or even the ship itself. There was only you, the dirt, and your beloved plants.

So, when you finally stood and looked away from your work, you had entirely forgotten that Ettore stood there.

Still, he remained leaning against the doorframe, watching you. He hadn’t moved a fucking inch.

You jumped slightly at the unexpected sight, your hand flying to your racing heart.

While he did not flinch at the motion, Ettore’s brow raised slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

At least the hunger in his eyes had abated. Somewhat.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, love,” he crooned as he uncrossed his arms and took two steps forward.

God, you had never heard him speak before.

His voice wasn’t particularly deep, but it was low and smooth. His accent was like something out of those British action movies a boyfriend in high school loved to make you watch. Perhaps it was those memories – of either the boyfriend or the handsome actors, that made his voice sound almost alluring.

It had to be. It couldn’t be him.

You instinctively stepped back, raising your hands to try and communicate that you didn’t want him near you. Unfortunately, you forgot your spade on the ground, leaving your hands empty. Fortunately, your gloves were loose enough that he could not see the slight trembling in your fingers.

“I just…” you stammered. “I forgot you were there.”

He just stared at you impassively, those predatory eyes taking in every detail of your face, then traveling lower and lower.

Some of the hunger returned when his gaze landed on your breasts.

You had to shut that shit down.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, pouring all your contempt into your voice to mask the fear that still crept within your blood.

Ettore looked back at your eyes, the corner of his lip flicking up as though he was holding back a sneer. “Just passing through.”

You risked looking away from him to glance at your watch. It confirmed what you already knew. “You’ve been standing there for over an hour,” you informed him. One hour and eighteen minutes, to be exact. “Hardly what I’d call ‘passing through.’”

He raised his brows slightly, apparently surprised it had been that long. “Guess I lost track of time. Watching you is…” he turned his eyes, not to your body, but to the flower bed you had just been working in. When he looked back, he gave a sly smile. “Relaxing.”

Bullshit, you thought. But then you bit back the sharp tang of your own cynicism. Gardening was relaxing to you; it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that he honestly found watching you relaxing as well. If it had been anyone but Ettore, you probably would have believed them without a moment of doubt.

But it was Ettore.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

You glared at him for a long moment, trying to communicate that you wouldn’t be fucked with – you wouldn’t be a victim. Then, when he still didn’t drop his gaze from yours, you took it as an acknowledgment of the threat and turned away from him.

You were at least half-expecting him to pounce on you then and there, but he didn’t. You didn’t hear a single sound as you walked to your workbench, situated on the opposite wall from the door, and took off your gloves.

“There’s nothing more to watch,” you said over your shoulder. Then, grabbing a clean rag from one of the drawers, you began wiping the dirt from your forearms – rinsing it off in the sink would risk a clog, which would mean a visit from maintenance and Ettore. “I’m done for the day.”

He didn’t reply, only grunted his acknowledgment. He never moved as you continued to wrap up your work – cleaning your tools, sweeping the dirt that had made its way out of the beds, and washing your hands. Still just watching you.

At least it confirmed that it wasn’t the gardening he found ‘relaxing.’

Finally, you discarded your rags in the laundry bin. It would need to be taken out soon – it was ready today, but you were already running later than you wanted. In just ten minutes, you had an ‘appointment’ with Dr. Dibs, and you didn’t want to make her angry. Again. Doing so has become kind of a bad habit of yours.

So, you turned to face Ettore, who continued to stare at you as you stepped within a few feet of him. He stood a little taller at your approach, puffing his chest out as that near-rabid hunger took over his eyes once more.

Your stomach fluttered, and you told yourself it was only because you were nervous about whatever Dibs planned to do to you tonight.

But then the corner of his mouth quirked up, and your heart sank at the realization that it was because you – or rather, your traitorous, repressed body – found Ettore attractive.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

He would be just your type if you didn’t know why he was here. You had never been able to resist a good jawline, and his could cut fucking glass. And as you took another step closer, his height became just as enticing. You always told people you only liked tall men so they could reach things for you. But really, you just loved the feeling of having a big, strong man to protect you.

No one had looked at you like you needed protection in years. No, you were now what people needed protection from.

“Though she be but little she is fierce,” the lawyer had said when convincing the jury to not be put off by your size. A fitting quote, since Shakespeare himself had inspired some of the more gruesome details of your crime.

And now, you couldn’t help but take another step forward, then another. All along, savoring how far back you had to tilt your head to look into those beautiful blue eyes.

God, as he tilted his chin back as well, the bright lights of the garden set them blazingly bright and the bluest you’d ever seen them. They were even better than the sky back home…

You forced yourself to look away when you felt heat begin to pool between your thighs. Instead, you stared over his shoulder to the hall, trying not to snap when you heard him laugh slightly at your movement. Was the blush you felt visible?

“You’re in my way,” you said, your voice more of a whisper than you intended.

When his smirk faded, and his lips – very pretty lips, you realized – fell slightly open, you thought he would have some cutting remark. But he only stepped to the side to allow you through.

As you passed him, you were close enough to catch his scent. Everyone on the ship used the same soap, so how did he smell so different? Beneath the clinical smell you all carried, there was something deeper, more masculine.

You really needed to calm down before your appointment with Dibs. She knew you didn’t use the Box – not after that first time had failed to get you off, despite the engineering genius of the contraption – so seeing you this riled would lead to questions you didn’t want to answer.

Touching other inmates was against the rules. And even if this wasn’t touching… even thinking this way about another prisoner may incur her wrath.

So, you walked a more than respectable distance away from him before turning back. He was still half-in, half-out of the garden. But he wasn’t staring at you anymore, but rather at the poppies...

When was the last time he had seen a beautiful flower?

You glanced at your watch again. You barely had enough time to make it to the infirmary.

“I need to lock the door,” you said, drawing his gaze back to you.

His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced from you back to the door, then back to you again. He sucked his teeth as he looked at you in condescending disbelief. “You need to lock up flowers?”

“It’s protocol,” you answered. Perhaps your tone was a bit harsher than it needed to be, but you were both criminals - murderers. He could handle a little bitchiness. “And there’s more than just flowers in there.”

Ettore let out a laugh that was little more than a hard exhale, but the twinkle in those eyes told you that he was indeed amused. Then, crossing his arms, showing off the odd, triangular tattoo on his forearm, he stepped away from the door.

You would have to walk by him again to get to the door. Perhaps he was cleverer than you gave him credit for – if you had previously given him any credit at all.

If you weren’t so pressed for time, you might have stayed to tease him some more. This was surprisingly fun, even when you knew what he wanted from you and what he had done to get it from other women. You were just that bored.

And horny. You were very, very horny.

That would be what got you in trouble.

You scoffed, pushing past him to lock the door. It took all your effort to slip the key in as your fingers trembled at the feeling of him hovering over you, his breath hot on your neck as he stepped closer to you.

This shouldn’t make you horny. On the contrary, it should make you afraid. But still…

When the door finally locked, you spun around quickly, tucking the key between your fingers like a claw – something one of the college policemen once told you about.

But Ettore stepped back – once, twice. And then the was pressed against the wall opposite you. His stare was still hungry, and you could easily see how heavy his breathing had become, but he didn’t advance.

“I have to go,” you told him, unsure why you were doing it. It wasn’t like you needed his permission or even wanted it. “I have an appointment with Dibs.”

His eyes darkened then. Not with lust or animalistic hunger, but rage. It was almost… possessive?

It was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by his usual empty stare. Still, you did not dare move, not after whatever it was you just saw.

“Can I…?” Ettore gritted his jaw and looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides. You didn’t know if he was about to cry or kill you – and you didn’t know which would be worse. He still looked away from you as he continued, “Can I come here again tomorrow? Just to watch.”

You should immediately forbid it. It was wrong, it was a bad idea, and it was just fucking weird. But as the hour chimed on your watches, you realized you couldn’t leave when he looked so desperate, almost sad. And you definitely couldn’t say anything to make that horrible expression worse.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You turned as he looked back at you to shut off the alarm on your watch. Dr. Dibs would be pissed at you, of that, you were sure. At the moment, though, it didn’t seem to matter. Not when his eyes lit up again, not from any light, but with excitement. “If you have nothing better to do, I guess that’s fine.”

The corners of Ettore’s lips quirked up like he would smile, but he quickly corrected it and set his mouth in a straight line. He didn’t want you to know just how excited he was, but you did anyways – he wasn’t a great liar. Tipping his head in an attempt at indifference, he sniffed before speaking. “Yeah, wicked.”

You winced a little at his pathetic attempt to seem cool, but it faded quickly when your watch beeped again. This wasn’t an alarm or the chiming of the hour but a summons. If you didn’t obey it, you knew Dibs would happily use the stupid watch to deliver a steady stream of low-level electric shocks until you did.

She was just as much of a killer as the rest of you – worse than some, if the rumors were right. Why should she have such authority over the rest of you?

It was pointless to question it, and even the beginnings of the line of thought had ruined your mood. So much so that you didn’t say anything else to Ettore before turning away from him and stalking down the hall toward the infirmary.

After you had disappeared around the corner, Ettore took a deep breath, silently congratulating himself on handling that almost like a real person would. Then, he turned in the opposite direction as you. He was due to clean the canteen before dinner. But fuck that. He needed the Box – now.

Dibs had been pissed. Not only that you were late to your appointment, but that you were so obviously turned on when you got there. It wasn’t like you could hide it, not when she immediately ordered you into the stirrups and got a front-row seat to your weeping and flushed cunt.

“Have you been using the Box?” she asked, that sickeningly sweet smile plastered across her face.

You pursed your lips, looking away. “No.”

Her smile faded, and her eye twitched. “And yet here you are, practically dripping.” She reached for something on her tray, but you couldn’t see what. You had a pretty good guess, anyway. “Well, at least it makes my job easier.”

It had been anything but fucking ‘easy,’ you thought as you cradled your aching abdomen. Under the pretense that you were already wet enough, she had shoved her speculum into you hard and fast – and without lube.

If you thought her tests and procedures had been uncomfortable before… they were downright torturous yesterday. Especially since she conveniently ‘forgot’ to give you any numbing agents or sedatives. And definitely no painkillers.

Not even the sedative you were served with dinner had helped. For the first time since you boarded this godforsaken ship, you hadn’t slept.

Thankfully, you had little work to do in the garden besides waiting for the poppies to drop their petals. But you didn’t want to just wallow in your pain, so you decided to sit at the edge of the bed where your little willow tree resided.

It wasn’t growing very fast, likely because it didn’t have the room it needed or deserved. Still, you were happy with the progress it had made. When the ship first took off, it was little more than a bonsai. Now, it stood a good eight feet tall – the only plant you needed your step stool to tend.

In truth, it didn’t need much tending. Trees never do unless they are very young or something is wrong. But sitting next to it, examining the patterns in its long leaves and tracing lines up its trunk, was spectacularly soothing.

You had never considered harvesting anything from it. Not yet. It was too little still, and you didn’t want to risk damaging it permanently since you couldn’t simply order a new start. But as another pulse of pain surged through your stomach, you found yourself reaching for a lower branch.

All you needed was a small twig to chew on. It was an ancient Egyptian remedy, one that eventually led to the invention of Aspirin. And even if the sedative didn’t help, perhaps something more natural, something you had grown yourself, would.

You had just wrapped a hand around the branch when you felt a large hand close around your shoulder.

Instinct kicked in, and you whirled around, freeing yourself from your attacker’s grasp. Without processing who it was, you threw your arms out, shoving with all your might. “Get the fuck away from me!”

You only recognized Ettore after you had backed into the wall. He had also fallen on his ass and crawled backward on the floor – apparently, you were stronger than you thought. Any amusement at the fact died when you saw the anger burning in those eyes.

It was entirely possible that you just really fucked up.

But your adrenaline, from the pain and the scare he had just given you, was racing too hot and fast to let you consider that possibility.

“What are you doing?” you spat. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ettore’s face grew even more furious, if that was even possible. His eyes burned as bright as any fire you had ever seen. It was beautiful and deadly. “You fucking… you said I could come watch you!”

Damn it, you did say that.

But it was before Dr. Dibs had been such a cunt.

And she had only done it because he got you horned up like you were a pathetic high schooler.

“Well, now I changed my fucking mind!” you shouted. If you could stand, you would have. Towering over him and just screaming your heart out would feel so good. But you hurt too much to even entertain the thought. “I don’t want you here – I don’t want you!”

Ettore shattered.

You watched it happen as your venomous words left your lips.

His face fell, his eyes began to water, and even his tattoos seemed to go dull.

At that moment, he was not Ettore, the murderer, rapist, and monster.

He was just a boy – the both of you were barely more than teenagers when you left Earth – and he was broken.

You broke him.

You looked on in horror as his trembling lips set into a hard line that echoed in his harsh brow, and the tears in his beautiful eyes faded to reveal a primal rage that chilled your blood.

There he was.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

Ettore stood slowly, like a tiger rising from its crouch upon realizing its prey has no escape – that it could play.

But then he looked away from you, sniffed, and moved for the door.

His leaving without doing anything to you should have made you feel overwhelming relief, but it did not. Instead, a great yawning pit of guilt and regret opened in your chest, hurting nearly as much as your wounded core.

You tried to call out to him, take your words back, and apologize, but all that came out was a short yelp of pain. This time, it was accompanied by wetness between your legs – and not the pleasant kind.

As you folded over, burying your face in your knees as you pulled them into your chest, Ettore paused halfway out the door.

He’d heard noises like that before. From other women in pain – pain that he caused. His lip twitched, and his head tilted out of his control, the movement more animal than human.

You were helpless and apparently wounded. This was his chance.

But as he turned to face you, he caught sight of the poppies you so lovingly tended to the day before. With the memory of your soft smile as you cupped a particularly pretty bloom, one that was a deeper pink than the others, he was able to pull back on the reins of that instinct.

Just slightly, but just enough.

“You hurt?” he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded into your legs and lifted your head without meeting his eyes. “I think… I think I’m bleeding.”

Ettore was frozen, his hands flexing, relaxing, and balling into fists as he tried to keep hold of those inner reins. If he was smart, he would leave. Go straight to the Box and fuck himself until this hateful urge was gone. If he was a good person, he would offer his help.

He was not smart. And he was most definitely not a good person.

But something about you and those goddamned poppies woke what little was left of his humanity and made him want to try.

So, he just stood there, staring at your helpless form as he fought a vicious war inside himself.

