#that corpse you planted in your garden

[julianpeterscomics]

"The Waste Land" by T. S. Eliot, page 15

After an extended travelling vacation break, I’m back with a new page from my ongoing comics adaptation of “The Burial of the Dead,” the first section of T. S. Eliot’s epochal poem “The Waste Land” (Click on image to enlarge). Next week (hopefully): The exciting (and definitely not dark) grand finale!

[paranoidpanther]

Some people really look at nature and think “Wow. So different from us disgusting humans. A plant would never expand and destroy everything without a thought like we do.”

Meanwhile, you have plants like Mint that will LITERALLY strangle out the competition, spreading through the ground with their wild, hungry fuckin’ tendrils, constantly trying to expand in thick bushes until everything under them dies from sunlight starvation and becomes further fertilizer for their roots. Many plants are downright crazy and they DO NOT CARE about your pitiful attempts at containment when they could be committing garden-based genocide.

[moonselune]

Seluneyyyy I can’t get over the dark bg3 content!!!! I am absolutely devouring it and am ravenous for more!! 🥵 Especially for Gale, Astarion, and Halsin! SO enchanted with your writing style and everyone is so IC down to the last detail!

Just an idea for a future one—you could base it off of “Just where do you think you’re going?” like an escape attempt or something

Xxx

mwhahahahahha yes yes yes I love this series icl

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Dark!BG3 | Escape Attempt

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, murder, gore, coercion, forced memory loss, entrapment

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

After weeks of confinement and illness, Minthara's tender care brought you back from the brink (a brink she had pushed you towards but you tried not to dwell on that). Though you were far from fully recovered. One morning, restless and craving some semblance of freedom, you decided to take a walk around the gardens. It was a rare privilege, and one Minthara had permitted as a gesture of goodwill.

The gardens were eerily beautiful, filled with lush, vibrant plants and flowers that contrasted sharply with the gruesome displays of traitors’ corpses hanging from gnarled trees and spikes. Each corpse was a grim reminder of Minthara’s ruthlessness, a warning to any who might consider betrayal. As you walked among them, the air thick with the scent of decay, a rising panic began to claw at your insides.

Your breath quickened, heart pounding in your chest. You could almost see yourself among the corpses, your life snuffed out as easily as theirs had been. The terror grew, feeding on itself, until you were consumed by the overwhelming need to escape.

Without thinking, you turned and began to run, your steps frantic and uneven. You stumbled through the gardens, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and the macabre displays as possible. But in your panic, you collided with a solid figure, the impact jarring you back to reality.

Minthara stood before you, her eyes narrowing with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"Where do you think you are going?" she asked, her voice a soft, dangerous purr.

You couldn’t find the words to respond, your mouth dry and your mind blank. You could only think of escape, of getting away from this house, this place, this woman who held your life in her hands. You tried to push past her, but Minthara’s grip was firm and unyielding. She encircled your waist with her arms, pulling you close with an ease that belied her strength.

"Clearly, you are still unwell," she murmured, her breath warm against your ear. "Come, let’s get you back to the garden."

The suggestion was a trigger, and your panic surged again. You struggled against her hold, but she was unmovable. In your desperation, you found yourself nestling closer to her, throwing your face into her shoulder and clinging to her, desperately trying to hide from the sight of the corpses that haunted your vision.

Minthara’s eyes lit up with realization and satisfaction. She understood the source of your panic, and it pleased her. She placed her palm on the back of your head and held you dear to her.

"Oh, my dearest," she whispered, her voice dripping with dark delight. "Are you frightened? You should be. This is what happens to those who defy me."

She held you tighter, her arms a cage you couldn’t escape. Her fingers brushed through your hair soothingly, a stark contrast to the horror around you.

"But you are not like them, are you?" She cooed to you, "You are mine, and I take care of what is mine."

Minthara began to lead you back towards the house, her grip never loosening. You clung to her, your panic attack rendering you helpless, your body trembling against hers. She guided you with a twisted sense of gentleness, her satisfaction evident in the way she held you, in the tone of her voice as she whispered reassurances.

"Shh, shh," she hushed, her lips brushing against your temple. "You are safe with me. As long as you obey, you will never end up like them. Do you understand?"

You nodded weakly, the fight drained from you by your terror and her unyielding presence. Minthara smiled, a cruel, victorious smile, and continued to lead you back into the safety of the house. As you crossed the threshold, the grisly sights of the garden faded from view, but the memory of them remained, a chilling reminder of your place in Minthara’s world.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

The dim light of the temple flickered as you slipped from Shadowheart's grasp, your heart pounding in your chest. The shadows that usually comforted you felt suffocating now, and an inexplicable urge to escape overwhelmed you. You didn't know why you needed to run, but the pull was irresistible, like a siren song luring you to freedom.

The more distance you put between yourself and the temple, the lighter you felt. The oppressive weight on your shoulders began to lift, and a clarity you hadn't known in months started to seep into your mind. You moved through the darkened hallways, past ancient statues and altars, each step bringing a sense of liberation.

Finally, you reached the edge of the temple, the threshold to the outside world just a few steps away. The moonlight bathed the entrance in a silvery glow, and you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Freedom was within your grasp. But as you lifted your foot to take that final step, a voice shattered the serene silence.

"Where do you think you're going?" Shadowheart's voice was panicked, her eyes wide with fear and confusion as she appeared before you, seemingly out of nowhere.

"I… I don't know," you stammered, the urge to run still strong within you. "It just felt right."

Shadowheart's expression softened, but her eyes remained filled with worry. "Please, come back to me," she pleaded, reaching out a hand. "You don't understand what's happening. You need to stay with me."

You hesitated, torn between the instinct to flee and the bond you shared with Shadowheart. You eyed her with confused caution as she stepped closer, her presence commanding yet desperate.

"We belong together," she insisted, her voice a mixture of urgency and affection.

The seconds stretched into an eternity as you stood on the brink of freedom, your mind waging a war with itself. Shadowheart's eyes bored into yours, her desperation palpable. She couldn't afford to lose you—not now, not ever.

Growing impatient, Shadowheart's demeanor shifted. She muttered an incantation under her breath, her fingers weaving a quick, intricate pattern in the air. You felt a wave of magic wash over you, and your vision blurred. Your legs gave out, and darkness claimed you before you could react.

When you regained consciousness, you found yourself back in your shared quarters, the familiar surroundings a stark contrast to the freedom you had nearly tasted. Shadowheart sat beside you, her face a mask of concern and relief. She had carried you back, her determination to keep you by her side evident in every action.

"You can't leave," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You belong with me. You belong to me."

You tried to sit up, but the remnants of the spell still weighed heavily on you. Shadowheart gently pushed you back down, her touch both tender and firm.

"Rest now," she urged. "You need to regain your strength."

As you lay there, exhaustion pulling you back into unconsciousness, you couldn't shake the feeling that something vital had been taken from you. The pull to escape still lingered, but for now, there was no running away. You were hers, bound by a connection that you would never understand.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

God of Ambition Gale:

The desire to reconnect with the mortal world had been growing within you for weeks, an insistent whisper in your mind that became impossible to ignore. The material plane called to you, a siren song of simpler times and fleeting pleasures. The idea of feeling the sun on your skin, of walking among ordinary people, filled you with a yearning that bordered on desperation.

You waited for a moment when Gale was deeply engrossed in his divine affairs, a rare instance when his attention was not focused on you. Slipping away from his grand palace, you moved quickly and silently, your heart pounding with both fear and excitement. The portal to the material plane shimmered ahead of you, a gateway to the world you once knew.

Just as you reached the portal, ready to step through and taste freedom once more, a voice, rich and resonant, stopped you in your tracks.

"Where do you think you are going?" Gale's tone was smooth, but there was an undercurrent of displeasure that sent a shiver down your spine. You turned slowly to face him, trying to muster a semblance of calm.

"I just wanted to see the mortal world again, to reconnect with the life I had before," you explained, your voice trembling slightly.

Gale's eyes darkened, a dangerous glint appearing in them. "Mortal life? Those lesser beings are beneath you now. You belong by my side, not mingling with them."

Frustration surged within you, a rebellion against the gilded cage you were trapped in. "I'm going, whether you like it or not," you declared, turning back towards the portal.

A dark chuckle echoed through the air, and Gale's presence seemed to fill the entire space. "Are you really trying to test my powers?" he asked, amusement and a hint of malice lacing his words.

Before you could take another step, the world around you shifted. In a blink, you found yourself back in Gale's throne room, chained to his godly throne. The chains were ornate and shimmering with an unearthly light, but they were unyielding. You pulled and twisted, trying to break free, but the more you struggled, the tighter they became, drawing you closer to Gale.

He sat on the throne, his gaze fixed on you with a mix of possessiveness and irritation.

"You cannot leave me," he said softly, his voice a velvet caress. "You are mine, bound to me in ways you cannot comprehend."

You continued to fight against the chains, your breath coming in ragged gasps, but it was futile. The chains tightened further, the metal biting into your skin, making escape impossible. Gale watched your struggle with a mixture of pity and amusement.

"Why do you resist?" he asked, leaning forward. "I have given you everything—power, immortality, a place by my side. Why do you long for the mundane, the ephemeral?"

"Because it's real," you whispered, tears of frustration and helplessness streaming down your face. "Because it's life."

Gale's expression softened slightly, but his resolve remained unyielding. He stood, his hand reaching out to gently lift your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Your life is here now," he said firmly. "With me. Embrace it, or you will only find yourself in more pain."

The chains pulled you even closer to him, until you were practically in his lap, your body pressed against his. He held you there, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive tenderness that made your heart ache.

"You are mine," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Forever."

The reality of your situation settled over you like a suffocating blanket. No matter how much you longed for the mortal world, for the freedom to live as you once had, you were bound to Gale, his power and will inescapable. And as he held you close, whispering words of possession and eternity, you realized that your struggle was not just against the chains that bound you, but against the very essence of your existence by his side.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

The grand hall of Astarion's palace was bathed in opulence, the glittering chandeliers casting a warm, inviting glow over the sea of influential nobles and highborn guests. The air was thick with the heady scent of fine wines and exotic perfumes, mingling with the sound of laughter and music. Astarion, now an ascended vampire lord, moved gracefully through the crowd, his every gesture a blend of charm and predatory grace. By his side, you played the role of his dark consort, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination.

Astarion's intention for the evening was clear: to ply his guests with drink and charm, loosening their tongues to reveal their most guarded secrets. His smile was disarming, his laughter infectious, and soon the nobles were clinking glasses, sharing confidences they would never dare speak in the light of day.

"Stay close," Astarion murmured in your ear as he stepped away to engage a prominent lord in conversation. You nodded, your mind racing. This was the moment you had been waiting for, the moment you had meticulously planned for weeks.

You slipped onto the lively dance floor, the music and swirling bodies providing the perfect cover. Your eyes scanned the crowd, seeking out the person you had chosen—a mortal who bore a striking resemblance to you. With a quick, practiced motion, you swapped overcoats, draping your ornate garment over their shoulders and taking their simpler attire.

Blending in with the guests, you made your way towards the exit, your heart pounding with each step. The freedom of the material plane called to you like a siren song, and the thought of finally escaping Astarion's gilded cage filled you with a desperate hope. As you approached the noble's carriage, you slipped inside, your breath catching in your throat.

But your relief was short-lived. Sitting opposite you, his eyes gleaming with amusement, was Astarion.

"And where do you think you are going?" he asked, his voice a silken purr.Panic surged through you, and you lunged for the door, but his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with an unbreakable grip.

"Let me go!" you cried, but Astarion only chuckled, pulling you back into the carriage.

"I must admit, I'm impressed," he said, his tone one of mock admiration. "Such a clever little scheme. But did you truly think I would ever mistake that wretch for you?" His eyes bore into yours, his amusement fading to reveal a flicker of hurt. "You are mine. My dark consort."

"Spawn," you spat, the word filled with venom. "An imitation of your power, forever forced at your feet."

Astarion sighed, his interest in the conversation waning. "You will be a true vampire one day, once you learn to behave." His grip tightened on your wrist. "Clearly, you are in need of more discipline."

With a swift motion, he pulled you from the carriage, leading you back into the palace. The revelry continued, the guests oblivious to your plight as Astarion guided you to his throne. He sat down, pulling you onto his lap with a possessive grip. His lips brushed against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

You blushed, flustered by the intimacy of his touch. You hated being put on display like this, a taste of your punishment later, you assumed. Though as his lips trailed up your neck, leaving a burning sensation in their wake, your resolve began to waver. The room seemed to close in around you, the sounds of the party fading into a distant hum.

"You belong to me," Astarion murmured against your skin, his breath warm and tantalizing. "And you will learn to accept it."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Naturist Halsin:

You had been planning your escape from Halsin’s grove for a few weeks now. You could not deny the serene beauty of the druid’s sanctuary had been a temporary refuge, but you knew you couldn't stay. The dense forest that surrounded the grove seemed to close in on you, a reminder that this was not your home. You longed for freedom, for the open road and the chance to leave the past behind.

Tonight, the moonlight cast an ethereal glow over the grove, illuminating the path you intended to take. You moved silently through the shadows, careful not to disturb the sleeping druids and the wildlife. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and excitement as you neared the edge of the grove.

But as you stepped beyond the protective circle of ancient trees, a deep voice cut through the night air, freezing you in your tracks.

"And where do you think you are going?"

You turned slowly, dread pooling in your stomach as you faced Halsin. The druid stood tall and imposing, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and disappointment.

"I—I was just going for a walk," you stammered, trying to sound casual.

Halsin chuckled softly, the sound rich and deep. "A walk, you say? At this hour, and with all your belongings packed? Interesting choice."

You swallowed hard, realizing how transparent your lie had been. Halsin's presence was overwhelming, a force of nature unto itself. He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Do you truly think you can deceive me, my heart?" he asked, his tone gentle but firm. "I have watched over you since you arrived here. I know every thought, every plan that crosses your mind."

You tried to back away, but Halsin moved with surprising swiftness, his large hands gently but firmly grasping your wrists. His touch was warm, almost soothing, but the strength behind it was undeniable.

"You cannot run from what binds you here," he murmured, his voice a soothing lull. "Let me show you."

Before you could protest, Halsin began to chant in a language you did not understand. His voice was low and melodic, each word resonating with ancient power. You felt a strange heat building where his fingers gripped your wrists, the warmth intensifying into a searing pain.

You cried out, but Halsin's grip was unyielding. The pain grew, spreading up your arms, as if fire were coursing through your veins. You struggled, attempting to yank your wrists away but it was futile. Halsin was unyielding. The incantation reached its climax, and the burning sensation became unbearable.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain ceased. Halsin released your wrists, and you staggered back, gasping for breath. You looked down and saw intricate floral patterns etched into your skin, glowing faintly in the moonlight.

"What have you done?" you demanded, your voice trembling with fear and anger. Halsin smiled, a serene and knowing smile.

"I have bound you to me," he said simply. "These markings are a part of you now. They will keep you safe, and they will ensure you do not stray far from the protection of the grove, from me,"

You took another step back, turning to run from him but with a mere motion of Halsin’s finger, you felt an invisible force pull you forward. An unseen chain bound to your wrists. You stumbled, falling to your knees before him. The realization hit you like a physical blow—you were bound to him, unable to leave his side.

"Why?" you whispered, tears of frustration and helplessness welling in your eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

Halsin knelt before you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. A thumb brushing a wayward tear from your cheek.

"Because you are important to me, and to the balance of this grove," he said softly. "I cannot let you go, not when you are still in need of guidance and protection."

His touch was tender, and despite your anger and fear, a part of you found comfort in it.

"Stay," he murmured, his voice like a warm blanket enveloping you. "Let me show you the beauty of this world, the peace that can be found in nature’s embrace."

You had no choice but to obey. Bound by his magic, you were a prisoner of his will. Yet as you looked into his eyes, you saw a deep well of kindness and a genuine desire to protect. Perhaps, in time, you would come to understand his reasons - he hoped.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Hehehehehehehe hope you all enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

[bumblebeeappletree]

Every once in a while I’ll see some posts about everyone should become vegan in order to help the environment. And that… sounds kinda rude. I’m sure they don’t mean to come off that way but like, humans are omnivores. Yes there are people who won’t have any animal products be it meat or otherwise either due to personal beliefs or because their body physically cannot handle it, and that’s okay! You don’t have to change your diet to include those products if you don’t want to or you physically can’t.

But there’s indigenous communities that hunt and farm animals sustainably and have been doing so for generations. And these animals are a primary source of food for them. Look to the bison of North America. The settlers nearly caused an extinction as a part of a genocide. Because once the Bison were gone it caused an even sharper decline of the indigenous population. Now thankfully Bison did not go extinct and are actively being shared with other groups across America.

Now if we look outside of indigenous communities we have people who are doing sustainable farming as well as hunting. We have hunting seasons for a reason, mostly because we killed a lot of the predators. As any hunter and they will tell you how bad the deer population can get. (Also America has this whole thing about bird feathers and bird hunting, like it was bad until they laid down some laws. People went absolutely nuts on having feathers be a part of fashion like holy cow.)