You watched him. Watched as his eyes flicked over every inch of your body with dizzying speed, as various parts of his body twitched and flexed. You’d never seen anything like it before, except…

The vague memory of a play you went to on a middle school field trip reemerges. Your whole grade was reading Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and it just happened to coincide with the local community theater’s production of the play.

It wasn’t a good play. Even at twelve, you could tell it was objectively bad. But the man who played Jekyll and Hyde was decent (one of your classmates told you he was their pediatrician), mainly when he performed the ‘transformation.’ You hadn’t been able to look away as he contorted; every movement was desperate, halting, and frantic.

Not unlike how Ettore moved as he watched you.

When he came out of the fog that had settled over his eyes, which Ettore would you get? Did he even have a Jekyll to his Hyde?

You knew you should take the opportunity of his distraction to run. The infirmary would be best, but it would mean seeing Dr. Dibs again. You had no desire to admit that you needed her help. The showers were also an option, but it would allow others to see you in a weakened state. You didn’t want to admit weakness. Besides, Dibs would hear about that as well.

So, even though you knew it was stupid, you decided to take the biggest risk of them all.

“Ettore…?” You called his name softly, unsure of the pronunciation. Whether it was right or wrong, he didn’t seem to mind. He locked eyes with you, and his nostril flared as though he really was a predator and could smell the blood you were now confident was leaking from you. “I need your help.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he looked like he would run from you. But beyond another twitch of his head, he did not move.

“Please?” you begged. You felt pathetic, but you kind of were, so you tried not to let it bother you too much. “I don’t think I can stand on my own.”

Ettore’s brows furrowed at that, and his lips went from a near-sneer to a determined frown. Then, with a lumbering gait, he approached you in only a few steps, holding a hand out in front of him for you to take.

You stared at his hand for a moment, admiring the elegant length of his fingers. And then you realized: he was shaking.

It was subtle, but it was there.

Tilting your head, you looked up at his face. Apart from the slight widening of his eyes, it was again set in passivity. But what was more peculiar than his trembling or his expression was the fact that he was steadfastly refusing to look at you.

Indeed, those blue eyes were set on the softly swaying leaves of your willow, tracking their movement like the tree would attack him if he looked away.

You were so used to his eyes on you. Was it wrong that you wanted it back?

Before you could ponder the answer, you raised an arm to take his hand. He squeezed your fingers painfully as he helped you onto your feet.

The pain surged again as you stood, causing your knees to buckle the second Ettore let go of your hand. You stumbled, falling against his chest.

It was no more than instinct that had him wrapping his long arms around your shoulders and waist to catch you. An instinct that his brain was yelling at him to abandon you and let you fall.

It was too dangerous to touch you, to feel your soft skin as his hand accidentally slipped into the side of your overalls – why the fuck were the sides so low when your shirt was so short?

At the sensation of your hot breath against the sensitive skin of his neck, he let out an involuntary groan as he tightened his grip on you.

He had to get away. Now. As fast as possible. He didn’t want to hurt you. He really didn’t. But his blood was singing with desire, more intoxicating than any liquor or drug. Keeping his fingers from digging into your flesh possessively was almost painful, and he was so, so hard.

The reins were slipping…

You felt it, his hard length pressed into your stomach as you brought your hands to his chest to steady yourself.

You should push him away again. Slap him. Yell at him. Kick him as hard as you could right on that hard, impressively long length.

But you did none of it.

“I need to get to my worktable,” you whispered, “there’s a medkit there. And…”

You looked into his eyes, watching them dilate even further as you finished your request. “I’ll need help getting out of my overalls.”

That blue you were so entranced by was all but gone. Ettore looked like a man possessed, his breathing heavy and heaving as he lowered his chin to look into your eyes.

There was no way he heard you correctly. You knew what he was, what he had done. And you were smart, so much smarter than him. Far too smart to ever ask someone like him to take off your clothes. Even if it were to help you with an injury – an injury he still couldn’t see.

But then your eyes squeezed shut, and you fell forward to bury your face in his shoulder as you moaned in pain.

And then…

Then your right hand moved up his chest to wrap around his neck. Not to choke or hurt, but just to hold.

He expected your hands to be rough from working in the garden all day, but they weren’t. No, your fingers were unfairly, unbearably soft as they swept across his bare skin, coming to rest against the tattoo on the side of his neck.

When was the last time anyone touched him like this – tenderly and without fear? It had been years, even before he was put on this doomed ship.

Ettore almost came just from that simple touch.

More intense than even the extraordinary pleasure was the feeling of near calm that washed over him. It soothed the pain he felt in every muscle and quieted the violent, primal urges roaring within his chest. They weren’t gone, but they were further away.

It made it easier to take the reins.

“The worktable…” he breathed as his grip on you relaxed slightly. He still held you firm enough to keep you standing, but you no longer worried you would bruise.

You pulled away slightly, noting the way he whimpered and winced like a scolded puppy as you slowly removed your hand from around his neck. “Yes.”

He nodded frantically, sniffing and taking a few deep breaths. As if he needed to prepare himself for the short walk to the table. Then, moving with a slowness that suggested the motion took all his concentration, he lowered his arm from your shoulders.

When Ettore turned to the worktable, even with his other arm still around your waist, you felt a rush of unwelcome cold. Even when you were still clothed and the garden was kept at a balmy temperature.

He walked slowly. Perhaps you would have thought it was out of concern for you and your pain, but you knew by now that this was hard for him.

Indeed, when he pulled away after you were leaned against the table, a faint sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow. His breathing was still rapid, and his eyes were glassy, as if he were several shots in.

“Ettore?” When he met your eyes again, you looked down at the buttons on your shoulders holding your overalls up. He followed your gaze and made a choking sound when he realized what you meant. “If I let go of the table, I think I’ll fall.”

It wasn’t just his hands shaking now, but all of him. So much so that you couldn’t tell whether he was nodding or just shaking that badly.

Either way, he reached for the first button on your left shoulder. It took him a few tries, but he got it done. The strap fell, and one side of the overalls slumped, revealing the tight white shirt beneath that left very little to the imagination.

Ettore growled.

What the fuck? Humans don’t growl. At least, you had never heard it.

And yet he did.

A flicker of fear started in your chest, and you chose to focus on that rather than the bloom of something else lower within you.

He began to reach a hand, tense and shaking, towards your breast. But inches away, you caught his wrist. You had to lean further against the table not to fall, but you weren’t letting go.

“The other button, please.” Though you spoke quietly, the command was clear.

You only released his arm when he looked into your eyes and confirmed with a twitch of his lip that he heard you. He clenched and unclenched his fist several times before finally going for the other button.

It took him even longer to get this one undone. But at least he didn’t growl again when the other half of the overall’s torso fell limp around your waist. His eyes did linger on your breasts, but you let it happen.

You had great tits. And he deserved a little reward for helping you, didn’t he?

So, you let him have a few seconds to just stare. As long as he didn’t try to touch again. Because you didn’t want that, right?

Ettore’s gaze fell further, to where the overalls were just barely hanging onto your waist. You said you were bleeding, but he still hadn’t seen it. So just where was your injury?

His cock twitched, and he was sure you could see it through the thin scrub pants he was forced to wear as he realized what would happen next. “You need ‘em all the way off, eh?” He hated how weak and shaky his voice sounded, but he supposed it was better than growling. You hadn’t reacted well to that. “Do you need me to…?”

“Yeah,” you affirmed. Of course, you knew you should say something about burying your spade in his chest if he tried anything. But the fact that he was asking, rather than just ripping the garment off, made you feel almost safe in having him do this. Almost.

You would feel even better about it if you couldn’t see his dick straining against his pants and twitching almost as much as he was.

C'est la vie, you supposed. Though that probably applied more to something trivial, like your school’s football team losing a game they should have won, than you being forced to ask a serial rapist and murderer to take off your pants. But close enough.

You shivered when he lowered his hands to your waist, causing him to pull back slightly. “It’s fine,” you assured him. “Keep going. I’m fine.”

Ettore nodded and fixed his eyes on the bottom drawer of the table as he took the thin fabric of the overalls between his fingers and started pulling them down. Really, he could have just nudged them, and they would have fallen to the floor. But he kept them in his grip as he lowered himself into a kneeling position.

He never once looked at you. Not at your ankles, or your legs, or the apex of your thighs – which were covered with more blood than you expected.

Damn it.

You considered what to do next as Ettore remained on the floor, carefully slipping the overalls over your feet. A difficult task when he refused to look at what he was doing.

By the time he finished, and you felt very much like Donald Duck – shirt, shoes, but no pants – you knew what you had to ask.

It was the stupidest thing you’d ever done.

“As long as you’re down there,” you said, your joking tone flatter than you intended, “the medkit’s in the drawer just to your left. Can you grab it and… and help me onto the table?”

Ettore didn’t reply but yanked the drawer open and grabbed the medkit. After tossing it on the table, he rose. Then, still not looking at you, he wrapped his arms around you again – one around your waist, the other around your upper thighs – and lifted you onto the table.

God, you felt so good in his arms. You were the perfect size, like you were made for him to hold. Warm and soft and… wet?

His eyes shot to the arm that had been wrapped around your legs. And both of you looked on in horror as you realized it was now covered in blood – your blood.

For the first time, you saw a look of disgust come over Ettore’s face.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, voice breaking as tears of embarrassment began to fall. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, Ettore simply stalked over to the utility sink a few feet from the worktable and slammed the faucet on. He didn’t wait for the water to heat before shoving his arm under it.

You watched in humiliation, fumbling to lower your panties as he grabbed the soap and began to scrub. “I’m so sorry,” you said again, ripping open the medkit to find a packet of gauze you could press between your legs. “Ettore, I’m so sorry!”

He shook his head as he scrubbed harder and harder, until his skin burned from more than the searingly hot water. You were bleeding, you were hurt, and all he had been thinking about was how much he’d like to fuck you.

It had never stopped him before, not with any of the other girls. He had never minded having their blood on him. He savored it, actually. But it had been him who made them bleed. You…

“Who?” he growled, stilling his scrubbing but keeping the arm under the water. The burning distracted him from the desire to find someone to hurt. Because he needed to hurt someone. Badly. Preferably whoever did this to you, but he wasn’t picky.

You didn’t want to tell him, not when you recognized that look in his eyes. It meant violence – retribution. You had seen that same look in your eyes when you watched the recap of your trial from your cell, and your lawyer was telling the jury, in excruciating detail, why you had killed your victim.

For a moment, you thought about trying to pass it off as you just being on your period. But he wouldn’t buy it. Not after what you’d already told him. Besides, all the women on the ship were synced, and your periods were still two weeks away.

Finally fed up with your silence, Ettore shut off the water and turned back to you, not bothering to dry his arms. He just prowled back to you, standing between your spread legs as he stared deep into your eyes without a glance at your mostly exposed cunt. You turned away, not wanting to face the darkness in his eyes, but he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him.

“Who?”

You bit your lip and fought to get free of his grip, but to no avail. Knowing then that it was hopeless, you locked eyes with him again as you said simply, “Dibs.”

He growled again, not with hunger, but with rage.

And then he turned away.

He would hurt her, you realized. He would kill her.

You weren’t opposed to the idea, but you were opposed to what would come next. What the other prisoners would do to Ettore afterward. And perhaps you as well, since he would do it for you.

Before you knew it, your hand had shot out to grab his shirt, and he froze.

“Don’t,” you pled. When you tugged on his shirt to draw him back to you, he only resisted for a moment before coming back toward you. “It was just her punishment. I’ll be fine. She wouldn’t… damage me permanently. She needs me intact for her experiments. I promise, she was just being a cunt.”

Ettore cocked his head and pursed his lips like he would argue, but you couldn’t have that. So, you lifted the gauze from between your legs to show him how the blood flow had already stemmed somewhat.

“See? It’s already getting better.” But your weak, reassuring smile fell when you realized what you had just done.

He realized at the same time, and he could not stop his eyes from dropping to what you just made visible to him.

His erection had begun to flag while he cleaned your blood from his arm, but there was no stopping it now. Not when he had a full view of what he had been dreaming of for weeks.

Just like the rest of you, your pussy was so pretty. He wanted to kiss it, stroke it, fuck it. His blood hummed with the desire, and he barely stopped himself from diving forward. He closed his fingers around yours where they bunched the front of his shirt. The feeling of your skin against his was his salvation, an anchor to his humanity.

Not you, he told himself.

Not you, who didn’t look at him in fear or disgust. At least, not entirely.

Not you, the only person since his mother died to touch him with anything other than aggression.

Not you, who had trusted him, even knowing what he was.

Murderer. Rapist. Monster.

“Please.” His plea was hardly more than a breath. Pathetic. “Please, let me go.”

For even with your touch, he was losing his grip on the reins. If he stayed here one second longer, he would do something he really didn’t want to do. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

You could see how much danger you were in, but you did not let go. No, you tightened your grip on his shirt, pulling him closer and closer until your forehead rested against his.

Finally, you could look into those eyes and remember the sky back home as you had wanted to for so long.

But the sky wasn’t enough.

You wanted him.

You knew you couldn’t have him fully, couldn’t do what you really wanted. Not when you were injured like this.

Still, you brought your other hand to his chest, feeling him shiver as your fingers traveled lower and lower. Finally, you rest your palm against his length through his scrubs, feeling a sense of satisfaction when his hips cant slightly forward into your grip.

He didn’t have to say anything for you to know he wanted this as much as you do. But, of course, he did. When was the last time a woman touched him there, let alone willingly? The thought should have disgusted you, but it didn’t.

Perhaps you were just as much of a monster as he was,

“Dibs will punish us if she finds out we did this,” you whispered, your lips mere inches away from his. “But I don’t really care, do you?”

Ettore shook his head, his eyes burning like the fires of hell, where you both belonged. He was so close to breaking, losing himself, losing control. He was little more than an animal following the primal instinct to mate.

But letting you take control – and you were undoubtedly in control now – made it easier. For once, it wasn’t him who had to pull back on the reins. Not when he gave them to you.

He nodded vigorously. He wanted you. He didn’t care that he didn’t deserve it. And he didn’t care that you were probably just as monstrous as he was. He just wanted you.

You smiled, pressing a single kiss to the corner of his lips before sliding your hand past the waistbands of his scrubs and boxers and taking hold of him.

He immediately let out a pitiful cry as his stomach tightened, and he had to concentrate so hard not to come before you had even begun to move your hand. It was only made worse when you giggled at his struggle. The sound was sweet and light and utterly infuriating.

Needing to shut you up, Ettore brought his hands back around your waist as he tugged you to the table’s edge. He leaned forward to kiss you, but you pushed against him, holding him back. Then, tensing, he grunted, a low, throaty sound and a begging.