We’re slowly getting better with having gardens and vertical farms within cities, and there’s some laws on being able to have a chicken or two at your house or what-have-you in the city for some eggs. (Or maybe some quails since they’re smaller than chickens it’s something that you’d might have to check in your area.) Maybe you would be able to raise some honey bees or rent them out because each honey tastes different from different plants. But ultimately when it comes to meat or cheese? Go to your local farmers. Go to farmers markets, meet with the people there, become friends, go actively check out their farm. See how the animal lives are and if the farmer is willing, talk to them about sustainable agriculture. See what they can change if they’re willing. Support indigenous communities and buy their food and products, especially if you’re close enough that the food won’t spoil on its way to you. (Like imagine living in Texas and you want whale meat from Alaska and you buy it from an indigenous community. I would imagine that would be pretty hard to get.)

Either way everything dies in the end. Do we shame scavengers for eating corpses they found before it could rot and spread disease? Do we shame the animals that hunt other animals to survive? Yes factory farming should no longer exist. So let’s give the animals the best life we can give them. If there’s babies born that the farmer doesn’t want, give them away to someone who wants them as a pet. Or someone who wants to raise them for something else. Not everyone can raise animals for their meat. I know I can’t I would get to emotionally attached. I’d only be able to raise them for their eggs and milk.

Yeah this was pretty much thrown together, and I just wanted to say my thoughts and throw them into the void. If you have some examples of sustainable farming/agriculture, please share them because while I got some stuff I posted from YouTube, I’m still interested to see what stuff I might’ve missed!

[gofishygo]

nikto + reader blurb

notes: mostly fluff, sex mentioned but no explicit scenes, slight body horror (nikto's scars), canon typical violence [mentions], god i love it when characters manage to heal and come to terms with their past and fall in love

honestly hoping n praying that nikto learns to live the softest n slowest life ever after meeting reader.

he's never gotten a day of comfort in his life, not after those interrogations. scared away both women and men in and outside of the military ever since then- face and body already nothing short of brutish and jagged angles, a bulk of muscle and fat that shadowed over every figure, weathered down to a near-macabre sight at the result of warfare. now the right half of his gum is exposed, torn apart by shrapnel and knife carvings that dragged across his face. sliced-off nostrils, yellow teeth poised at the world that had wronged him like a vulture preparing to feast- it was his unfortunate charm, the one that left him so often kicked out of brothels and whispered about in bars and revered in the barracks, smoking freely without disturbance in places where such had been outlawed years ago. of course he sees you- all keen and watching innocently, so starry eyed that it seems to blind you from his nature.

nikto would look down at his hands and see them as none further than machines. structured with bone and flesh to take down targets, but a puppet to the whims of the other voices that thrived only in his head. he was no more than the manifestation of his disorders, only set to take down the corpses that kortac had pointed at, the ones that kortac claimed to have wronged him.

and then you truly slip into his life, all doe-eyed and star-crossed. he thinks its none other than blasphemy, some sort of sick joke when you practically glue to him at the coffee shop, fixed on the crossword puzzles between his calloused hands. prodding around and occasionally chirping answers, some curious, but unfortunate, little thing that ended up right between his jaws. and he tries to spit you out, brush you off- your greetings at bars, parks, streetsides, alleyways none other than ignored with cold eyes and a masked face. but your laugh, sweet words- it trickles between cracks, melts the solute of stone, and soon enough, you're in his bed at seven am, tucked under his arm. he'd given you what you've wanted; held your body as gently as he had the ability to, growled some praise in your ear, let you sob into the pillows.

so he doesn't expect it when you show up at his door once again, oh-so-lovely smile on your face. certainly even more surprised when you keep coming, and cant deny the way his head goes a little fuzzy when he sees the notes you leave while he's in deployments, how you fold his sheets and put some flowers in a vase you'd bought that rested on his kitchen countertop. he leaves the door unlocked now, gives you the keys, and lets you in when the nights are cold.

you teach him things- how to tell if he's dreaming. learns to see his hands as more than accessories to murder, uses them as indicators to split his reality from the ones owned by his voices. you're teaching him how to make coffee and trim flowers and all he is learns is how to look at the world without staining it with blood. but it's okay- you help steady his shaking hands, hold the kettle of boiling water with him, and the weeks eventually unfurl into years.

and now, he wakes up next to you every morning, stays in bed cuddling with you until you reluctantly have to shove him away because although he's retired you still have a job, and he waters the plants and feeds the dogs outside, waiting only until you and the furry critters are well away to smoke. but it is not out of stress, no longer to rid himself of his heads, and more of a bad habit now. and the hole that the lack of conflict has left in him is so filled with you and your smile and your patience, with taking care of the garden, making coffee, helping with your paperwork. the never ending spurr of his voices still keeps him up at night sometimes, leaves him twitching. but it allows him to watch you fall asleep, feel your pulse under his cupped hand, even through the throbbing pain.

this is what life is meant to be like, maybe. taking off his mask and unbuckling the straps so he can feel your lips against what was left of his.

[the-original-skipps]

|| General Headcanons #1 || Suo Hayato || Wind Breaker ||

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:10

PLAY!

just some headcanons about suo I thought of while daydreaming no means canon

disclaimer: repeat this isn’t canon just my thoughts also a lot of these facts I based on some scenes in the manga (spoilers) and his character profile which I will put lastly for reference

❥ Something tells me that our resident teasing master is a rich boy. He owns antique tasseled earrings and I bet his clothes are all high quality and expensive, because where do you buy Chinese styled clothes? Your local H&M ain’t got them. Also I googled hemp and silk made clothes and they ain’t cheap, no means I’m an expert but just saying.

❥ Our resident rich boy lives in a quite a huge house. Imagine those traditional Japanese houses with a huge garden. Said garden where he often mediates, trains and of course have his tea.

❥ Speaking of tea, I bet he has a wide collection of tea leaves from worldwide which I think are imported and hella expensive. Not to mention an array of tea sets with different price ranges from cheap to a tea set served to the previous shogun himself.

❥ I think he’s an only child. I headcanon that his parents or parent is often abroad or away for work for long periods of time. So he spends a lot of his time alone. Household chores or cooking he does them all.

❥ Regarding cooking, he’s an expert-he’s often alone so he has a a lot of free time learning how to make different dishes but does he eat them often? I don’t think so. I think he can cook really well but like he says he’s on a “diet”. Someone feed this boy some food.

❥ Stated in his character profile, it says that he can speak another language besides Japanese. Just guessing but I think it’s either English or Chinese. Please Nii Satoru give us a scene showcasing that!

❥ Huge movie lover, especially foreign films where it’s in a another language. Leonardo DiCaprio might be his favorite actor? He doesn’t have a particular genre he likes, he watches everything from historical to romantic comedy.

❥ I bet he has a strict sleeping schedule, always waking up and sleeping at the same time. His favorite sleeping position is on his back, with his hands on his stomach. Like a corpse. Does he wear his eyepatch to sleep? Not when he’s alone but wears the medical eyepatch if someone is around.

❥ He definitely knows flower language or meaning behind plants. Manga readers you’ll know what I’m talking about.

❥ Probably doesn’t like natto because it smells pretty strong cause he’s pretty sensitive to smells.

[shotmrmiller]

Got a good one I thought of at work today. (Not a request).

You work at a hardware store and one of the boys walks in, we’ll use ghost so this makes sense. Ghost frequently buys items that scream serial killer. Trash bags, shovels, ropes, rocks of different kinds. On occasion he’ll buy something else, but these are the main items. He starts asking you questions one day and it turns out he does a lot of home repair and gardening. Eventually Ghost asks you out on a group date and he shows you his house and yard and the garden. All completely normal. But what you don’t see are the flesh buried under his garden beds. The corpses he has sunk at the bottom of the super deep pond in his back yard that the fish are eating. You don’t see the skeletons he has stashed and waiting to be ground and tossed into his compost.

You also definitely don’t see what he has hidden at houses he’s worked on that will never be traced back to him. And you sure as hell don’t see what Ghost’s friends are doing to help hide each others tracks.

you also find it kind of strange that he keeps asking you what kind of color rug you think would match the walls of the living room best. or if he should put plants around. if yes, what kind? what do you think of the pretty pond in the backyard? what color couches should he get?

no no. he'll have interior decor magazines lying around, open on very specific pages depending on the room it's in. you've an eye for these things, he knows. he's seen your carefully decorated home.

he also knows that you fuss about your own potted plants like a mother would a child. every morning, you spray water on your little succulents and hanging marble pothos. coo at them in that sweet, kind voice he's grown to love over the months he's been watching you through your own cameras.

he's not disappointed when you spot his fern in some forgotten corner, begging for water and some sun. he does tense, however, when you trip over his carefully placed rug, the corner of it folding. luckily, you're a feisty woman on a mission, your eyes locked on his dying plant, so he quickly foots the rug back into place, the faded stain of crimson no longer in view.

he should really switch out his carpet for easier to clean tile.

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Healer

masterlist

viktor x anhedonic!reader [1.4k][AO3]

cw: implied/referenced depression, suicide, suicidal ideation, self harm

summary: Anhedonia set in and the idea of exiting life's stage became all the more appealing. But you've heard about The Healer and perhaps he can save you.

tags: gn reader, S2 Viktor, post-Act 1, anhedonia, angst, depression, suicide, SI, SH, viktor gardening?, reader's just admiring him atp, not betad, not encouraging anybody to join any cult

a/n: idk if vik's abilities extends to making plants appear but for this pretend it does

if you're unfamiliar with what anhedonia is, it's a symptom of a larger condition (can be depression, bipolar, schizophrenia, more), characterised by the inability to experience physical and/or social pleasure. makes existing difficult, like you're dragging so much pointless weight and everything feels high effort, so what's the point.

just a brief description (based on what i've learnt from it in research and experience), so i encourage learning more to get it more in depth if it interests you or sounds too familiar.

You prayed for an easy coax out of the darkness.

The little home of scrap fabric and heartbroken brick you built throughout the years was becoming more and more dilapidated, though its original state had never been of full health to begin with. And like it, your body’s ridges became prominent, visited by unexplained bruises, warmed by the thickened hair on your skin, and yet living on had always been the only option you saw—no, the only option you allowed.

You’d breathed long enough to outlive many of those around you. Whether it was becoming grey-lunged corpses, enforcer punching bags, or a Promenade diver, everybody knew somebody who, sooner rather than later, knelt to kiss Death’s feet. Surrendered. Be it by their own or another’s will.

Then it fell upon you: the swole blanket of indifference, of apathy. It cloaked your mind, buried your defences that was defiance, which had been the only source of survival you’d had left. But snuffed out now.

And how easy it is to think of self-inflicted inexistence when it seems nothing else matters.

Oblivion would whisper in the corner, a demented, deformed dog snarling yet begging your hand’s comfort. Come to me. And you can’t find good reason as to why you shouldn’t.

This… healer—a man whose touch could gild any man’s sick and bestow him a new life, a new body, a new mind—you’re not sure when he arrived. But the whispers morphed to murmurs which morphed to rumours and unfolded itself into your side of the city’s underbelly.

Was he the answer to your prayer?

You made journey to the place you’d heard he’d made camp, and it unfurled before you and stole all expectation and put them to rest. Because for once, the Sumps had colour, had life.

At the centre stood a strange, globular… building? Just like stained glass, its surface was of mute Spring colours, translucent, swirling lattice-work reminiscent of butterfly wing patterns.

He’s a tall thing. A beautiful thing. His metal body cloaked, careful, and coded with grace. Each movement was deliberate, no gaze shared unintentional. How had he come to exist? How had this world birthed your people’s suffering but, as well, him?

You want to laugh at the sick irony. Whoever’s dealing the cards need their hands cut off.

“What ails you?” he asks, giving you such soft regarding you can’t help but be rendered speechless.

In truth, you’re not sure. Physically, you know you’re lacking, but so was everyone so why are you different? In your head there sits a temptress, attempting to lure you to the edge of buildings or blades, but she had no name. No one speaks of her.

The healer tilts his head, seeming to take a better look at you. He looks so kind. Such eyes, opalescent, have seen suffering, and you know it.

“Life,” you give a one-shouldered shrug, smiling. “I… I’m not actually… uh, I don’t know what I’m doing here,” you take a step back.

What had been the point of this? Attempt what? Healing? What’s this man to do?

“No,” he steps closer, his voice swathed in a strange mechanical whir. “Stay,”

You’re sure that by the furrowed desperation on you, it convinces something inside him, as he turns and beckons you with a nudge of his head. So you follow.

Each step he makes creates a heavy thunk beneath him, and though you don’t feel its impact, merely by sound you feel the weight of him. How had he acquired such a body? Modded fingers, let alone limbs, cost years of your wages—you can’t imagine how much his entire body might have cost.

“I can feel something plaguing you,” he begins, shifting slightly to catch a look of you.

You scoff but it doesn’t quite match your face.

“Then what brought you to me?” he shrugs and looks away, leading you to the side of the Sumps where a clear plain rolled out.

You watch as he kneels and reaches for the soil, taking it between metal fingers.

“I’m not sure,” you kneel beside him, shoulders bunching up. “What are you doing?”

He hums, smoothing the ground and creating indents, “I’m assessing,”

You lean forward, folding your arms and hanging your head to look at him.

The metal frames his face, just barely hidden by chestnut waves, curling beneath the jaw and around the ear.

He’s got a rather angular beauty to him, something belonging to scrutiny and studiosity. Even his strong brows follow theme, arched forward in a focused furrow, over narrowed eyes homing iridescent irises. You’re not sure if he’s from this world. Or if the world was gifted him.

Your attention trails back to his hand, and he digs his fingers beneath the soil. Then, hand glowing beneath the metallic muscles, the ground is imbued with a light, where then verdant stems spring alive.

You choke back a gasp, glancing about as the spindly bodies uncurl and reveal yellow petals. Roses?

Whipping back to him, you take note of the glow leaving his eyes, shock threading through your system.

When you glance back at the flowers, now surrounding the both of you, you can’t help but think: logically, how you might have reacted would be with pleasant surprise, glee, even.

Such occurrences, the arcane or a mere flower field, was a coveted sight, and without a doubt you would have felt the surge of optimism. But instead nothing happens. Instead it’s unmet anticipation and expectation sitting at your belly, pooling into grey disappointment.

It’s when you look back to the healer that you realise this disappointment must have shown on your face. He inclines his head so slightly, blinks, as if saying I understand. And he smiles. He smiles and it’s the gentlest thing ever given to you to hold and witness.

You want to crumple, to lay graves for your limbs and disassemble each part that ever dared to exist only to suffer. There used to be anger, and at the very least there was indignation. At topside for their neglect, your parents or finding each other, for finding something beyond the misery and creating you. Where had all such righteous resentment gone?

“Viktor,”

You look up to see the healer’s hand stretched out, asking for yours in return. And you oblige, shaking it gently, before pulling away only to be held with soft restraint.

“You are welcome to stay,” his voice becomes tender, becomes more human almost, aimed purely for your audience. “Even if what torments is not outright seen. I welcome all,”

Your breath comes out long, carrying with it the tired days in the dark. The healer… Viktor makes no acknowledgement of this but just another observant blink, the corners of his mouth slightly tightening.

“Wasn’t gonna die or anything,” you joke, flattening your lips and hoping it registers as a smile, however trying it may appear.

“Eh,” Viktor shrugs, turning his attention to your hand and turning it about as if trying to see new angles. “A slow death is still a death,”

This makes you frown. Why has he assumed? But why is he right?

“The slower it is, the more painful, I think,” he remarks, but he seems almost far away. “As you watch what is left of you wither, and all you can do is… hm, watch,”

Then you understand. Something in your chest tightens as you take in once again all this stranger is. “You’re well-acquainted,” you note, coming out barely as breath and observation, spoken clearer by the narrowing of your eyes than your own voice.

He looks at you again, and something’s changed. His eyes? It seems. There’s something more amber about them, more grounded in this singular hue. “My longest companion,”

You hum, nodding.

There’s a safety in knowing you’re understood, even if they’re not able to fix you. It cloaks you warmer than summer, than any consolation offered in pity—he understands. And perhaps not the very same that brandishes you, but in some aspect he knows.

Which is what makes you ask, “Can you fix me?”

His eyes resume that pearl sheen once again and you’re mesmerised, gaze flitting between each eye in deep investigation—tell me who you are, how you are; tell me how you’ll fix me. Like the field around, the sweet sunshine hues of the roses, to make your land more than just barren.

And he does. He raises his other hand, uncurling, coming to hover by your face. “May I?”

You breath sweeps back in and you nod, leaning forward and connecting his cold fingers to your cheek.

He notes you for a moment, saying nothing, doing nothing. It’s his gaze that makes you feel naked, removed of any pretence crafted carefully. But he shifts his attention and his fingers connected with your forehead, eyes overtaken by a white glow.

Your vision drowns in the white.

a/n anhedonia's been hitting me and this is the only thing i could muster to make so here we gooo. not my favourite, feel like i could've done it better but oh well, least i made something wahooyaaa writing is coping after all 🫵🏼😃🗣️

requests + taglist open!

[this is a reupload, i have no idea why the original post disappeared :''')]

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hi, I was wondering if you could create a scenario where reader is in the garden working and gets hot and sweaty and Donna just becomes a mess and when Reader goes to take a shower and undresses in front of Donna, she just devours her in the shower (smut pls).