“I know,” you whispered, mock sympathy barely disguising your amusement. “I know what you want. Believe me, I want it to.” You laughed again as you began to pump him slowly, collecting the precum on his tip with every stroke to ease your movements. “You can kiss me another time. Right now, I just want to look at you. Is that okay?”

His hands tensed around your waist, and for a few seconds, he looked like he would let that animal loose and lunge at you. Like he would kiss you with all the pent-up frustrations of an entire life spent unwanted.

But he stopped, looking from where your hand disappeared below his pants to your eyes. And he nodded. Not a small, weak movement, but a firm, final motion.

He would allow it.

He would allow you to do whatever you wanted.

You smiled broadly, and again, he had to hold back his release. He wanted this to last forever.

At last, you released Ettore’s shirt from where you had bunched it with your offhand, raising it to his neck. You traced each line of his maze-like tattoo as you sped your movements, savoring each wince and whine he let out. Cataloging each reaction to figure out, without him having to say a word, exactly what he liked best.

And what you liked best. You were particularly fond of how his eyes would squeeze shut, and his mouth would fall open each time you grazed your thumb over his leaking head, following a short trail up and down his slit.

It was such a mesmerizing sight that you brought your hand up from his neck to touch his face. Every movement of one hand was echoed by the other as you explored each feature.

The severe line of his jaw. His large chin. The sharp cheekbones and flat brow. His long, elegant nose. The pink plush of his lips, from which he let out such tantalizing moans and whimpers.

Once you had taken in every inch of his face, you cupped his jaw in your left hand to feel it work as you sped the ministrations of your right hand. His eyes squeezed even further shut, and he grunted like an animal. But you didn’t stop. You only went faster and faster.

“Are you nearly finished?” you asked teasingly.

Ettore cracked open his eyes, looking from your taunting smile to your hand, working him so skillfully, then back to you. He moaned almost inaudibly, and that animalistic hunger returned to his eyes. He had been locked in a cage for too long, and now you had set him free.

“Yes,” he moaned, almost too quiet to hear.

You brought your thumb to rest against his lower lip, smiling at the feeling of his increasingly frantic breath against her.

For so long, you had feared this man. And now he was reduced to putty in your hands.

With a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you pressed your thumb further into his lip and let your other hand slow, ignoring his protestations. “Before I let you finish,” you said, your voice tauntingly innocent, “I need you to answer a question for me. Can you do that?”

Ettore’s body jerked wildly as he desperately tried to regain some of the friction you had just deprived him of, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

He knew he would do anything you asked him to then.

If you asked him to jump? He’d ask how high.

If you demanded he get down on his knees and beg? He’d do so happily.

If you told him to throw himself out of the airlock? He wouldn’t hesitate.

Compared to what he would do, what you actually asked of him seemed so simple.

“Fine…” he gasps, tightening his grip on your waist as though you would pull away. “What is it?”

You smirked, savoring that dark look in his eyes. How could you ever have been scared of it?

Then you squeezed his pulsing cock, just past the point of pleasure, to emphasize the power you held over him.

And, of course, he loved it. Groaning as his head toppled over into your shoulder. You carded your hand through his short hair as you whispered in his ear, “What feels better, my hand or the Box?”

Any pain, any embarrassment at being so pathetically at your beck and call, or any emotion other than his desire for you faded at the question. All that mattered was you and your perfect touch.

It felt wonderful even when you tugged on his hair quite hard to make him face you again. The answer was written on his face, in every piece of the complete, utter joy he felt in every inch of him, but especially where your skin met his.

“You,” he said, the word like a prayer. “You.”

Your responding smile was wicked, and you almost went back on your promise not to kiss him. But you resisted and began pumping his cock at a breakneck pace, brushing each sweet spot with every stroke and letting your pinky graze against his balls each time you came to his base.

It takes every ounce of what little restraint Ettore had to not scream at the overwhelming bliss. It was so much, too much. It was everything.

But what finally pushed him over the edge was you leaning in again to whisper against his cheek, “Just wait until you feel my cunt, Ettore.”

There was a sharp gasp, a guttural cry, a whimper, and a grunt, and then he was spent. Thank God his boxers were thick, or there would have been a very obvious stain at the front of his scrubs.

Ettore whimpered again as he looked into your eyes again, unsure what this meant or what would happen next. He was so drunk on his release that words failed him, or else he no doubt would have said something stupid and ruined his chances of actually getting to experience what you had promised just before he came.

You removed your right hand from his pants, wrapping it around his neck like the left, soothingly stroking the peach fuzz at the base of his skull as he came down from his high.

There was a new look in those blue eyes. Not hungry, not animalistic. Not angry or predatory. No, it was almost reverent.

Who would have ever thought that Ettore, the murderer, rapist, and monster, was capable of a look like that?

You parted your lips and leaned ever so slightly into him. “Thank you,” you whispered against his lips. “For letting me just watch. I think… after giving me that, you deserve a treat, don’t you?”

Ettore didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He could only stare at you as pleading vulnerability crept over his face. The look of a puppy begging for a treat.

Then, he nodded, his only pleading answer.

You ran a hand through his hair again, making him wait just a moment more. “Kiss me, Ettore.” His eyes went wide at the command. “Kiss me the way you really want to.”

His throat bobbed, and he nodded again, still holding your gaze. Then, before you could even take a breath, he pounced.

Ettore’s lips were hot on yours as he kissed you deeper and more passionately than you’d ever been kissed before. It took only a moment before it felt like your souls were melding together for how close he held you. He did not relent until you were both struggling for breath.

Even then, he kept his lips pressed against yours as though he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

“Thank you,” he said softly, the sound sending tingles up your spine.

You just sat there, smiling against him for a moment, wishing you could have taken him inside you. Perhaps you were fine now, and if he could get hard again, you could…

But then your watches both beeped the hour. He’d been there an hour. Someone was bound to notice he wasn’t scrubbing the halls soon.

So, you reluctantly pushed him away, heart clenching as he weakly fought to hang on to you. “I want to come back,” he whined.

You didn’t reply as you dressed again, your pain mostly gone, and pulled a clean rag out of another worktable drawer for him to clean himself. As you went to shut the drawer, an idea sparked in your mind. You grabbed another rag and ran to the sink, bunching the cloth as you moved.

Ettore looked on in confusion as you shoved the rag down and down into the drain until you couldn’t reach it anymore. But then realization set in, and he grinned wickedly.

You turned to him and returned the smile. “I think I may need to call maintenance tomorrow.”

#monsters in the garden #ettore #ettore x reader #ettore x you #ettore imagine #ettore smut #ettore fanfic #ettore fanfiction #ettore fic #high life #high life fanfic #high life ettore #ewan mitchell #Spotify

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coyotefang1987 · 1 year

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Flower Symbolism in Trigun

Okay so I've been going insane in the last few hours since the new episode of Stampede and I needed to share my very incoherent thoughts.

So here we go: (please excuse my grammar, I'm typing this up in an absolute craze)

Please note, there are major spoilers here

[Plant in context to Trigun will be capitalized btw]

I want to start off by pointing out the whole idea with calling the creatures that Vash and Knives are as 'Plants' and 'seeds' in the first place--that in itself is so much. Not to mention Noman's Land is a desert plant with little to no flora at all.

The idea and symbolism of life and rebirth presented with the idea of plants. Like how flora are usually the first type of lifeform to come back post mass extinction events. How plants are primary producers in the food chain, how life couldn't be sustained without plants giving up oxygen, food, and converting the sunlight into energy/sugar. Despite being giant moth flower humanoid creatures, the Plants in Trigun are doing essentially the same thing. Except they aren't renewable and they might also be sentient.

In addition to that, in media, seeds are usually a representation of hope. And in this case, a seed pod carrying the hope of humanity. I've been likening it to dandelion seeds. I don't think our group of guys were the only space-fairing fleet that was sent out from Earth.

I don't know how much of this symbolism is intentional and how much of it is completely accidental, but boy howdy is it there and am I going to eat it up.

Geraniums!

First off, the most obvious one is geraniums. The flower is very much thrown into our faces. What does it mean?

Okay so there's like 400 types of geraniums out there, they're not like a specific species- and when people say 'geraniums' it usually also includes pelargoniums which are a different genus. But you're not here for me to monologue about flower classification-

Well, operating under the assumption they're using the most common type of red geranium, which, funnily enough is not a geranium but rather a pelargonium. Pelargonium x hortorum. Commonly known as zonal geraniums or garden geraniums. I don’t know if I even need to expand on the idea that Vash and his story (and the Plants in general) are represented by geraniums. If the red coat wasn’t already a giveaway, I think the newest episode definitely makes it very clear. Well, first off I think it's interesting that they’re not ‘true geraniums’ (different genus, same family). Like how Vash and Knives look human but aren’t ‘true humans’.

(Did you know geraniums can reproduce asexually via their roots by just…sprouting a new plant? It’s called clonality. Anyways yeah, I’m too lazy to expand on it but there it is. You can probably see the connection I'm trying to draw here)

Furthermore, let’s look a little bit into what geraniums represent. So according to the vast knowledge of the interwebs (I will put the links I used at the bottom.) geraniums are “attributed the powers of love, peace, healing, elegance and spirituality. They mostly have desirable symbolizing meanings, including fertility, health, joy, protection, frustrations passing away, and true friendship.” Red geraniums in particular are attributed to protection and ward against evil., spiritual beings and saints. “The geranium flower was a symbol of prosperity in Egypt, longevity in Japan, and immortality in China”. *Stares at Vash and Knives*. Gods…immortality…saints. Alright Nightow, I see you.

Look, I’m not done here. DURING THE VICTORIAN ERA geranium took on a slightly more negative meaning. Envy, deceit, folly, foolishness and stupidity. Although they were also seen “as ‘horticultural bourgeoisie’ and a sign of ‘crudeness and thoughtlessness of taste’. Geranium became a symbol of industrial mass culture.” This was probably unintentional (and if it is intentional, holy fuck.) but the idea that Earth in Trigun was destroyed by the folly of humans because if mass industrialization? Hello???? OKAY.

There’s just so much history with geraniums. I’m STILL not done. Let’s talk a little about geraniums and Christianity, yeah? You know, the thing that Trigun is chock full of symbolism of.

So first off, tradition. (I am not Christian, nor do I know much about Christianity, I just did some research on the topic so feel free to correct me.) I do believe there is a tradition to buy and gift red geranium on Good Friday? (I can’t find a very credible source about this, just some blog posts so idk) And the red is to represent the blood that Jesus sacrificed for the people. How he was beaten and bloodied because of his love for the people. How…he was given a purple cloak that turned dark with blood while he was mocked.

Sound familiar?

Do we want to talk about Vash’s red coat turning black in the latest episode? Or maybe how traditionally dying Plants are red and healthy ones are blue? But Vash keeps himself covered in red?

Now, here’s an interesting fact. Did you know, wild geraniums look very different from the ones people like to commonly grow in their gardens? This is the spotted cranesbill (Geranium maculatum), the most common wild geranium. Look, maybe I’m stretching it here, but cultivated Plants vs independent Plants, anybody?

Anywho, not the point I was trying to make. Did you know another common wild geranium is called the Saint Robert’s Geranium? Robert’s? While no one really knows who the ‘Saint Robert’ the flower is named after, it has a very fun symbolism. Check this. The seed pod of this flower supposedly looks like the beak of a stork, which had people believe that they could help a couple who wish for children with fertility when used as an amulet and placed under the bed. cough Ep 11 pregnancy scene cough. Apparently, medicinally they’re also used to staunch blood flow from wounds. Despite that, in certain regions, it was seen as an ill-omen plant associated with death because snakes would often hide in its leaves. Snakes? Like…in Adam and Eve? Like as in temptation? As in Knives and Vash?

Okay last bit on geraniums. Just a little on the colors. In episode 11 of Stampede we see the giant plant root monster thing blooming flowers. I have assumed that they are black geraniums, aka Geranium Phaeum

aka mourning widows. Of course, I could be wildly wrong but the meaning of this is fun so hear me out. While there doesn’t seem to be a direct meaning for black geraniums, we can clearly draw some conclusions on the common name for this flower. Like seriously, mourning widow? They’re also known as dusky cranesbill and black widow. Obviously associated with death (and grief?) and apparently maybe marriage??? Doesn’t help that geraniums can be considered a traditional bridal flower too. I think they’re also associated with melancholy. Anyways, on the other hand, blue blooms usually symbolize calm and peace while purple blooms symbolize royalty, accomplishments and admiration.

So in context to the blooms we see at the end of ep 11, grieving for the loss of someone (Rem, his memories), rising to his Plant roots (haha get it?) and being ‘at peace’.

HEY LET'S TALK ABOUT DOGWOOD

So I remember reading somewhere that he’s named after a singer or band or something but– His name is so close to dogwood that I could not pass it up.

Dogwood is a blooming tree that seems to have a representation in Christianity. There’s a legend about the tree and Easter. So apparently, the cross that Jesus was crucified on was made from Dogwood, because of such it was cursed and blessed. Cursed to be small so it can’t be used to make another cross but blessed to bloom beautiful flowers at Easter time.

The flowers of the Dogwood trees always bloom with four petals, like a cross, the center like a crown of thorns. Each tip of the petal is indented like it's been pierced with a nail and discolored like it was stained with blood. So goes the story.

I think it's interesting that Wolfwood’s name is so likened to this flower/plant and I don’t believe this is unintentional. LIke it’s right there. Cursed by the Eye of Michael to grow too fast, blessed to be strong and hard to kill. Is/bears the cross that brings Vash to Knives in the end.

Lilies (and other Flowers)

So, I personally think the plants look a lot like lilies. And lilies are commonly attributed to the virgin Mary. They typically represent purity, innocence and rebirth. They are often gifted at mourning flowers as well and are one of the most popular flowers at funerals.

Either that or the blue-eyed Mary flower, which has less meaning attributed to it other than its name.

Anyways, that's all my thoughts for today. Thank you for reading all the way down here if you make it hehe

If people find more flower symbolism or have thoughts please let me know, I want to hear them!!!<3

Geranium history and meaning: https://www.pansymaiden.com/flowers/meaning/geranium/

Geranium and Christianity: http://www.whispersofhismovement.com/2012/04/05/geraniums/

Mourning Widows: https://gardenersapprentice.com/gardeningtips/mourning-widow/

Dogwood story: https://www.plantmegreen.com/blogs/news/easter-and-the-legend-of-the-dogwood-tree#:~:text=According%20to%20the%20story%2C%20it,cursed%20and%20blessed%20the%20tree.

Lily meaning: https://www.townandcountrymag.com/style/home-decor/a39982524/lily-flower-meaning/

#trigun #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #flower symbolism #trigun meta #trigun flowers #nicholas d. wolfwood #million knives #trigun spoilers #trigun maximum #coyote has thoughts and worms

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humanbug · 1 year

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I wanna see some more fics with Abby and lev, so could you write teacher!reader x Abby, where reader is a mentor/therapist/friend to all of the kids of the fireflies/kid's they've rescued and Abby and reader meet through Lev (cause Lev and reader are besties) thanks ☺️

Love ya! 💖

Truly Endearing

CAROLINEEEE this was literally SUCH a good request ٩(*•͈ ꇴ •͈*)و ̑̑ you are amazing ily (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡i hope you enjoy!!! also yall lmk if you want this to have a part two!!

warning(s): talks about religion, mention of past abuse (seraphites hurting Lev)

You press your palms against the mug you're holding and burrow your toes into the blanket wrapped around you as you listen diligently to Lev as he speaks. Letting out a quiet hum or nodding your head every few seconds. Your eyes focus on the scars on his cheeks and he talks. They had faded since he first got to the stadium, which was very troubling to him.

This poor kid has been through the wringer and he’s only thirteen. The biggest cause of his anxiety is the ‘Prophet’ and his severe confusion regarding religion. It was a fair cause of anxiety and was one that even you struggled with sometimes and was the reason he confided in you so often. He was a sweet kid and you didn’t mind him seeking comfort in your character.

Lev had been found collapsed about a mile from the stadium about a year and a half ago, his frail body battered and bruised. He had been dumped by the scars for shaving his head. An eleven-year-old boy…beaten and dumped, for shaving his head. He was rushed to the stadium and Isaac had permitted his stay. It had taken some slight convincing but the patrol that had found him was able to get Isaac on board with it, apparently it was someone who was high-ranking in his eyes.

You had met Lev when he was finally healthy enough to begin attending classes. You taught a horticulture class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and you would almost never take assignments that led to you leaving the stadium. You knew it was a useless moral to uphold given the world you lived in but you heavily frowned upon war and violence, an opinion often kept to yourself. You often wondered if the kids could sense that in you and in turn, sought comfort in you. Lev, however, had stuck around the longest. He had told you about his guardian but you had yet to meet her, she was often on assignment, sometimes for days on end. And so, any time not spent with her, he spent with you, either in your classroom, the canteen, the garden, but usually the library. The latter is where you currently found yourself.

Taking a sip of the tea in your mug, you mull over how to reply to Lev’s ranting, “You know Lev, religion is a complicated thing, for a lot of people. My mother would often tell me that even before the outbreak, religion was a source of anxiety for a lot of people. Everyone wanted – no, they needed answers.”

“It was?”, he folds his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees, “How did…people learn how to deal with it?”, his voice is small when he speaks, you can tell he’s getting tired. How long had you two even been down here? It must be getting late…

Biting the inside of your cheek and pursing your lips you hum, “Well, they would do exactly what we’re doing. Talk about it, about their fears. They asked questions just like you’re doing. There wasn’t always an answer but that’s okay.”, you give a warm smile.

Lev sighs and his face twists as he thinks. You let out a small laugh in the form of a puff of air from your nose. His expressive eyes raise to meet yours and his brows furrow in confusion.

“What? Did I say something funny?”, he asks.

You chuckle as you speak, “No, Lev. You didn’t say anything funny. You are just very expressive when you think and I find it endearing.”

Tilting his chin in confusion, “Endearing?”

“It means to look at someone with admiration or to find something – or someone – very likable. I find it very sweet how expressive your face is. It’s a very authentic trait that not a lot of people possess anymore.”, you take a sip of your tea and observe his reaction over the lip of your mug.

You bite back a smile as you can see the gears turning and he processes your words as the compliment they were intended to be. He opens his mouth to give you a response when his attention is snagged by someone calling his voice from behind you.

“Lev! Jesus there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What’re you doing down here so late?”, a smooth voice speaks from behind you, worry and relief intertwining as they speak.

Not wanting Lev to be in any trouble, you tilt your body around and look up at the person the voice is attached to and speak before you can truly look at them, “Oh! It’s my fault! Please don’t be mad at Lev. I am usually better at paying attention to the time.”, you look up and see a pair of blue eyes. Oh…oh my god. Is this Lev’s guardian!? Ohh boy.

“Abby, this is the horticulture teacher I have told you about.”, Lev introduces you to Abby and reminds her of your name.

You offer her a hand to shake, the angle only slightly awkward since you’re still sitting on the loveseat, “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you!”, your hand lingers and for a split second you fear she won’t shake it. However a beat later her hand clasps yours, her hands are rough and calloused from years of combat. They are also a very warm contrast to your freezing hands and it causes a small shiver to flow through you.

“It’s nice to meet you too. I uh– I’m sorry for interrupting. I just– I stopped by Lev’s room and got nervous when he wasn’t there.”, a slight blush rises under her freckles and she shifts on her feet. God, she’s cute.

“Oh, it’s okay! We’ve been chatting for a few hours and should probably head up anyway.”, you shift your attention to Lev, “You ready?”

Lev’s eyes are heavy with sleep as he nods his head. You chuckle and rise up with your now empty mug in hand and wrap your blanket around your shoulders. As the three of you walk out of the library you shoulder off your blanket and wrap it around Lev’s frame, the blanket practically swallowing him whole. Sensing Abby’s eyes, you look over Lev’s head at her and offer a warm smile. She offers an awkward smile in return.

–

You wave ‘bye’ to Lev as he walks into his room and Abby shuts the door, bidding him a good night.

“I’m uh– the floor above so…”, you shift on your feet, suddenly feeling like a shy teenager, “It was nice to meet you Abby. Have a good night.”, you smile and take a step back.

“I’ll walk you to your room!”, she rushes out and then clears her throat, “It’s late…you shouldn’t walk back alone.”, she runs a hand on the back of her neck and you can’t help but glance at the way her arm flexes.

Biting back a smile you speak in a quiet voice, “Okay. Thank you.”

Turning on your heels you begin walking and she falls in stride with you.

“Lev’s a good kid. He didn’t deserve what he had to go through.”, you say in an attempt at small talk.

“Yeah…he– I wish I could do better by him. He deserves–”

“Hey now. You’re doing your best.”, you cut her off in a stern voice. Head turned to look at her with a serious expression, “I mean it, Abby. He– that kid loves you so much. You are doing just fine with the resources you’ve been given. Don’t discredit yourself.”

Her cheeks flush at the unexpected praise and she runs a hand along the back of her neck, “Yeah…I guess I never thought of it like that. I– thank you…that means a lot.”

Giving her a smile as she holds the door to the stairwell open for you. Your shoulder brushes against her on “accident”. You feel your face flush at the firmness of her body. Jesus christ what are you doing…you don’t even know this woman, take it easy.

As you climb the stairwell and walk down the long hall you make pleasant small talk with each other. You arrive at your door and your hands fiddle through your jeans in search of your keys. Doing your absolute best to hide the slight shake of your clammy hands you slide the key into the door.

Your eyes drift over to Abby as she leans against the wall, watching you. A small wave of confidence washes over you and you let a hand gently run over Abby’s forearm as you speak, “It was really nice meeting you Abby. I hope I’ll be seeing you more?”, you tilt your head slightly.

Your ego blooms at the vibrant shade of pink that blooms under her dusty freckles. She clears her throat before she speaks, “Y–yeah. It was really nice meeting you too. I’d– I’d like that.”

“Good night Abby”, you say quietly and step into your room. Body resting against the door once it’s closed. You grin at nothing in particular like a silly teenager. “Jesus Christ, do I have a crush!?”, you mumble to yourself as you slip your shoes off. You haven’t had a crush in…well…years? This’ll be interesting.

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pallastrology · 1 year

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capricorn: venus vs. mars

venus

venus in capricorn is calmer. although they can seem a little less steady at times, they have less nervous energy and less fire in their belly than their martian cousin. there is a soothing aura around capricorn venus, like you know everything is going to be okay when they're here

they are less self-assured. that being said, they don't have the same confidence in themselves as they should. they are highly capable people, but have often suffered in the past, and don't always see themselves as good enough. they can sometimes define themselves and their skills by the people around them

they are more comfortable being kind and caring. capricorn isn't always the softest sign, but in venus, we get to see their sweet side. the native is a good listener, sensitive, kind and has a romantic streak you perhaps wouldn't expect from them

mars

mars in capricorn has sharper senses. this is both an external and internal process, with the native having a nose like a bloodhound and eyes like a hawk, and also having strong, logic-based deductive skills and street smarts. they don't miss a trick, and this makes them both awe-inspiring and intimidating

they are more comfortable in professional settings than personal ones. i think this can relate a little to the first point; their razor-sharp senses make it really hard for mars in capricorn to relax, or be vulnerable, and so it's easier for them to stay on guard, in "work mode". there is strength in being vulnerable, but it's a very difficult skill to master

they are more self-assured. perhaps because mars is exalted in capricorn, this placement can really shine, and bring out the best of both forces. and this leads to an individual that knows themselves, knows what they want, knows their purpose. and they are unafraid of their own power

both

they are both highly considerate. capricorn has a reputation for being business-like, cold, reserved, and these things aren't exactly false; but they miss another thread that makes up the tapestry when they don't include capricorn's sensitive, deeply attentive disposition. they aren't uncaring, but they have often been uncared for, and it can be hard to show something you haven't been shown

they have a complicated relationship with praise and attention. they are an ambitious sign, yet a demure one. they value criticism but take it to heart and let it haunt them like a restless spirit. they struggle to accept compliments, but bait their breath to hear them. i think capricorn can find it hard to feel they have earned praise, and so it is rarely a fair trade to them

they are more creative than they first appear. again, this is a side of capricorn that is somewhat overlooked, but they are creative; they are natural project managers, diligent workers and understand the importance of skill over talent. there is really nothing they can't do, should they put their mind to it, and this absolutely includes art, music, horticulture, or any other topic one wouldn't expect from such a "logical" sign

they are both capable of being ruthless when needed. capricorn often correlates with harsh conditions in life, and so the native can become somewhat weathered by their experiences. i've mentioned before that they have often experienced being uncared for, and they have had to grow up hard and fast to manage unmanageable situations. there is a dichotomy to capricorn, in that they are sensitive and discerning, but also hard and cold when they feel they need to be. it's hard to understand from without, and hard to carry within

#pallastrology #astrology #vvm #capricorn #venus in capricorn #mars in capricorn

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daydream-cement · 1 year

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Stately Sequoia Ch. 11

Of course, I can’t stop giving you smut! But I had to add a little more depth here between our characters :)

I hope you guys enjoy. As always, please leave comments and send me ideas of things I can add to this story. I want to add some conflict, but I haven’t come up with any ideas I’m in love with.

Also shout out to @regalbootie who is sick. I hope this chapter can help you feel better <3

Larissa waited in the greenhouse for Fern. Her hands behind her back as she shifted around the room, looking at the plants growing there. Principal Weems stopped in front of the sequoia that she and you had planted together. Had she not known it was a sequoia, she would have labeled it a Christmas tree and left it at that. She reached out a hand taking in the texture of the evergreen leaves.

“She’s growing wonderfully.” You smile from the doorway as you watched Larissa interact with the plant. There was plastic bin of gardening tools settled on your hip.

“She?” Larissa didn’t turn to speak to you, rather kept her eyes focused on the scales of the leaves.

“Well its more genderless as it has male and female reproductive organs on the same plant… Monoecious…” You realized you were offering more of a horticultural lesson than Larissa probably wanted. Heaving the tools into the greenhouse sink, you turned on the water, allowing the sink to fill for a moment.

“Are many plants like that?” Larissa didn’t seem bothered by the lesson.

Once the tools were fully submerged, you left them to soak, wiping a hand on your jeans, “Most… Perhaps 90-95%, but that’s just an estimate.”

Stepping away from the tree, Larissa settled onto a stool, watching you clean up the greenhouse after a long day of classes. Pulling up your sleeves, you picked up the broom and began sweeping the walkways of debris and dirt from students working this afternoon.

“How was your day?” Larissa placed an elbow on the workbench and rested her chin in her hand.

“Good. Busy. And you?” Typically, Larissa wasn’t the one for small talk so you were a little suspicious of the pleasantries.

“Meetings and calls.” She seemed preoccupied. You were a little too tired and a little too busy to provide her with the care that she may have desired. Simply, you would wait for her to mention what was consuming her thoughts.

“Hmmm…” You nodded, keeping to your work. Once swept up into the dustpan, the dirt and plant matter was then dumped into the compost bucket. The dustpan and broom were hung back in their place.

Next you set out to wash and sanitize the tools in the sink. The silence in the room wasn’t piercing, more so soothing.

Larissa cleared her throat, and finally spoke up as you placed the last trowel onto a nearby towel for drying, “You know… I was thinking…”

“That’s dangerous…” You joke picking up a fresh towel to individually dry each tool and deposit them back to their place on the shelf nearby.

“I was thinking perhaps we- I mean, I was wondering if you would-“ Larissa never stumbled over her own words, you stop what you were doing to stare at the older woman. You couldn’t hide your concern for your lover.

“Larissa…”

She paused. Finding the sentence before she began again, “Fern. I really like you. I wanted to see if you…” She took a deep breath, “I wanted to ask if you would want to make our relationship exclusive. Would you want to-“

You watched her flounder for the correct words. A sympathetic smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. Slowly you approach her, taking her hands in yours, “Yes, Larissa. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

———

The new title really changed nothing about your relationship with Larissa, only now, you spent the night more frequently with her. Weems had even suggested you leave toiletries and casual clothes in her quarters. There was a level of domestic bliss that you loved about your relationship with Larissa.

You would cook dinner together, go on walks, sit quietly as you both read, do laundry, and cleaned. Each day you were learning something new about each other as well. You had only heard of Larissa’s shapeshifting ability, but hadn’t experienced it until recently.

One day in particular, you brought Larissa dinner to her office, no intent to distract her from her work. When you knocked and entered without waiting for a response, you saw a man in the office rather than Larissa.

“My apologies. I was just looking for Principal Weems.” You furrowed your brow, wondering why this light haired man would be in her office without her in sight. Rather than question him, assuming he was meeting with Larissa, you moved to exit.