Also could you please make Donna G!P?

Thank you!!!!

Yess!!!! Thank you for your request!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!! :))))

Heat

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem, gardener! Reader

Warnings: G!P Donna, smut, Minors DNI, fluff

Word count: 5,199

Summary: It's a hot day and you want to take advantage of that...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!!I love you all!!!

“Okay, okay... You don't like me and I don't like you either,” you said, pacing from one side of the garden to the other. “I know that you were born and raised here, with only one promise in your minds: to take revenge on the woman who took the lives of your ancestors. Well, it's time to decide who is stronger.”

Saying that sentence, as if you were really participating in a witch hunt, demon hunt, or something similar, you triumphantly waved the pruning shears in your hand with a sinister smile.

“Pray now, my dear enemies, because I’ll have no mercy.”

It might seem like you took your job as a gardener too lightly, but in reality, it was quite the opposite.

Luck seemed to smile on you since you were just a little girl, granting you an innate ability for plants. Luck? Oh yes, of course.

In a place like that, in that village lost between mountains, which didn’t know the world and which the world didn’t know, to have a skill beyond knowing how to sew or farm was to consider yourself lucky.

Your friends grew up with you, but none of them were left. Some married, others were sent to the castle to serve Lady Dimitrescu. Others, unfortunately, could not bear the thought of spending the rest of their days praying to Mother Miranda and the Black Gods.

In your youth, you had considered all of those possibilities. Serve, marry or surrender. There were few options and you didn't like any of them. You were never exactly the most faithful of the villagers, nor the most interested in men. You also didn't think giving up was something to be proud of.

No, you hadn't spent your entire life surviving hunger and the Lords of that place only to be dinner for a filthy lycan. Your life was worth much more than that, and that's how you wanted to be seen.

At first it might seem that knowing how to tame a wild garden could only lead you to be part of the castle's army of maidens, but you soon discovered that this curious skill opened different doors for you, the doors of the Beneviento Estate.

A monstrously large woman, a deformed fish man and a crazy man with a factory. Each and every one of the Lords was the reincarnation of any nightmare. All but one.

Unlike her siblings, Donna Beneviento was not huge, she didn’t live in a disgusting swamp and she didn’t experiment on corpses (you thought she didn’t, of course)

She was a lonely and sick woman, according to the villagers. No one who had the audacity to enter the forest and reach her territory had been lucky enough to tell it. You knew that there was no reason to think she wasn't as dangerous as they said, but she didn't seem as terrible as you had heard, especially after knowing her.

Yes, she could be a strange woman, not specially talkative, disturbed and embarrassed by her appearance. But, the danger word didn't appear in your mind when you offered to tend her garden.

Well, okay, maybe you had forgotten to remember that you were the cheekiest girl in the entire village and that an army of Lycans or nightmares wasn't enough to wipe the sardonic smile off your face.

If Donna hired you because of your ability to not fear the fear itself, or on the contrary (and as you later found out) because the garden of that mansion was a complete disaster was not important to you.

The point is you had been working for the Lord for almost a year, and for just over six months you had been totally addicted to her. Yes, you could not see her face, it was strange to hear her talk, but, without knowing how, she began to form a kind of dense cloud between you. A cloud of sexual tension you already took for granted since the first time you heard a shy laugh behind that black veil.

Did you always have to look for the most complicated woman? You couldn't live any other way.

Comments, mockery, hints that weren't so... After so much time behaving that way with the lady in black, you thought you should already be at the bottom of that beautiful waterfall but... No, you were still alive and that shy laugh was more and more frequent.

Were you playing with the most dangerous woman in the village? Of course you were, and you wouldn't stop until that tension dissipated, or until you died trying to get to know Donna Beneviento better, just a bit better. Well, quite a bit, well, until your smile could make her realize your addiction to her presence.

But even if you considered that little game of cat and mouse one of your favorite hobbies, you never neglected your work. That didn't mean that your drama queen skills didn't brighten up the boring task of making that garden stop looking like a jungle.

“Ugh, the sun has taken that warming thing seriously,” you sighed, running a hand over your sweaty forehead, looking at the unusual clear sky of that morning. “But that's not going to stop me,” you said amused, squinting at a corner full of weeds, to which you had already sworn revenge.

Taking off your shirt, leaving you only in a thin tank top, you continued with your work, even though the heat was getting more and more intense.

“A few rays of sun are not enough to stop me,” you growled, bending down to pull a tuft of damaged grass that was resisting your pulls. “You won't be able to beat me, you will never beat (Y/N), the Superhuman and Invincible Plant Warrior... Come on...”

With a strong tug, that rebellious little plant gave way to your hands, but you fell backwards to the ground with a thud.

When you caught your breath, you opened your eyes. The sun was very bright, but it was partially eclipsed by a black figure looking down at you, Donna.

“Superhuman and Invincible Plant Warrior?” the lady murmured, with a low but amused tone, or so you imagined.

“You can call me Plant Warrior, for short,” you said amused, standing up and dusting off your scant clothing. The lady laughed, causing your corners to rise again.

Was Donna really a hobby for you? Was she something else? How did you really feel about her? Too many questions.

“Do you want something, Donna?” you asked elegantly, but with that darkness shadowing your kind smile. “Or did you just want to see me?”

The lady shifted in her place, not responding to the hint that had become routine for a long time. The woman simply shook her head, confused, as she played with her hands in front of her body.

“Today is a hot day,” she commented with that hoarse, soft tone, damaged by lack of use, at least with anyone that wasn’t you.

You nodded, taking off your gloves and moving your tank top to give you some air.

“Yes, I think that if you varnish me a with gravy, in two hours I will be completely done,” you joked, now yes, earning another one of her shy laughs, one of those that you didn't want to stop hearing. “(Y/N) baked… Or better, (Y/N) in her sauce. What do you say?”

“I'm sure you're delicious,” she said, with a dark voice, making your smile grow even more.

“You think so?” you asked, getting a little closer to the woman in black, who made a move to back away, but she ended up staying in her place, as if regretting having made that comment.

“Um, yeah, um, I…” she stammered, clearing her throat and averting her gaze from yours, or so you thought. That damn black veil… “I think you've done enough for today, (Y/N). You are free to leave if you want.”

“Oh, well, I still have that dark corner over there,” you said, scratching the back of your neck, disappointed because that tension didn't seem to want to end, as well as Donna's shyness, which was surely preventing her from disappearing.

“It doesn't matter,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You're going to get sunstroke if you spend another hour out here.”

“I... Okay, okay, you're in charge,” you said with a sigh, with a more serious, sad look that you hoped she would understand. You were deluded, Donna could never understand the complexity of human emotions, but you couldn't blame her for that.

“Wait, (Y/N),” the lady said, running to your side when you grabbed your jacket, ready to return to your lonely cabin, to your life far away from Donna.

You enjoyed that abruptness for a moment and turned around in an elegant manner.

“I, um... Hey, I made some lemonade and... I thought you might like it... You know, it's, it's hot,” the lady stuttered as you walked back to meet her, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, sure,” you said, maybe too quickly.

The lady in black nodded elegantly and turned around, entering the house and timidly gesturing for you to follow her.

The sound of the clock was the only thing that could be heard in the old living room. Sitting at the table, you looked at each other in complete silence while your body refreshed itself with that delicious lemonade. It could be one of those situations that you imagined at night, but you knew it wasn't.

Despite being right where you wanted, next to whom you wanted, shyness appeared in your thoughts, quickly devastated by the impudence with which you lived your life.

“Well...” you whispered, playing with the ice in your glass.

“Well,” she repeated, in an almost inaudible tone, thus showing she was also nervous, like always when she was close enough to your mischievous smile.

There were no more words. The clock's hand was once again the dominant sound of that gloomy mansion. Luckily, the fact you had entered that place for the first time gave you the opportunity to spend time looking at each of those details. It was a huge house, really big, too big for just one woman and her sinister puppet who, mysteriously, showed no signs of life.

“So... Plant Warrior,” Donna murmured, moving the black cloth from her face to take a sip from her glass. You smiled, pouring more liquid into yours.

“Superhuman Warrior,” you corrected, tipping the jug into the lady's glass.

She shook her head and your ears were blessed again with the sweet sound of her low-key laugh.

“Have you ever taken something seriously?” she asked, with an informal tone, but retaining the elegance that was expected from her position as a Lord, something that… Well, it made the sinful sensations that ran through your body only increase.

“Hey, I take it seriously,” you protested, amused, frowning and crossing your arms.

You didn't know why, but that posture made the lady move nervously. You had forgotten that you were only wearing a tank top. Just to think that your shamelessly exposed body was making Donna nervous made the thoughts stop being lustful and become even more lustful. Stop, (Y/N)

“What exactly do you take seriously?” she asked, tilting her head to emphasize she was looking directly at you.

“To work for you,” you answered, hiding your sinister smile behind the glass of lemonade, which was beginning to drip onto your skin.

 Is that why the lady shifted again in her chair with a strange sigh? You wanted to think so.

“Superhuman Warrior?” she asked with a soft tone, implying that there was a smile forming on her mysterious face, a smile that you were dying to see.

“Oh, come on, I just did a little imagination exercise. In this boring village you have to find a way so the shadows don't kill you,” you explained, realizing your mistake immediately. “Um, well, not boring, because thanks to the blessing of the Black Gods and Mother Miranda…”

“Boring, huh?” Donna said, crossing her arms, annoyed by your careless words.

“No, no, no...” you said, moving your hands to emphasize your correction. Too late. “Not boring because… Well, because… It's, it's fun to know when you're going to die torn apart by a lycan and of course, Miranda's masses are very, very funny,” you joked.

“Of course, I'm sure you have a lot of fun,” Donna said, with a slightly darker tone and a superb posture, very attentive to your reaction.

Making a strangely embarrassed face, you scratched your head, searching in the deeps of your mind for some witty response.

“Of course, I'm laughing my ass off,” you said with your eyebrows raised, trying to maintain a calm tone, not being sure if this unusual conversation would serve to understand or study the limits of her patience or simply to put an end to them.

“It's funny,” Donna murmured, nodding, relaxing her posture. You looked at her confused. “I don't remember having seen you in the last… 10 masses.”

“No? Oh, of course, with that thing on your face it's sure hard to see anything,” you joked, closing your eyes because your way of being had overcome the circumstances.

Donna snorted, going completely silent for a moment, frozen in time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, changing amusement for concern. She nodded slowly, resuming her movements.

“I'm sure I haven't seen you, (Y/N),” she whispered, her voice breaking, probably because of your unfortunate comment. “I would remember.”

You faked a smile when you saw that at least that time, you had emerged unscathed from your impudence.

“Yes, yes, the girl who snores in the last row, that's me,” you joked again, drawing another shy laugh from her lips from the lady in black, who shook her head again.

“You have no remedy,” the lady whispered, with an amused tone, which was distorted when your hand ran over the skin just above your neckline, shiny with sweat.

Noticing her incipient nervousness, you did it more slowly, leaning over the table to give her a better view of what seemed to distract her that much.

“Check it next time,” you whispered in a honeyed tone, savoring the words and the slight tremor that shook her glass as she looked away from it.

“Do you want me to prove that you are a liar?” she asked, regaining her composure at the indiscreet vision of your soaked body, of your… too noticeable feminine attributes.

“Non si può mai sapere,” you sighed, happy for having found the perfect situation to say that phrase that you had been rehearsing for days.

Donna laughed, moving her body subtly, crossing her arms.

“Nice try,” she whispered with a dangerous, somewhat dark tone. As always, it was impossible for you to know if a smile adorned her face or rather your horrible pronunciation had offended her. You hoped it was a beautiful smile.

“I'm doing my best,” you said, taking another sip of lemonade while raising and lowering your eyebrows mockingly.

“I'm not going to raise your salary because you learn Italian, (Y/N),” she said, imitating your gesture with an overwhelming calm, like everything she did.

“Come on, I've been learning for months,” you joked with a smile that looked like a pout. “I already know how to say hello and goodbye.”

“It's the same word.”

“Yes, but… What a word...” you said, shaking your head, putting on an intellectual face, something you didn't know how to do at all.

Again, her soft, velvety laugh reached your ears like the best of balms.

Silence fell on you like a heavy weight, one that forced you to lower your shoulders and your gaze.

“I would like to know something else about you,” Donna murmured, with a sigh inaudible to ordinary mortals, but not to you, who looked up surprised by that phrase that came from nowhere.

“Oh, um...” you murmured, a bit confused.

“Do you feel uncomfortable?” she asked suddenly, probably seeing your doubtful and surprised attitude.

“No, no, no, not at all, it's just that...” you said, with a fake smile, controlling the nerves that were beginning to rise through your heated body. “Well, I'm not used to you being interested in me.”

“Do you think I'm interested in you?” the lady asked, with a superb posture again. You frowned, but kept that smile. Again, she had gotten nervous.

“You just said you wanted to know things about me. That's being interested,” you joked with a dark voice, leaning discreetly again. “Or maybe… You are interested in other things about me…”

“Yes, I mean, no,” Donna stammered, uncomfortable with the indiscreet exposure of your sweaty body to her gaze. “Why are you that way?”

“What way?” you asked, feigning disorientation. “I was born with this body.”

"No, no," Donna interrupted, defensively putting her hands in front of her torso. “Why are you so...?”

“So…?”

“Uhg, so… You,” she finally said, shaking her head, her chest rising and falling due to her heavy breathing. Maybe you were pulling the rope too tight, maybe not.

You shrugged, with an expression of not knowing what she meant. Playing with fire, that was the greatest of your hobbies.

“Are you nervous, my lady?” you said with a sensual tone, with a look that could easily melt the ice in your glasses.

“Don't call me...” Donna protested, gently hitting the table with her fists. “… My lady. You know I hate it.”

“Um...” you murmured, pretending to look away as you moved your top to give some air to your heated body, a sight that Donna didn't want to miss, but from which she immediately looked away, embarrassed and shifting nervously in the chair.  “Do you know what I hate?”

“No,” the lady in black responded, with a dry, abrupt tone, thus revealing her obvious discomfort.

“The beautiful women who cover their face,” you murmured, with that slight hope that her nervousness and your impudence would have an effect on the lady.

Donna growled, looking away for a moment. She seemed thoughtful and the room fell silent again under your watchful gaze.

“Yes, I meant you,” you commented amused, leaning back in the chair, rocking it carelessly. Donna shook her head, crossing her arms again.

“You are unbearable,” the lady whispered, bringing her trembling hands to her veil. You widened your eyes, not believing your stupid words had any effect. Maybe she felt something similar to what you felt, even if you still weren't sure exactly what it was.

Slowly, that horrible black veil disappeared from your vision, revealing a beauty far superior to what you imagined. Perfect features, a face destroyed by a horrible scar that you barely paid attention to. Donna was so much more than you expected.

Your smile reached your lips and your eyes reflected the visual pleasure of her hidden beauty, an unimaginable one, which made you seriously think about whether it was really lustful addiction, or love.

“Just what I thought,” you murmured, feigning disinterest.

“What?” she asked, making an attempt to cover herself again, something you prevented by reaching out your hand and gently grabbing her wrist.

“You're beautiful, Donna,” you whispered, keeping your gaze on that bright eye, full of insecurities and fear of your reaction.

“Don't you get tired of lying?” she asked with a brusque tone, breaking free from your grip and leaving the cloth on the table, with a look of panic that predicted an imminent nervous breakdown.

No, that wasn't going to happen while you were there.

“Show me that I'm not lying, come on... Smile,” you asked with a pleading look. Your fun attitude towards life was like a lifesaver in the middle of the ocean. You weren't safe, but at the same time you were.

Her reaction was immediate and the light of her smile reached your gaze.

“You see? What a beautiful smile you have...” you sighed, holding her hand again at her nervous look, at that smile that was twisted by your caresses on her skin.

After a few moments in which the tension was already overwhelming, she released herself from your grip, from your soft fingers, standing up from the chair.

“I think, I think I have stolen you too much time, (Y/N),” Donna murmured, looking at the floor, avoiding at all costs looking at your face, or your body. “You should go home.”

“Mm,” you murmured, nodding a bit disappointed, tilting your head toward the window, where the sun was shining tirelessly. “If I don't get roasted along the way...”

“Wait,” the lady interrupted, grabbing your wrist just as you grabbed your stuff. “Ma, maybe you want to take… A shower, you know, to cool off. I wouldn't want you to get sick.”

“Oh, it’s a good idea,” you said satisfied, pretending to think of an answer you already had.

Again, silence. You looked at the lady expectantly, and she discreetly looked at the corners of your body. Poor thing, she had perhaps forgotten she was no longer wearing the veil and you could see where her eye was going.

“Ahem,” you said, stamping your feet impatiently, startling Donna, who shook her head as if she were coming out of a fantasy.

A fantasy about you? Hopefully…

“Oh… What?” she stammered, confused.

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Tell me where the bathroom is. Or do you prefer to wash me by yourself?” you hissed with a purr, leaning into her ear. She laughed, gasping displeasure at your flippant comment.

“Come,” she said simply, turning around elegantly and leading you towards the stairs.

You walked slowly, taking a curious look at the portrait that adorned the wall. What a horrible picture. Donna was beautiful in person, just the way she was.