“Fern!” To your surprise, you watch the man morph into your girlfriend. You had never watched a shapeshifter at work before. You remained by the door, hand gripping the handle. Truly you were still trying to comprehend what you just witnessed. Your mouth gaped open ever so slightly.

“Fern? Honey?” Larissa began to approach you and instinctively you took a step back, almost not trusting who was in front of you. You looked her up and down, hoping you could find something there that told you with 100% certainty that this was Larissa.

A pained expression graced Larissa’s beautiful face at your backing away from her. You felt a pang of guilt that now you had the reassurance this was Larissa.

“Larissa?” You gingerly took a step forward reaching a hand out for her.

“Did you not think it was me? I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She tilted her head, almost in disbelief at your reaction to her powers

“I’ve never seen someone shape shift. I guess I was shocked more than anything. Your abilities are incredible.” When she didn’t take your hand, you took an extra step and took hers anyway. You gazed up at her in amazement, pondering the extent of her powers.

“Is there anyone you want me to turn into?” Larissa looked disappointed as she gazed down at you. Overall, she seemed defeated almost like she had been waiting for this.

“No… Do you have someone you want to turn into?” You didn’t understand Larissa’s question, why would you have her shapeshifting into somebody different.

That’s when Larissa broke down. You allowed her to talk as long as she needed. Through tears, she told you about transforming for former lovers and flings, especially after they learned of her abilities. The most painful of them was Morticia who asked her frequently to transform into her then boyfriend and now husband. You were the first serious relationship she had had that hadn’t taken the opportunity to ask her to transform. So much of her traumatic past relationships had left her wishing she was someone else at times.

———

Later that night, you were determined to show Larissa you only had eyes for her and her beautiful body.

Once you had finished dinner together, you had taken the initiative to clean up, ushering Larissa into the living room to sit and read. With much protest she finally agreed.

Once finished in the kitchen, you approached Larissa from behind, bending down to whisper in her ear, “Time to go to the bedroom, sweetheart. I have big plans for you.”

Larissa was the dominant one sexually, there was no denying that, but she knew when to admit that she loved having you take control every now and then. Snapping her book shut, Larissa followed your directions wordlessly.

Once in the bedroom, you ordered her to strip down to her undergarments as you retrieved the restraints that Larissa had used on you multiple times since your sex-capade at the conference. She sat on the edge of the bed once she was done, waiting for your next order.

With a smile, you approached the tall woman, her eyes now level with yours as she sat on the bed. Your hand reaches up to her face, taking her chin between your fingers. You allow your lips to brush over hers momentarily, “On the bed. Spread those legs so I can tie you up tight.”

Larissa pushed herself back on the bed, following suit of the position she typically had you in. First, you crawl over the top of her, tying her hands to the center post. Tying her legs was a new challenge you were up for, you followed the knotting style Larissa had walked you through. You took your time, pressing kisses to her legs as you worked.

When you were done, her thighs were spread open nicely for you, displaying her beautiful lace covered pussy. The soft rope wrapped around her upper thigh and ankles, preventing her from moving.

You shifted off the bed to remove your clothing and pull the strap-on from the top drawer. You spoke to Larissa as you adjusted the strap to your body, “Do you know how incredible you are, honey? Every square inch of you is like a goddess from a storybook come to life.”

Larissa’s eyes pricked with tears. The discussion from earlier today left her emotionally raw and vulnerable. Her typical unwavering confidence was absent today.

You crawled onto the bed, laying next to Larissa, knowing it was hard for her to look you in the eyes in her current position, “I’m going to show you, okay?”

Larissa could only nod. Her tears were more happy. This tenderness was completely new.

You trace your fingers lightly across her arm nearest to you, “I am so impossibly in love with you. I am going to make you feel it.”

You shift your position to slowly begin working your way down her body, you kissed her neck, stopping near her collarbone to drag your teeth across her flesh, knowing it caused her to shiver. Continuing downwards you paid attention to her breasts, not feeling the need to leave hickies as she already had a few from the past couple of days. Rather you bite at her nipples, eliciting a long moan to come from Larissa.

After you felt satisfied with your ministrations, you finally moved on to your most anticipated part of the process. Dining on Larissa Weems truly was a treat.

You run your hands along her legs and up her stomach. You allow them to wander up her sides and around her thighs.

Finally, Larissa spoke up, “Please, Fern…”

You don’t ask her to beg. No. Dominance wasn’t the point of tonight, “Tell me you’re beautiful. Tell me you are worthy of all this love and adoration. Tell me how much you love yourself.”

You sit back on your feet, waiting for her response. You even gave a motivator of light touches against the fabric of her panties.

“I- I am beautiful.” Larissa groaned. She felt ridiculous.

“Say it like you mean it.” You urged once again, shifting your hands to gently stroke her inner thigh.

“I am beautiful and I deserve your love and adoration…”

“And?” You weren’t letting her get away with not following directions. You wouldn’t budge an inch without hearing the rest.

“I love myself.” Larissa felt so embarrassed to say it out loud, part of her was beginning to question why she let you do this to her.

“Say it again.” You urge once more as you settle on your stomach between her legs, finally offering more pressure to your touch against Larissa’s covered sex.

“Fern…” Larissa whined, not wanting to be forced to repeat such embarrassing phrases.

You pull her panties to the side, offering her a lick of encouragement, before pulling away, “Say it.”

“I am beautiful, I deserve the love you give me, and I love myself.”

You rewarded her by beginning to finger her slowly, “Keep saying it baby and I’ll give you what you want.”

Larissa continued to repeat the self affirmations to earn your touch and caress. You kept going until her words were replaced with moans she couldn’t control. You sucked and licked at her clit, one finger became two, and Larissa came again and again.

“Fuck me, Fern..” Larissa begged.

You were just as wanting as she, so it wouldn’t take much convincing to change up your way of bringing her pleasure. Moving from your stomach, back to your knees, you pushed the head of the fake cock into her entrance, but stopped to ask a question, “You are so beautiful… Don’t you agree?”

You were hoping to catch her off guard, but her response was automatic, “Yes… Yes I am.”

You smiled, receiving the answer you wanted, giving Larissa what she wanted in return. Slowly you slipped the cock deep inside her, pulling out slowly only once, eliciting a guttural groan from the beauty beneath you. You gripped the rope holding her legs open and began thrusting hard and fast.

For Larissa, this fucking felt like it continued for many glorious hours. Larissa was becoming so sensitive one orgasm rolled into the next. You could feel the wetness pooling beneath her as you continued. Larissa’s eyes were squeezed shut, crying out your name.

Finally, you felt her writhe beneath you and heard the words, “Stop. Please…”

Immediately you followed her request, pulling out and unknotting her restraints, allowing her to stretch out. You began following in the aftercare process she had always provided you, cleaning her up and preparing her for bed.

Once you helped Larissa under the sheets, she stared up at you as you stood at her bedside. You stroked her cheek and pressed a kiss to her forehead, “Can you understand why I find you so incredible? Even just a little bit?”

She nodded with a smile. After you cleaned yourself up, and snuggled into bed next to Larissa, her eyes half lidded, still awake, probably waiting for you to sleep as well.

“Earlier you said, you were impossibly in love with me… Did you mean that?” Larissa’s voice was clear and there was no hesitation to her question.

You had to think back on it for a moment. Had you really admitted that to her and didn’t even notice? But you couldn’t lie to Larissa, you knew it was true.

“Yes. I love you.” In this moment, you knew it was best to be completely honest, but it was terrifying as you had no clue if she felt the same quite yet.

“I love you and I think you are showing me that I can love myself as well.” Larissa whispered, she seemed scared to admit this to you.

You had no words for her now. All you could do was pull her to you, wrapping the taller woman in your embrace. Offering her a safe place to sleep for the night within your loving arms.

Link to Chapter 12

#larissa weems smut #larissa weems x oc #larissa weems #wednesday netflix #gwendoline christie #fanfic #stately sequoia #healing smut

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transmutationisms · 7 months

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hello caden, do you know anything about horticulture therapy? i'm taking a class on it and there's a big emphasis on how medieval european medicine taught that working in a garden is good for your health (apparently in medieval Spain hospital patients would do it to pay off their debts and they found they had better health outcomes). there's also stuff about dr benjamin rush. i don't know much about him but i am lightly skeptical of everything i've read so far. i'm curious to hear your take

as in, do i think it works, or do i know of it being a therapeutic practice? on the former, basically no, not the way proponents claim. on the latter, yeah horticultural therapy/gardening was commonly prescribed when there were broader turns toward occupational/work therapies, the ideas generally being that patients needed 1) moral discipline of the variety encouraged by physical labour 2) something to focus their minds on 3) exercises that could strengthen the weakened or injured body 4) exposure to fresh air and nature 5) a way of 'contributing to society'. which of these justification/s were used varied by location and time period: eg, in the us and france, there was a pretty dramatic shift in the latter half of the 18th century toward hospital reform that focussed on improving sanitary conditions, and this led to (among other things) a bigger push for outdoor activities, courtyard access, gardens, airflow, &c; also in these countries in this period, certain trendy empiricist ideas were often invoked to justify claims about the moral benefits of physical work, which obviously was very helpful to people who wanted, eg, standing militaries and large workforces in these countries that were dealing with political instability.

benjamin rush was definitely big on horticultural therapy in philadelphia, specifically in the context of psychiatric therapeutics; he was an advocate of occupational/work therapy in general. in the french context in particular, gardens have also had some other specific valences, owing to lockean and rousseauvian ideas about the moral value of seeing / contemplating nature, as well as a fashion for orderly gardens as demonstrations of imperial management of nature & territory from about the 17th century onward. (british gardens have historically had a similar ideological function, though britain is not my wheelhouse.) gardening also had specific political resonances and uses because university and hospital gardens historically functioned as sources of pharmacists' botanicals, and because acclimatising exotic species has long been a state-funded economic enterprise intended both to introduce profitable plants into the metropole and to examine the conditions under which organisms could be adapted to different climates. this was a question of great interest to, eg, governments that were trying to hold and profit from settler colonies. so, there were a lot of different reasons gardening in particular was historically such a big part of occupational therapy prescriptions.

none of this inherently means that working in a garden has zero therapeutic benefit. and i'm obviously coming at this from a historical angle and not a medical one per se. but, when i run across a therapeutic recommendation that has this type of history of being deeply entwined with moral claims, political uses, and capitalist and colonialist exploitation, i'm generally very hesitant about assuming it 'works' without compelling reason to think that the justification / evidence for recommending it has radically changed in some way. i specifically have some reasons to be really suspicious of the claim that horticultural therapy 'worked' in that medieval spanish case you mention (i will throw some methodological notes under a cut in case you care, along with a couple historical texts that are just interesting).

occupational therapies in general are still heavily moralised, and are blatantly aimed at getting people 'back to work' in service to employers and governments that depend on their labour-power. obviously, participating in activities you enjoy is generally good for your overall well-being, and for some people one such activity very well could be gardening. but the idea that gardening has some specific health-promoting essence reeks of assumptions about the morality of physical labour, the idea that illness or unwellness is caused by laziness, &c. justifying the practice by appealing to medieval european hospital therapeutics is not impressive because again, the actual reasons for this therapy being recommended in those contexts were, as a general rule, highly political & politicised; none of this is operating in some ideal realm of 'objective' medico-scientific evidence. and, just to spell it out: occupational therapies are appealing to a lot of physicians and institutions because they make it easy to place the emphasis on patients' individual responsibility to 'better' themselves through hard work, and because they easily slot psychiatric treatment into capitalist ruling ontologies: there's no challenge here to the underlying political-economic conditions that cause and worsen human misery or sickness.

as a side note this is all what i think about whenever i see those tumblr posts that are like "cure your depression by having a hobby and doing something with your hands :) get on the alaskan salmon fishing boat :)" but uh that's neither here nor there i guess

regarding the claim about medieval spanish hospital patients:

it's honestly hard to even evaluate this sort of thing directly in the written historical record. medieval european hospital sources tend to be heavily dominated by physicians' records and treatises (depending on time and place, many/most hospital patients may not have even been literate), which means there's not much by way of patient voices in there. there would also be a huge difference between, say, someone who was committed to an institution for the rest of their life and was made to work in the gardens, versus a wealthy patient who may have been encouraged by a physician to do some work in their own gardens, probably even on their own land. also, as the case in question suggests, occupational/work therapies constantly run into the zone of just being blatant economic exploitation of patients, so when we read these archives with critical eyes, any claim to efficacy of such treatments needs to be pretty heavily scrutinised.

you should also keep in mind that european hospitals have historically not always been institutions that patients were expected to leave: i'm not well-read in spanish medical history specifically, but many european hospitals have historically been more of a 'last resort' type of place, where you basically got admitted if you were dying and had no other options, and/or were sent forcibly because you were indigent or perceived to be causing some sort of 'public nuisance'. if you want to talk health outcomes for such institutions, the confounding factors here are going to be so massive i don't know how you could possibly wade through them to say anything conclusive about whether occupational therapies 'worked', especially given that the written medieval record is, yknow, hundreds of years old and sometimes things do get lost (or were never written down in a permanent place at all). also, those patients who did leave hospitals did not generally, afaik, keep in close contact with their physicians, which would make long-term health outcome tracking of this sort difficult—if anyone even attempted to do it!

there are certainly contexts where local/family physicians kept records on specific patients for a long time, but the sorts of long-term large-scale medical 'studies' we would now expect to see in order to back up claims of therapeutic efficacy just didn't really exist prior to the 19th century or so, partly for logistical / bureaucratic reasons and partly because (speaking generally) european medicine in the middle ages tended to emphasise not universal physiological rules but rather the differences between bodies, with the physician's job being to fine-tune the individual's personal biological balance in order to maintain a state of health. the idea of collecting statistics on a huge population to determine a universal biological condition of health/normality doesn't really become professional orthodoxy until the 18th century at the earliest. this is not to say that medieval european medicine had no normalising function or purpose, but it didn't really work in the exact same way that medicine in the era of social sciences and social statistics does. the way that particular claim about spanish hospitals is framed sounds (to me!) a bit too copacetic with current therapeutic evaluative principles not to raise my eyebrows.

if you care about tracking this down i would suggest you follow whatever footnote or reference this claim came from, and see if the author explained their methodology to evaluate their historical sources (if not, big red flag already lol). you would also want to go footnote-jumping until you find the actual historical source, and with luck, possibly consult it online (many archives these days digitise sources, some even on request! everybody say thank you archivists) and make your own evaluations. but ^^ those are just some considerations i would start with and that make me think this claim may lack historical rigour or rely on shoddy evaluation of sources.

a few books off the top of my head that talk about on gardens, gardening, and occupational/nature therapy in general (sorry they're basically all french context):

Sun-Young Park, Ideals of the body: architecture, urbanism, and hygiene in postrevolutionary Paris

Chandra Mukerji, Territorial ambitions and the gardens of Versailles; and "Entrepreneurialism, land management, and cartography during the age of Louis XIV" in Merchants and marvels ed. Paula Findlen & Pamela Smith

Dora Weiner, The citizen-patient in revolutionary Paris

Jessica Riskin, Science in the age of sensibility: the sentimental empiricists of the French Enlightenment

Emma Spary, Utopia's garden: French natural history from Old Regime to Revolution

Sarah Easterby-Smith, Cultivating commerce: cultures of botany in Britain and France, 1760–1815

#welcome to my blog where i tell you what's wrong with your professor's curriculum ig #book recs #ableism

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kihaku-gato · 4 days

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@ifuckingloveplants mentioned you on a post “can't do this one as a poll bc there's endless...”:

also, @kihaku-gato what is a tree climbing class? 👀👀👀 i'd def wanna sign up🤸🏼‍♀️

Sadly it wasn't an elective since it was required in the program I was in but it was still fun.

Basically in the Horticulture Technician program at my college there is a Tree Climbing class in the second semester; you were taught the methods/safety/protocols etc., and then you borrowed tree climbing equipment (all the ropes and harnesses, etc. and all that, could compare them to rock climbing rope/pulley/strap equipment) and through the semester you practice climbing up the various large trees throughout the Cuddy Botanical Gardens (mostly climbed the Silver Maples but I did climb one of the younger Kentucky Coffee Trees) during the class.

In the final exam for the class you had to climb the London Plane Tree that is on the property on a time limit and reach/ring the bells on the different parts of the tree, explain what you'd theoretically be pruning with what tools on the way (? might be wrong on that part my memory's fuzzy, it's been a few years), and certain harder-to-reach branches added to your score.

It was a little dodgy since second semester went through into the early spring which meant there was snow and/or rain to deal with some days but luckily our "Uniform" coats (we were supposed to wear them if it was cold outside but I wouldn't call them uniforms) made the cold mostly moot if the exercise of climbing the trees didn't already.

Really wish I could climb trees like that again it was very physically and mentally stimulating. Damn sure it strengthened my core thanks to that class.

#reply #oh to be able to climb trees for fun like that again

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outofangband · 9 months

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Teleri gardens post for @actual-bill-potts

Mentions of this on my other world building posts for the Teleri! I actually have a lot of head cannons about the differences in gardens between the three peoples of the Amanyar and I will make posts about Vanyarin and Noldorin gardens soon!

Second note: this is not meant to be a flora post as I want to make a separate one with more extensive information on that however, I will include some examples of plants

As always please feel free to ask more!

-The Teleri have beautiful gardens of a variety of forms; formal gardens, groves, orchards, vegetable and herb gardens, aquatic gardens ranging from elegant ponds to elaborate whimsical waterscapes, and coral gardens.

-There are extensive and beautiful gardens at the palace of Alqualondë including a fountain carved over a natural spring, a grove of trees (mostly black and maritime pine) with a small natural pond, and a stream that runs to the ocean through a small opening in the sandstone walls.

-Shapes of gardens tend to be spiral or circular from above. Circles, spirals, waves, and other similar shapes are common and a lot of their art and this absolutely includes outdoors and garden art

-Some of these coral gardens are cultivated from existing tide pools with help from Maiar of Ulmo. These can serve as living monuments to the ocean and its creatures, and are very sacred places to the Teleri.

-There are several green houses in Alqualondë including one or two built over warm springs that provide moisture to the plants and soil. Glasswork is another important Telerin craft as I mentioned on my first world building post. Though Noldorin architectural styles or practices might have been used in their construction, the glasswork and horticulture/ecological work is from Telerin knowledge and practices

-There are also many purely underwater gardens. Some of these are in lagoons, and groves found more inland. Some of these are in the ocean beyond the harbor. Many of these are very difficult to access to outsiders, requiring access through hidden coves and through steel treks. These gardens are home to many aquatic and ocean plants, and the creatures that find sanctuary in them; kelp, seaweed and sea grasses and others

-Gardening, landscaping and design and water engineering are important Telerin crafts! They take a lot of pride in how land and water are represented in their gardens, in contents and layout and shape, etc

-The soil around and through Alqualondë is very fertile. It’s not uncommon to find fragments of shell and limestone or sandstone in the soil thus the plant life tends to be limestone friendly though the levels are not so high that it makes it inhospitable to species that aren’t

-Small pebbles and shells often decorate paths in gardens and parks. Statues are rare in gardens but small rock/pebble formations are sometimes made

-Especially among the nobles but also elsewhere, aquatic gardens often with elaborate waterscapes. These utilize pumps, spinning wheels, elegant slanted trofts carved from stone, clay or bamboo, and elvenmade streams and ponds

-Even in non water based gardens, water elements such as fountains, often in whimsical or creative shapes, bird baths and ponds are common. There are carved sandstone structures around several saltwater springs creating fountains in Alqualondë’s main spaces. These are viewed as the sea opening up within the city

-Telerin gardens, even formal ones, tend to require minimal pruning, and rely on methods that allow the species to grow thrive, and cross pollinate as they would naturally. While, this is true of most elven garden practices in general it’s often especially visible in these

-Children play in the gardens a lot and lessons are often held here!

-As I mentioned on my previous world building post for the Teleri, many streams run from the Pelóri to the ocean and they run through the city. There are also many underground streams, and both sources are utilized to bring water to gardens, houses and other water elements. I actually headcanon that both Tirion and Alqualondë have systems somewhere between canals and aqueducts.

-Sea cabbage, common gorse, juniper, bay, sea oats, yarrow, sea thrift, curry plants and sea campion are some of the most common plants in small gardens. Bay leaves are common garnishes and seasoning in Telerin cuisine.

#the silmarillion #Valinor #Teleri #musing and meta

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chaoticsimlish · 2 years

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Since my post about I Was A Teenage Exocolonist is blowing up, I thought I'd mention some other indie games worth checking out!

What Remains of Edith Finch

Still one of my favorite games of all time, What Remains of Edith Finch is a beautiful and tragic game. You play as Edith Finch returning back to her family home as she's expecting a child of her own. For her entire life she was told that her family is cursed and the entire house is almost a monument to this fact. Each room upstairs is sealed off and tells the story of the Finch family member who inhabited it and how they died. Each of the stories play out in a variety of ways and one of the stories was told in such a compelling way that the studio decided to make an entire game out of it. Check the trigger warnings ahead of time because this game will make you cry. 10/10

Strange Horticulture

After your grandma passes, you take over her plant store. As the story progresses you work to identify plants, explore the areas arpund your town to find new plants, and assist your strange customers in finding the plant they need. There are some underlying secrets in the town like a coven of witches, a shady secret society, and a mysterious woman in a jade mask that you can uncover as you go. You have to be careful of your choices, too many wrong answers and your sanity shatters and you have to put yourself back together. You also have a pet cat named Hellbore that you CAN PET!! A beautiful and relaxing game especially for the fall! 9/10

Growing Up

I've posted about this game in the past, but I'll mention it here again! In this life simulator, you start as a baby and as you grow you choose what you want your person to learn and your choices shape who they become as a person. Your choices also effect the friends you make as you can rescue friends from dark paths or send them down it. You play from baby to teenager and once you hit adulthood you go on to have a baby and that baby is the start of your next run. There is so much to learn and do in this game, the puzzles are addictive, and the characters are fantastic! I will never stop recommending this game! 10/10

Wytchwood

Another cozy game perfect for fall, Wytchwood is an exploring and crafting game. You play as a sassy witch who has to fulfill her contract and rediscover her memories along the way. There are different areas to explore, things to craft, and all sorts of stuff to collect. There's casual combat, nothing too crazy, and the characters you meet are entertaining. Definitely worth checking out for the art style and story alone! 9/10

#indie games #wytchwood #growing up #growing up on steam #growing up game #wroef #what remains of edith finch #strange horticulture

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carusolikey · 23 days

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The Blue Hour

a Max Phillips & Bloodsucking Bastards FanFic Chapter 1: There Goes the Building

Pairing: Max Phillips of Bloodsucking Bastards x afab!fem!reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW 18+ (No Minors)

Author’s Note: I wrote this piece during the month of April 2024 - Adenomyosis Awareness Month, and the idea came to me during March 2024 (Endometriosis Awareness Month). This will not have any type of pregnancy kink, but will touch on infertility of OC due to the aforementioned; canon for this story is also that Vampires are infertile - there will be no Renesmé. OC is intended to be around the same age as Max, reader’s choice up or down, but no age gap. Because older afab/fem lovers are sexy - we drink and we know things.

Warnings: Most of these warnings will apply to later Chapters. Chapter 1 is fairly light and fluffy "getting to know you" with some steamy close calls, lingering touches and what have you (the what have you is the best part). But don't worry - we'll be getting down and dirty in Chapter 2.

A bit of rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration - P in V, oral [m + f receiving]), food play, 18+ only content, able bodied fem afab reader, alcohol consumption, non-gendered pet names, fem can be carried and has hair - though length is not mentioned, consensual "bondage", some use of y+n - but not explicitly, though consensuality is implied and intended through actions and reactions, no protection used for Vampire reasons TBD (be wise and always use protection, this is fiction). Did attempt to stay away from gendered pronouns and nicknames, although did use the word woman, 3 times throughout the entire piece (not fully published yet) referring to OC. Future chapters will discuss history endo / adeno, and of previous relationship / SA; there will also be Vampire hunting, murdering, and blood….sucking bastards.

Return to the Masterlist!

Sitting at my little mahogany desk, stretching back in the leather desk chair, I shut off my phone alarm as it blasted the opening chords of Raspberry Beret. 3:15 a.m. - time to grab my laundry from the basement of the old apartment building where I was settled.

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Weird time to be doing laundry, huh? Not for me, though - I’d had insomnia for, let’s see, I’ll have to count on fingers and toes, 5 + 12 + 3 months, so that makes...20 months.

20 months without sunlight, for the most part. I’d had random doctor appointments that interrupted my daytime drowsiness, but about 20 months ago, I broke a little inside and haven’t been able to get back on a normal schedule.

So middle of the night laundry. And mail. And gym time, groceries, cleaning, working…

Honestly, it’s not that bad - I make my living narrating books, and I can do that whenever. Groceries get delivered to my apartment, I’m living Sandra Bullock’s The Net dream life. Peace, quiet, solitude, and ultimate zen.

Is it lonely sometimes? Sure. But that’s what my vibrator is for, and Mr. Rochester is doing fine work. The best part for us is that it’s pretty noncommittal, given that his back story is that he keeps his mentally unwell wife in the attic. Thank you, Charlotte Brontë.

As I headed down the apartment stairwell with my laundry basket against my hip, wearing my laundry day “Li’l Sebastian” (you’re 5,000 candles in the wind) t-shirt, and my hair in a side party-pony, I scrolled through my phone looking for the perfect song. Walking down the stairs, the scent of clean laundry wafting nearer, I enjoyed the open breezes from the stairwell windows. Spring was certainly taking the tepid steps of a lamb, easing along and bringing slightly warmer licks on gentle winds, carrying hints of flowers and plants experiencing horticultural resurrection.

The laundry room, in the dank cement-block basement, was far enough from the apartments that you could throw a party and no one would know, but it also had amazing acoustics. The actual accommodations, on the other hand, left much to be desired - but down here? Chef’s kiss - perfection. Which is why I always seized the opportunity of being the only one awake doing laundry, to partake in one of my favorite activities: singing while folding laundry. The ultimate mood booster.

As I scrolled through my Spotify, I landed on a classic and hit play, crooning in my best sultry voice, “I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star, to pray on or wish on or something like that…”

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I continued folding, singing at the top of my lungs, letting my voice trickle through the runs, shimmying my shoulders as I danced in place. Breathing right along with Fiona Apple during Paper Bag, “Oh, hunger hurts - but I want him so bad, oh-oh it kills, because I know that I'm a mess that he don't wanna clean up. I got to fold because these hands are just too - shaky to hold. Hunger hurts, but starving, it works, when it costs too much to love.”

Daintily placing the last folded item on top, I turned around and was startled to see a man in a three piece suit standing in the doorway of the laundry room.

This is why I don’t wear airpods down here. Safety first.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize someone else was down here. And - you just had to endure me giving a private demonstration on how to sing like no one’s listening and dance like no one’s watching.”

I uncomfortably raised my eyebrow and pursed my lips.

“If I gave you money, you could be my private dancer, my dancer for money.” He smirked.

“Tina Turner? Really? I don’t know if that’s the best way to - “ I paused before changing my mind, “No, wait a minute, I think if you’re even going to start with that proposition you have to at least sing it to me. Otherwise, that’s a lazy proposal.”

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t not laugh. While I gave him the once over, waiting for his response, I noticed that he was unnervingly handsome. Sandy brown hair, with eyes like a hot, fresh espresso, I could practically smell the roasty cinnamon and nutmeg, getting lost in them as he poured them over me, so warm and comforting. His smile crept up to one side - I had a hard time determining its sincerity, but he certainly seemed amused by me. Why? I had no idea. Like the mere idea of me tickled him as he watched me uncomfortably shift in my laundry day outfit and party pony under his gaze.

“Another time, absolutely.” I took a step back, confused by his response, “I’m more interested in who you want so bad that it kills?”

“Huh?” I asked him, ineloquently, and then, “I’m sorry - what are you asking me?”

He gave a low chuckle, and stepped closer, “The song you were singing. You sang about how you ‘want him so bad, OH, it kills,’ -- “ he put his face next to mine, “who do you want?”

“You’re intense, aren’t you?”

Stepping back, he raised his eyebrows.

“How about a, ‘Hi, my name is, I don’t know - Blake? I live in the building, I like ponies and narwhals, and my favorite book is something super pretentious about fountain pens’?”

His smile widened from a half smile to a full smile, “My name is Max Phillips, I live in the building, I do like ponies - and narwhals, in theory, I’ve never seen one. My favorite book is The Grapes of Wrath and basically anything by Bill Waterson.”

“Wait - Bill Waterson? Calvin & Hobbes, Bill Waterson?” I responded, a bit shocked, but highly intrigued.

“Yes, but I think you’re supposed to respond in kind,” the words were nice, although they sounded a bit like an order, which I’m not a huge fan of, but for some reason I didn’t seem to mind coming from him.