“Towels,” she pointed out once in the bathroom, handing you said objects abruptly. You nodded passively. “And, well, I suppose you know how a shower works.”

“No, normally I wait for it to rain to wash me,” you said sarcastically, leaving the towels in the sink and winking at her. She laughed nervously, looking away from you.

“You never take anything seriously...” Donna whispered, shaking her head.

You blinked mockingly and reached for your top, which fell off you with a gasp of relief. Donna gasped in surprise.

“What are you doing? Can't you wait for me to leave?” she asked offended, looking anywhere except your now exposed torso.

“Do you want to leave?” you asked, walking slowly towards her, running a hand over the exposed skin of your chest. “I think you are comfortable here.”

She shook her head, unable to stop her gaze from going straight to your glistening breasts, sighing nervously.

“(Y/N), no...” the lady protested when your steps got too close, when your gaze went down her body.

“Mm, how nervous you got, huh?” you purred, leaving subtlety aside, taking her trembling hand to run over your bare skin, something that, fortunately, she didn’t prevent, breathing with increasing difficulty.

“You make me nervous, (Y/N),” she murmured, closing her eye due to the closeness of your lips to hers.

You brushed against them, caressed them without kissing them, making Donna squirm in frustration. Your eyes opened to study her trembling, the closeness of her body to yours. A smile spread across your face as you saw a deformity at the bottom of her dress, a small bulge that betrayed her arousal.

“Well, well, well... You still keep a secret, huh?” you whispered, biting her ear to distract her from the caresses that went down her waist until you touched her erection with the palm of your hand, caressing it through the fabric “A big one…”

“Stop, I...” she protested, moving away from your libidinous touch, one that made her breathing even more complicated.

“You're sweating, Donna,” you murmured, not accepting her nervousness, her embarrassment. “Maybe you should take a shower too.”

She shook her head, covering the bulge of her dress with her hands, trying unsuccessfully to escape your gaze.

“I, I, I, I'll wait for you outside,” she said, turning to hide her blush, her excitement, all those things that you didn't think she could feel with you. You resist, shrugging your shoulders.

“As you wish, but there's room here for both of us,” you hummed, taking off your underwear, letting it fall to the floor as a challenge. Donna turned slightly to admire the sight in front of her and ran out of the room.

“Next time I won't make it so easy for you,” you hissed to yourself, turning on the faucet and feeling relief from the cool water that fell on your body.

As if you hadn't been about to do something so dangerous with a dangerous woman, you washed yourself calmly, humming songs you heard one day. At least until the bathroom door swung open and you frowned.

“Cazzo, (Y/N)...”  Donna gasped, getting rid of her shoes erratically while her hands undid the buttons on her dress.

“Have you forgotten something, my lady?” you asked amused, continuing to rub your body to tease her even more. Donna growled, quickly undressing and entering the shower next to you, pushing you against the wall.

“Shut up,” she ordered you nervously, just before grabbing your face in her hands and kissing you wildly, unexpectedly. You smiled, trying to tame those anxious, erratic kisses, trying to grab her waist, rubbing yourself against her body under the cool water of the shower.

Everything happened so fast that you didn't even stop to think about your victory, the one that you matured for months, that you worked on in subtle and not so subtle ways until the brunette's defenses collapsed at the sight of your body damaged by the heat.

The kisses were tireless, the kisses traveled to every possible corner. There was nothing but you and Donna in that small shower, nothing but a simmering burning desire, one that tasted better than the most delicious of delicacies.

The caresses, although they were naughty, were also dedicated to exploring every part of Donna's body, a body always hidden by a black as dark as the night, like a veil that extended beyond the one that covered the beauty of her smile.

The gasps were camouflaged with the sound of the water rushing against the floor, the humidity of the cold water joined with your saliva mixed in those burning kisses, in the sighs, in the gasps, in the moans that came when her hips brushed yours, impatiently.

“Turn around and lean,” the doll maker ordered you, with a firm voice that showed the authority of a village Lord.

Had you been playing with her so much that she had lost her usual elegance and delicacy? It didn't surprise you, nor did you care, you just wanted to have her, her to have you. At that moment you just wanted to be for her, you just wanted to exist for her.

With a mischievous laugh and a defiant look, you obeyed, leaning over the tiles. It didn't take long for Donna to move, standing behind you, hugging your body, your breasts, rubbing, feeling, squeezing every part she could touch, every inch that now belonged to her.

“Please, my lady...” you said, biting your lip, bringing her hips closer to yours, rubbing her erect shaft, eager to explore your wetness.

“Don't call me...” she growled, giving you an unexpected hair pull as she discreetly fulfilled your wishes, entering you with a gentle movement, letting your body adapt to her size. “… My lady.”

“As you wish, my lady,” you teased, moaning at the feeling of her shaft running through your wetness, sliding between your walls without any difficulty. Donna laughed in annoyance, moving abruptly, probably as punishment for your audacity.

“You don't learn, do you?” she said, when your walls stretched enough to allow a constant rhythm, a wave of pleasure that your body accepted willingly, compensating you for all those nights when you imagined something like this.

You shook your head as you moaned at those perfectly calculated movements, at the feeling of her nails digging into your hips while hers moved rhythmically, stopping just when you needed it most.

Donna also stopped talking, replacing the words, the soft reprimands with tremendously sensual moans, discreet but eager, almost as much as her erection inside your body, wanting to touch every inch of your depths, wanting to mix with your overflowing moisture.

It was frenetic, terribly erotic and sensual. Nothing like what you had experienced before. You couldn't tell if those new sensations were purely due to sex.

Maybe in your life you were never so lucky to make love with someone for that very reason, for love. Yes, it was time to recognize the evidence. You were crazy about Donna. The question was: was she crazy about you? Her body said she was.

“Donna...” you said, with the sound of the water camouflaging your voice, not enough for the brunette to lower the intensity of her thrusts and moans, stopping digging her nails into your skin to gently caress your back, making that those little cramps you were beginning to feel to became more and more intense.

A moan was her response, while her hips resumed their movements so as not to lose the pleasant sensation of being inside of you, of sliding over your body as if it were hers. Certainly, it already was.

“(Y/N)... Sto per venire…” she whispered, changing that constant rhythm for a more erratic, more intense one, which made you close your eyes and let her hands hold your body while you let yourself be carried away by the sensations that, for you, were already enough for you to release.

“Fuck, yes!” you moaned when your orgasm finally made its way through your body, making your walls dance around her, thus causing her own release, which made a humid, burning heat contrast poetically with the cold water.

The water now only muffled your nervous breathing. Your body relaxed as Donna pulled out of you, making that obscene heat run down your leg, joining the water that ended its way into the drain.

Slowly, you turned around, kissing the brunette without giving her a second to breathe, hanging on to her body, caressing her cheeks, her waist, everything you could and your body allowed after the ecstasy.

“(Y/N)... I know I can be a… Killjoy… But, but… I'm in love with you,” she told you, moving away from your tireless kisses for a moment.

“I think that's pretty obvious,” you joked, making the lady shake her head, with a tired sigh.

“No, it is not. I'm not a woman who just wants to... Have a good time,” she explained, turning off the shower so you could hear her voice clearly.

“Well, we had a good time,” you continued joking, hanging on to her neck.

Donna rolled her eye with a tired sigh.

“If you don't feel the same, I want you to tell me,” she said with a more serious tone, cupping your face in her hands, implying that this was not the time to joke. It never was.

“Donna, I'm crazy about you.”

[odditycircus-2002]

Medusa! Reader and Shang Tsung in MK 1 (Part 1)

NEXT

SPOILER ALERT FOR MK 1 STORYMODE

A/N: I hope y'all like this as I've been hyped for this game since I heard its release!!! I was so excited for the possibilities that I watched the full storymode cut as soon as it came out to take notes! Be aware, given this is a new timeline, there ARE gonna be some changes from the other hc/s you've known, but rest assured that doesn't mean I have forgotten. Please enjoy!

You were born around the same northern canton as Shang Tsung, yet you would come to know him in adulthood. You were born as the second eldest to your village's apothecary during your childhood. You never knew your eldest sister, who was taken at infancy to become Umgadi; despite this, your mother always spoke highly of the daughter she never got to know. To the point of being grating to everyone around you, including yourself. On the other hand, your father had high hopes for you to someday take over the apothecary of your village, having seen your innate talent and intrigue for medicine from an early age.

You reveled in the pride your father expressed for you. Although, your mother gave you a different time of day despite your best efforts. Because of your frustrations, you would come across to others as prickly and shrewish. Although deep down, you just wanted a chance to make BOTH your parents proud.

That day came, but not in the way you truly hoped, when a plague struck your village from another nearby canton. Thankfully, it wasn't Tarkat, but that didn't make the one that came any less deadly.