I told him my name, that I was a huge Capote fan, loved Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, but that I also really, really loved Dickens, too. Specifically David Copperfield. I hated to admit it, but somehow he’d cracked me open and gotten me talking about my favorite subject. As I stood there waxing on about the upside down ship house and Aunt Betsey Trotwood, and how the movie Breakfast at TIffany’s differed from the book, the laundry basket kept drooping lower and lower on my hip. Without realizing it until I had finished a particularly impassioned speech, I noticed that Max was holding my laundry basket for me. I had been wildly gesticulating with both hands while he contentedly watched me.

“Oh my goodness.” I started, realizing that I’d gone off on a tangent, “I’m so sorry - you probably have other things that you’re meant to be doing.”

My eyes drifted to his suit, perfectly tailored, the button-up underneath holding on just barely, and the snug collar that would probably be a lot more comfortable for him if I were to loosen his tie for him. I bit my lower lip, thinking about it - and then told myself to snap out of it. Alone is good and healthy. So what if my therapist friends say “fine” is a four letter word? I’m fine. I’m FINE. He’s fine. Haha. No. Back to narrating books. Oh shit, he’s looking at me.

“I’m not in any rush,” he started - but I took the laundry basket away from him anyway.

Immediately, he reached out and grabbed my hand in between my thumb and forefinger, pressing firmly, “Did you know that this spot right here is an acupressure point, that helps with migraines?”

“Oh!” caught by surprise, I let out a gasp. “Well, that’s incredibly useful information, thank you,” nervously, I chuckled, “I’m gonna go, but it was really nice to meet you, Max.”

“It was an extremely pleasurable experience for me, as well.” He said, his words dripping with single, double, and I didn’t know it was possible, but triple entendre as well.

As I walked back up the stairs, I thought about what he had just done for me - the acupressure point. How did he know that I was getting a migraine? Was it just obvious from my facial expressions? Well, I suppose I’d rather he recognize that I was having a migraine than think I wasn’t interested. Wait - is he a doctor? Shoot. I didn’t ask. We also didn’t exchange numbers. I can’t go back, I’m already halfway up the stairs. Ugh! You know what? No. I’m therapist “F” word. FINE. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. Meanwhile, I know Mr. Rochester is charged and waiting. It’s all good.

By the time I got back to my apartment my migraine was actually gone, and I was feeling quite flushed after the passing experience with Max, so I decided to treat myself. I lit my fancy Sage & Peppermint candle, turned on my “To Be Savored” playlist, then went straight to my treasure box and pulled out Mr. Rochester. I know exactly how to set the mood for me.

I thought about Max’s handsomely roguish grin, with its slight dimple and the way his eyes crinkled playfully, like he wanted to keep toying with me all night. Placing Mr. Rochester onto my clitoris, then rubbing up and down to get him wet - easily done. After where my thoughts had been, I turned him on to the first vibration and started moaning lightly. In the back of my mind, it registered that I heard footsteps coming down the corridor of apartments in the hallway, just outside of mine. I turned the vibrator up another click and moaned a bit more, thinking about a fantasy situation where Max came bursting into my apartment, and fucked me right here and now. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped right outside the door of my apartment.

Panting, there was a sudden twitch as my clitoris began to orgasm, unable to determine what was fantasy and reality.

“Is he outside my apartment?!” I hissed in confusion and paranoia. I ramped up the vibrator, and let myself have it, breathing out, “Oh god, Max!”

Then, the footsteps started again, and I heard a deep baritone chuckling.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Shit.

Well, there goes the neighborhood.

It had been a few days, and I started to wonder if Max was actually real, or just the product of my desperate, overactive imagination. If that was the case, kudos to me. I really could not have imagined a more perfect specimen.

I would be glad, if he were simply imagined.

Because I was so horrified post-self-coital that he might’ve heard me, that I did actively hide even more so than I’ve already been hidden.

But I still had to get mail, and I do still exercise pretty regularly, so there was bound to be an incident. Not that there had been, or that we’d bumped into each other in the gym before, but the odds of someone you’ve never met from your building, bumping into you in the laundry and then walking down your hallway at the exact moment that you just happen to decide to masturbate to their extremely, tall, hovering frame - the odds, what were they, really? I laughed to myself, to keep myself from overheating and crying a little bit.

However, I’d been keeping my nighttime moonlighting as the resident lounge singer on the very, very nonexistent down low. Which, yes, “crushes my fragile spirit,” sure, but worth it not to bump into someone I fantasy-orgasmed to very loudly.

Especially if they were real and happened to hear me through my poorly sound-proofed door. The cringe is real, the cringe has its own cringe, the cringe lives in a house made of cringe on Cringe Lane in the town of Cringe at the edge of Cringe Lake. But when you say it that way, it just sounds British, and suddenly, my cringe sounds quaint, doesn’t it? But oh, god - what if Cringe Lake has a Cringe Lake House, with a magic mailbox? No. I can’t entertain that idea. It’s too much, I’m spinning out!

The only thing that really centers me, is heading down to the basement gym. Is it poorly lit with the same cement block walls as the laundry room? Is it carpeted with a full wall of mirrors and a bar for an imaginary barre class that I sometimes pretend that I’m taking? Are there only two ellipticals, one exercise bike, and only one set of mismatched weights, but 5 treadmills? Yes, yes, yes, always, yes, yes, yes, who knows why - maybe because of the prancercise craze of the mid 90’s? (It’s just prancing. Prancing, I said!)

My machine of choice? Always the elliptical. I’ve never been skiing, but I like to pretend like I’m Audrey Hepburn, in the Swiss Alps at the very beginning of the movie Charade, when she’s at a ski resort in the Swiss Alps, not skiing at all, and then she never goes back there at any time for the rest of the movie. What I’m really saying is, I watch something on my iPad for almost an hour until I reach an esoteric high.

Tonight though, I needed to focus. No comfort binging Law & Order: SVU. Nay, it was vital I concentrate on the latest book I was narrating. I would love to say that it was something that will take the literary world by storm but, it was definitely a bit more niche.

The plot was focused on sexy British assassins - a first day on the job for one, while the other had been training their whole life. Naturally, the conflict being that they’d slept together once before and someone accidentally lost their memory when they were kidnapped. Of course, that led to misunderstandings, and one assassin thought the other was blowing them off, when it was just simply a case of, “I was drugged by a rival assassin team and forgot everything that happened between us”.

Make no mistake, once everything was cleared up - there was a lot of sex in this book. A LOT of sex in this book. So much. And you have to wonder when people are writing this, is this what they like? Do they have a partner that they’re trying all of this out with first to make sure it works? Should I be trying this out first in order to be an accurate narrator?

Oh, no. Stop thinking about Max.

As I placed my iPad on the elliptical along with my water bottle and stepped up onto the machine, my thoughts began to drift. Setting the machine to Interval Training, I opened up my iPad to the book and continued where I’d left off, trying to decide what voice I would give to the main character, to her counterpart. Although, there was a possibility the author would be finding another narrator to read for the male character. I wouldn’t know until later.

These thoughts trailed beneath as I read about how the male character could identify the female character by her scent. Ridiculous, I thought, letting out an amused giggle, even with a personalized perfume, really? Tracking her by her scent across London? Who would buy that?

Things continued to heat up for the protagonists, but right before they were about to rip their clothes off, my elliptical made a disappointed, whoosh sound as it transitioned from cool down to off.

Same, elliptical. Same.

Climbing off the elliptical, I turned up the music on my phone, and started stretching out my muscles. As I finished my stretches, Adele’s Send My Love (To Your New Lover) came on, and there was no way I was going to resist singing along.

Fuck it, it’s 2:45 a.m.

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I grabbed the mirror rail, feeling myself entirely, swaying my hips back and forth. Sliding down and dipping back up, dragging my hand down my neck, my chest, and letting it rest on my stomach, I closed my eyes and belted, “Send my love to your new lo-o-ver! Treat her be-e-etter. We’ve gotta let go of all of our ghosts, we both know we ain’t kids no more….”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m very glad we’re not kids anymore.”

“Oh SHIT!”

I jumped and hit my elbow against the mirror, then immediately slid down the mirror hard and hit the same spot on my elbow on the mirror rail, landing on my backside, cradling my elbow.

“Oh! Sad face!” I yelped.

“Did you just say ‘sad face’?” Max had rushed over from where he’d been standing in the doorframe watching me, and with tempered concern put his hand on my forehead, then my arm to see if I was alright.

“Yes, I believe it’s the current preferred standard of emoting. It’s clear, concise…it’s um,” I started to drift a little.

“Hey, stay with me, tell me more about your emojis.”

Taking his phone, he turned on the flashlight and shone it in my eyes, holding my chin to keep me steady, “Pretty eyes, song bird,” and gave me a half smile.

“I’m not a BIRD. I’m a full grown adult woman.”

Eyeing me up and down, Max scoffed gently while shaking his head, “There’s no denying that. Luckily it looks like you don’t have a concussion, but unfortunately,” licking his lips softly as he looked at my elbow, which had a large splinter of wood sticking out of it and a little bit of blood starting to drip from the site, “I’m gonna have to cut my workout short. I think this is definitely a ‘walk my sexy neighbor home emergency’.”

It was my turn to scoff, “Okay, okay - how many sexy neighbors do you walk home every night? Don’t act like this is impressive or like I should be impressed because I’m not.”

He didn’t laugh out loud, but his deep laugh rumbled and shook his chest, like he was deliberately trying not to laugh at me. As though he thought it was important to me, to be taken seriously. Which it IS, of course, but - why does he know that?

Sweeping his right arm under my left arm, leaving my wounded right arm out so that I could hold it close to my chest, and using his left arm to lift me up by the legs, he picked me up.

“Just the one,” he smirked as he made direct eye contact - and carried me up five flights of stairs.

It was definitely impressive, but I had to ask him when we got to the top, “Why didn’t you take the elevator?”

Max clicked his tongue and looked at me reproachfully, “Never, ever miss leg day. Ever.” and then he used me to do curls, after unlocking the apartment and walking inside.

“I object! To being used as gym equipment!” I declared like a regular Lady Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, and Max immediately set me down on my leather couch.

“Much better.” Quietly approving in a mutter from my seated position.

“I’m assuming bandages, antiseptic, antibiotic ointment, that’s all in your - bathroom?” I nodded, still feeling a little woozy, as I watched him walk away.

And then panic struck as I remembered something terrible, a pall was cast over my face as sudden abject horror and humiliation pulled me into a dark and spiraling pit.

“Oh no.” I whispered.

“What?” called Max, from the other room.

How could he possibly have heard that? Did I not whisper? Am I a loud whisperer like my mom and I just don’t know it yet? Max returned, with the engaging smile of someone ready to sell me a bridge, and holding Mr. Rochester, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

My eyes grew wide and large and extra. I ran through a list of possible scenarios where this worked out well for me, and I hated every single one where I admitted it was mine. Normally, yes, I don’t care. I’m very sex positive, but (sobbing internally) this man. I am just not there yet, and I get to make that decision, right? Right.

“What’d you find there?” I asked innocently.

Genuine shock washed over Max’s face and he looked slightly taken aback for a split second, before smoothing himself over, and resuming play, “It was sitting on a towel on the sink in your bathroom.”

I shrugged my shoulders, I touched my face, I looked up and to the left, hid my thumbs, pursed my lips, I basically inadvertently did everything the FBI guy from the podcast about lie detecting said liars do.

“Oh, um, I don’t know. Maybe - uh, maybe maintenance left it here?”

“Maintenance?” Max gave me a dubious look.

“Yeah, the –“ had to pause while I remembered everything that might go in a bathroom that I was willing to have clogged in front of him, “SINK was clogged. I had to get maintenance here to use something for it. I think that’s a snake, is what they call it, right there. What that is.”

“A snake? For clearing clogged drains?” He bit the inside of his cheek, and ground his jaw - I could tell he was not convinced, and might be slightly amused, “You know I’ve used a snake before, this isn’t it.”

“Oh my god. I wonder if someone - accidentally - left it here during one of those, neighbor meetings.”

“What neighbor meetings?” Max gave me a very skeptical look.

“You know, the ones we have. With chips and dip and we talk about neighbor happenings. I don’t think you were at the last one. Probably it’s a microphone. Cordless. With bluetooth for TIkToks,” I gave an extra super chill shrug to add to my very convincing improv acting that has not remotely degraded in skill over the years, “Obviously.”

“You know what. You’re probably right.” He said, seeming very convinced, and I don’t think he noticed, but I did breath a sigh of relief.

“I’ll check in with all of the neighbors, and make sure that I’m on the email list for the next neighbor meeting, while simultaneously checking to see who might’ve misplaced this ‘device,’ here. In your apartment.” The look he gave me was smug.

I grabbed my Nic Cage sequined throw pillow, and hugged it tight, groaning when I realized we still hadn’t attended to my arm.

Max’s face softened, but only by a hair as he set down Mr. Rochester and walked towards me. Sitting down on the couch next to me, placing all of the medical supplies on the coffee table, he began to examine my arm. Licking his lips with a far off look in his eyes, he gulped softly, then took a tweezers and started removing the pieces of wood.

As he worked, he spoke softly, firm, but his voice remained smooth, velvety rich, plush - I wanted to run my hands against it and feel the warmth - nope, that’s the horny pain talking; but what he actually said was, “So, as I was saying, I’m going to take the ‘mysterious device’ from your bathroom for safe keeping. I’ll, uh, ‘check-in’ with your neighbors to see if it belongs to anyone,” then he looked directly into my eyes, holding mine and not letting go - deep caramel brown pulling me into him, “and if I can’t find who it belongs to in a few days time,” I groaned at that, “I’m sorry, am I hurting your arm?” I bit my lip, knowing that wasn’t why I groaned, “then I’ll bring it back, and we can explore the device together. Try and figure out what it does, how it works, the best way to use it. Sound good?”

He looked up at me from under his eyebrows, and I melted. Oof, he was smarmy and smooth, and I had a bad feeling he was going to be my achilles dick.

I tilted my head to the side like a puppy and raised one eyebrow, “I suppose that could be – ” pausing as I bit my lip, debating the right word, “amenable.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, would we?” Max looked back down at my arm, taking a wet, soapy, warm cloth, and gently washing off my elbow.

The action was so small and insignificant, but I found myself easing out of my discomfort as I watched him dry off my arm, and apply a large bandage.

Snapping out of it, I started to sit up, “Oh wait, no - I just finished exercising, I need to take a shower first, I’ll put a bandage on afterwards.”

Max looked at me, one eyebrow raised, as he continued what he was doing, and I scrunched my nose up at him in response.

Giving me his smug half-smile with the dimple, his voice somewhat patronizing, “Now that this is taken care of, I’ll run a bath for you – “

“Extra bubbles, if you must,” I interrupted, frowning at him and feeling slightly suspicious. Who was he to run baths for me in my own apartment? I picked up my phone and started passive aggressively scrolling for bath tunes, because of course, despite the nerve of this man, I was going to enjoy my bath.

“Alright,” Max came out of the bathroom, “I hope it’s hot enough for you.”

Looking up from my phone, I couldn’t help myself from drawing my gaze slowly up his body, slowly lingering on his stomach, where his shirt lifted as he stretched his arm above his head. The V of his stomach, disappearing into his sweats, the light trail of hair from his navel to - destination unknown as of yet, but those pants gave some ideas. Oh my god, I’m such a Samantha! I giggled to myself, and Max gave me a confused, yet intrigued look.

I shook my head, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the water is fine, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he crossed over to the couch, reaching under my left arm, and giving me a lift so that I could walk leaning against him. I groaned getting up, “Yeah - you’re sore, aren’t you? You fell pretty hard. The hot water should help, I added some bath salt with the bubbles.”

“Why are you being so nice to me? We barely know each other.”

“I’m being a decent person. You need to adjust your bar for ‘so nice’, because that threshold is too low, Sweetness.”

As he walked me into the bathroom, I saw that he’d lit a candle, and put all of my shower toiletries, as well as a fresh towel on the bench next to the bathtub, within easy reach. It really wasn’t a hard thing to do, it was a simple, nice thing to do for someone who’d just hurt themself, but it got to me and I had to swallow a lump I felt rising in my throat.

Turning to him, my eyes starting to sparkle a bit with the beginnings of tears that I was determined to hold back, but my sincerity would not be mistaken, “Thank you. I mean it.”

His mouth was smiling, but his eyes lost their crinkle and his eyebrows frowned slightly, “You’re welcome. Now, I’m gonna be just outside the door, over there on the couch, catching up on some emails on my phone, but if you need me –” he mimed the words ‘call me’ while holding his hand up to his ear like a phone.

I nodded, chuckling at his corny sense of humor, “Okay, buddy. Will do,” giving him a thumbs up. He gave a look indicating that he did not like being referred to as ‘buddy,’ and I laughed a little harder while closing the door on him.

Shedding my clothes and tossing them into the hamper, I noticed that I had a large purple and green bruise forming on my backside. Perfect, that’s gonna be sore for a little while. Before stepping into the tub, I popped on my playlist - the water was nice and hot, and felt amazing on my sore body as I sank lower into the water. Yes, yes, and yes - perfection. I let my bandaged arm rest on the edge of the tub as I soaked a cloth, washing my face and the rest of my body. Using the handheld shower head attachment with my left hand, I rinsed through my hair, getting it thoroughly soaked.

I grabbed my shampoo bar soap and started to lather, realizing very quickly that with an elbow that I couldn’t bend, I was going to have to do it one handed.

“Shoot!” I muttered under my breath, as I tried to figure out the best way to do it without getting my bandage wet.

Immediately there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Is everything alright? I’m coming in, but my eyes are closed.”

Max walked in with one hand on the doorknob, and the other over his eyes. I quickly put my left arm over my chest, despite the fact that there were still a LOT of bubbles covering me up. Max knows how to make a good bubble bath, I’ll give him that.

I looked down at myself, and realizing that it was fine, said, “You can look, Max. It’s all good.”

He took his hand down from his eyes, and closed the door behind him. “I’m just struggling a bit to wash my hair while not bending my arm. I mean, I’m sure I can get used to it - I’m just in an adjustment period.”

He sat down next to the bathtub, “Why don’t I help you out tonight - you’re still obviously in shock, right?”

It definitely was a question that indicated concern, but I had a strong sense that he was cajoling me. Mr. Spider, may I introduce you to Miss Fly?

Bickering with my shoulder angel and demon, I opted to accept his offer - because I was sore, and even if his bid to assist me concealed darker intentions, I struggled to care. Somehow, within the presence of his pheromones, his spicy musk, leather and oaky whisky, there existed nothing outside of the puzzle box where we existed, where I was kept like his little secret treasure.

Handing him the shampoo bar, he dipped his hands in the bath water quickly, and started lathering up the bar. “Can you sit up?”

I put my left arm back over my chest and leaned forward until I rested my breasts against my knees, my right arm still clinging to the tub. Max started to massage the shampoo into my hair and I involuntarily leaned my head back into his hands, moaning gently.

“Well, if that’s all it takes to get you to make sounds like that, maybe I should come by and wash your hair again tomorrow.” he teased, his voice irresistibly oozing charm.

“I mean –” I started without finishing, my eyes blissfully closed, thoroughly enjoying what Herbal Essences commercials of the 90’s long ago promised and never delivered.

Cackling, actually gleefully cackling - pleased with himself, Max took the handheld shower head and rinsed the shampoo from my hair. “Alright, I’m assuming there’s a conditioner next?” I pointed to the Olaplex No. 5, “Okay, Fancy.”

“You don’t have to use very much, a lot goes a long way.” I looked over at him, resting my chin on my knees.

“Fair enough.” He squeezed a bit of conditioner into his open palm, and then started rubbing it with both hands into my ends, working his way towards the roots.

“Uh, this is not your first time washing a woman’s hair, is it?” I asked, my voice brimming with curiosity.

“Well, that would be part of my backstory.” I frowned at his response.

“Which I will tell you. One day. But I think it’s a little soon for that.” Max could tell that he was losing me to my thoughts, “But no, it’s not something that I’ve done for a sexy neighbor before.”

Immediately, I was brought back to the here and now, as the word ‘neighbor’ must have given me the same tone of face that I had given Max when I called him ‘buddy’. He looked particularly self-satisfied, as I shot him an admonishing glare.

“How long do we need to leave your conditioner in?” he asked, as my playlist moved onto one of my favorite songs, albeit an unfortunate choice for the moment - Sharon Van Etten’s, Jupiter 4.

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Twisting my hair up, I gestured towards a hair clip on the bathroom sink. Max picked it up, and while I used my left hand to hold my hair up on top of my head, he clipped my hair in place for me.

“Thanks, I usually leave it in for the length of a song - this one should be good.” Blushing as I thought about how sexy this song made me feel. I started to lean back, crossing my left arm back over my chest, and sank back in the water - letting my chest and abdomen be submerged, while my knees and legs stuck out in peaks from the water and the bubbles.

“This is Sharon Van Etten - “ Max paused, “I really like her, and this song,” he took a breath, raised an eyebrow, while looking me up and down, and started singing in his low voice, “Touching your face,” he leaned forward and lifted my chin towards his face with his index finger and thumb, “How’d it take a long, long time - to be here. Turning the wheel on my street. My heart still skips a beat. It’s echoing, echoing, echoing - “ he stared into my eyes, and it felt like another world was opening up to me, “Baby, baby, baby, I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting my whole life for someone like you.”

As he leaned forward on the tub, his arm knocked the bottle of conditioner into the water, and I took a deep breath in, realizing that I had stopped breathing during his serenade. I broke my gaze from him to the water where the bottle had fallen in, near my legs, and then back to him. Without breaking eye contact with me, he reached through the warm, foamy water, leaning closer to my face as he carefully waded deeper beneath the bubbles.

His hand didn’t touch me, exactly, but felt along the edge of the tub, near the side of my body, going down. I knew where he needed to go, I could feel where the bottle was and squeezed my legs together, tilting them both towards the wall. Suddenly, he put his hand on my right thigh, slowly going up towards my knees. I closed my eyes, and I could feel his breath on me as he turned his face, leaning closer into my neck.

When he got to my knees, I breathed out like I was breathing through a straw, opening my eyes and looking down the tub at his large hand. He slipped his fingers between my knees and gently wedged them apart, stretching his hand so that his thumb was on one leg, and his pinky was on the other. Slowly, he dragged them down both legs, gradually pushing my legs open wider the further down he got. I could feel my heart rate increasing, my nipples growing harder, my vagina pulsing. Looking back at him, my mouth slightly open as my breath started to grow a bit more ragged, my eyebrows furrowing as I held myself back. Gazing back at me, his lips parted, his tongue poised between them, he watched me hungrily - and as I looked down at his sweatpants, I could tell his appetite was fully whetted.

His hand was almost to my vagina, to my clitoris - my whole body trembling, I involuntarily arched my back, letting my breasts peek out from the water for the briefest of moments, and Max’s eyes flickered down my body as he licked his lips. That hand, that cruel hand, slipped just mere seconds before touching me where I craved it. With a quick detour, he pulled the bottle of conditioner out of the water.

I cried out in agony, throwing my left arm over my chest, suddenly and abruptly sitting upright in the tub - trying to catch my breath, shaking as my body pulsed with uncontrollable longing. What is wrong with me? I hardly know this man. This is my neighbor. Oh god. THIS IS MY NEIGHBOR. And I let him give me a bath? Inside I was cry-laughing and dying. I’ve talked to him twice. How did I think this was a good idea?

Max said absolutely nothing. He turned on the handheld shower head and rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, then used one hand to rub my back while I focused on steadying my breath.

As my breath steadied, he asked, “Are you ready to get out?”

Standing up, he held the towel with both hands, and closing his eyes, “I promise I won’t open my eyes –” he opened one eye, looking amused, and then closed it, “again - until I leave the bathroom and, or, you say it’s okay.”

A simple enough promise - will he break it? I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

I sighed and said, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Standing up, I started to take the towel, but Max wrapped the towel around me instead, giving me strong arms to lean on as I stepped out of the tub, and closer to him and the overwhelming scent of him. Tucking in the towel I looked up at his face, with his eyes closed. The strong, angled, and clean shaven cut of his jaw, the beautiful line of his incredibly sexy aquiline nose - like a marble statue from antiquity. The line of his brow, begging me to trace my fingers across them, and his lips - always pulling back to reveal that suave smile and dreamy little dimple. What I wouldn’t do with those lips!

“You can open your eyes.” I spoke softly, embarrassed that I was here in this moment of intense vulnerability, somehow.

He opened his eyes and looked down at me, grinning at first, but then he saw my look of deflation and his gaze became stern.

“What’s wrong?”

Glancing down, I tried to find the words, “I’m not exactly sure what just happened –”

With an encouraging smile, Max asked, “Well, I helped my sexy neighbor wash her hair –” he squeezed my shoulders, “did she want something more to happen?”

“I’m not sure.” My brows knitted together as I looked up at him.

“And that’s why I didn’t do anything more. But rest assured, the moment I get a resounding ‘full speed ahead!’ I will be hard pressed to stop.”

His eyes flashed down to my lips, sticking his tongue out just a little bit, and then continued, “You’re beautiful. You’re attractive, intelligent, funny - did I say smart? I’m not going to take advantage of you, or risk pushing you before you’re ready. We have time to get to know each other.”

I beamed as he fawned over me, heat rushing to my cheeks.

Feeling certain and satisfied that he had rejuvenated my spirits, he wrapped his arm underneath my left arm, opening the door and walking me out of the bathroom, naked but for a towel.

“What exactly are your plans for the rest of these midnight hours?” he casually asked.

I thought back to my iPad and the sexy assassin story, “Ah, well, I need to work actually.”

“Narrating? I’d love to sit in and listen.”

Again, I thought about the content of the sexy assassin story, and after that bath - no, no, no. My cheeks and my neck flushed red, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Besides, I don’t think the material would be up your alley.”

“Really?” He mocked surprise, “But how do you know? Unless you try?” giving me a wink.

The thought of reading him sexy lady-porn books and then ripping his sweatpants off and taking his cock in my mouth stopped me in my tracks and made my mouth twitch. You have a job, and you have to make money. You cannot make money sucking his cock. Or can you? No. You can’t. That’s not legal here. GODDAMMIT.

“As a professional,” I cleared my throat, “narrator, to be clear - it is - my professional opinion that you not be here while I work. Unfortunately. I’m sorry.”

I gave him an ‘ohmygod, I’m sooooo sorry,’ smile.

“That’s too bad,” he said, biting his lip.

“Yeah, maybe another time - like Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.” Why did I say that? Was that funny?

His eyebrows flashed up and down quickly, and he gave a surprised chuckle as he walked me to my apartment door. But not before stopping by the coffee table and grabbing Mr. Rochester.

“Can’t forget this,” he arbitrarily declared, “gotta make sure this little guy makes it back to his forever home. Bet his family misses him.”

And then he made it jump around in the air with his hand, making little yapping and barking sounds, like Mr. Rochester was someone’s lost purse dog. The blatant audacity of this man. I refuse to laugh.

When I didn’t laugh, Max made sad puppy whining sounds while nuzzling it up to my neck. “Noooooo.” I cried, closing my eyes in mock distress.

When we got to the door, he quickly nabbed my phone and held it up to my face, swiping up so that he could unlock it. Then, he called his phone from mine, and took a selfie of us together - him holding Mr. Rochester in one hand and his other arm around me in a towel. Which of course, he programmed so that it popped up every time he called me on my phone, and every time I called him, that way, “we could be phone twins.”

Stepping outside my apartment door, he turned around to speak to me, “So, I’ll see you in a couple days, after I confirm who this bad boy belongs to, and get myself situated with those,” he squinted his eyes at me, “building meetings. But if you need anything, you have my number.”

His eyes drifted down to where I was feeling tension, a craving that I wasn’t willing to give into just yet.

“Do you think you’ll be okay for a few days?”

He shook Mr. Rochester playfully, and my eyes widened, my left arm tightening around my towel, and I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Can he read minds? What is happening?

“I’ll be fine, and I promise I’ll text if I need anything.”

His grin widened, “Great! See ya soon!”

I closed the door and wobbled over to the couch, where I picked up my Nic Cage pillow and screamed into his sequined face, throwing it at the door afterwards.

Somewhere, far off, I could swear that I heard Max laughing.

Knowing full well that I am right handed and only technically a little ambidextrous because of piano lessons as a child, but definitely not enough to satisfy myself as necessary without Mr. Rochester - I looked down at my left hand, “You’re a disappointment, and I hate you.”

But it wasn’t lefty’s fault alone, it was partially mine and I would remedy that later. But first, to slog through painfully sexy narration for the next few hours. I let myself give out a loud sob, and then told myself to buck up and be a professional.

To be continued...

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