You and your father worked day and night to help treat your village, giving them depleting medicine to ease their symptoms. However, that doesn't mean you didn't have your fair share of corpses you had to help burn to stifle the plague from spreading.

When your father became ill from overworking, you took it upon yourself to search for a cure. It took weeks of secretly digging corpses out of the burn puts and cutting them open (something that wasn't so hard for you to stomach, oddly) to find which combinations of elixirs were the most effective before you found a cure. Even then, it took weeks of trials and tribulations before you finally succeeded. However, to others, you seemed to have cured your village overnight by some miracle, making both your parents proud.

From then on, through the grapevine, it wasn't hard for the newly crowned rulers of Outworld, Sindel and Jerrod, to hear the word of an upcoming healer making a name for herself around the northern cantons by healing most ailments and diseases. Eventually, they would invite you to study at the palace to further your knowledge of medicine.

You were already stunned to hear of Outworld's rulers inviting YOU, of all people, to study at their palace. Imagine your amazement when you first saw the luscious and lively city of Sun Do. Yet the city seemed pale compared to the crown jewel of Sun Do Palace.

When you were escorted into the palace, instead of immediately heading into the throne room as instructed, you slipped away from Li Mei's watch to head toward the legendary Hanging Gardens. While exploring the garden's flora, you took the time to sketch out the plant life you've never seen to look up later. In fact, you were so caught up in what you were doing you didn't immediately acknowledge Empress Sindel when she entered. When she invited you inside for tea, did you finally look up from what you were doing and realize who you had spoken to the entire time.

You quickly bowed as you started to ramble out apologies for not properly greeting your Empress, stating how you meant no offense or disrespect. Sindel only gave a small chuckle and brushed it off, stating it was a relief to know the healer they invited to study here had so much potential. From there, after getting berated by Li Mei about how there won't be a next time for you to slip from her, you meet Jerrod.

Jerrod and Sindel watched you flourish into a benevolent and dedicated healer, eventually the Head Healer for the Palace, often treating the royal family, Imperial Guard, or Umgadi. While there, you were also trained by Li Mei herself to defend yourself, to prove that every member of the Imperial House is capable of defending Outworld.

You and Sindel grew to have a close friendship. In fact, you treated Sindel the most when she was pregnant with twins and watched as both came into the world. You, too, helped with the upbringing of Mileena and Kitana after Jerrod's death. Sindel found she could confide in you, knowing any secret with you is safe, assured in your loyalty to her and the royal house.

However, that's not to say your friendship with Sindel didn't get into trouble occasionally, specifically in matters concerning Tarkat and those afflicted with it, as your role as a Healer conflicts with Sindel's policies.

You took it upon yourself to become one of the lead researchers into Tarkat, including going to the colony of those afflicted in the Wastes. What you saw appalled you and sickened every part of you that is a Healer.

Yet, as Sindel continues to ignore your suggestions on improving Tarkatan's life, a wedge forms between you. That doesn't stop you from advocating giving Tarkatans better treatment than what they currently have. You and Sindel's skirmish reaches a crescendo when Mileena, infected with Tarkart, one day approaches you.

You tried everything you could to treat her in secret from Sindel, fearing the Empress would banish her own daughter. Yet neither of your efforts would be successful as Sindel and Kitana eventually learned about Mileena's affliction. You and Sindel argued about how Mileena's illness should be dealt with, with you calling Sindel a hypocrite for protecting Mileena when she doesn't do the same for the rest of her sick subjects.

Thanks to the new sorcerer, Shang Tsung, that Mileena found, she was temporarily cured before she could go on a bloody rampage. Immediately, you asked Shang how he figured out how to treat Mileena's symptoms. To which he answered by offering a partnership, stating that together, you both had a real chance to cure the princess and all of Outworld. An invitation you were not going to turn down, much to the Sorcerer's delight.

Thanks to Shang Tsung backing your argument, Sindel had a laboratory built near the Tarkatan camp so you could further your studies for a cure. Although, secretly, it may have also been a way for you to put some distance between you and Sindel since you felt you needed time away from her and the city.

Shang Tsung introduced you to Syzoth, who he claimed would work as an assistant. You were unaware of his enslavement to Shang. Although more at ease in your presence, you couldn't help but notice how twitchy Syzoth can be, especially whenever Shang is in the room.

You recognize Shang's mannerisms, dialect, and choice of clothing to be from the same area you're from. Despite the familiarity you two connected with, you were wary of Shang when he refused to indulge in what he used to be. While he finds your caution understandable, that would not stop him from trying to woo you.

At first, he wasn't quite successful in using honeyed words and shiny trinkets since you were too caught up in your work to care for them. Frustratingly for him, you struck a faster friendship with Syzoth over your interests in each other's cultures. Yet, it didn't escape Shang's notice that Syzoth would cringe at your dark humor and be unable to fully understand the theories you would share with him.

Shang Tsung changed his approach to you after taking note of you and Syzoth's interactions (and punishing Syzoth in private). He got this chance when you let slip a dark joke that some would say is in bad humor. You slap a hand over your mouth when you realize what you said. Yet, to your surprise, the sorcerer you saw as pretentious and full of himself let out a genuine laugh to the point he had to step back from his worktable to reorient himself.

Shang Tsung didn't fake finding you humorous especially when it meant seeing you direct your smile toward him. One small but genuine one he scarcely ever saw directed at him. He found himself wanting more.

Such a small moment led to a friendship that intertwined with your partnership. Shang got you talking about your work and what you hope to accomplish with it, occasionally encouraging you. You would find him sometimes jotting down notes when you share with him theories you developed about Tarkat, including how its mutative properties cause an excessive amount of bone to grow from a person and could probably strengthen a person if used right.

"Yet, I would never actually see if that's true. Not only would it be incredibly painful, but it would be an act against nature.

"Of course, yet shouldn't progress be something healers should strive for?

"Indeed we do, but not at the cost of lives."

Syzoth watched as your relationship with Shang Tsung flourished, thus leading you to share a few apothecary secrets your father taught you. The Zatteran wishes he could've told you about the man you looked fondly at, yet he kept his mouth shut.

Unbeknownst to you, Shang Tsung would take some of your ideas and theories with Tarkat and then make them into a horrid reality, all right under your nose. For all you knew, the basement level of the lab would eventually be used to treat patients.

Yet, you didn't think Shang Tsung could ever be so depraved. Not from the charming and intelligent man you came to know through long discussions and walks near the lab. However, you started to grow suspicious since you saw Syzoth often head downstairs, but Shang Tsung discouraged you from looking around below. This eventually spiraled into a confrontation between the two of you.

You argued that both of you are partners and thus are equals. Just, what was he hiding down there? However, when you confronted the Sorcercer and gave him a piece of your mind, that's when disaster struck.

Fed up with Shang Tsung dancing around the answer and his secretiveness, you marched right to the door leading to the lower levels of the Laboratory. Out of desperation, Shang Tsung then ran to your side to push you away from the door.

He only meant to push you hard enough to get you away from the door, but it was enough to push you directly into a shelf containing a glass jar containing proto-type Anti-Tarkat serum that fell directly on your head, followed by more unknown serums. You screamed at the searing pain of glass and the liquids entering your eyes.

Your skin started to peel away, leaving your entire body in patches of red rashes, and your hair fell out in clumps. Your screams filled the entire laboratory as you collapsed to the ground. You didn't see the panicked look on Shang's face as he instructed Syzoth (who saw the whole thing) to carry you.

A/N: Sorry, that's all for now, folks. I reached the word count limit.😅 Don't worry, part 2 is coming out real soon!

[iveriee]

★;CATEGORY: A yandere x Reader

★;PAIRING: Yan!Tom Riddle x Gn!Reader.

★;SUMMARY: In which, he gets utterly envious of your s/o.

★;PS: This contains severe mentions of abusive and obsessive behaviours, Henceforth if you are uncomfortable with any of such topics, Please do not read this. I do not encourage toxic behaviour and this is only a work of fiction. I'm aware that I should be writing Part 3 of the Yule Ball fic, However, I've decided not to continue it. I deeply apologize, i just did not have any ideas on how to continue it. However, if you have any sort of suggestions, please let me know. I'll write anything as long as it's relevant and appropriate. I understand the anxiety of requesting a scenario at times, I quite literally am terrified of doing so myself.

★;EXTRA QUESTION: What's your favorite Taylor Swift song and why?

To say your life was mundane would be an understatement—Boredom filled your senses, even if it was Hogwarts you were attending. But perhaps, the truthful reason was that you did not share any classes with s/o/n. Your state was truly pitiable, Words engraved on pages were mere symbols to you—Questions, Paragraphs,Instructions, Incantations, etc all demolished right out of your mind like a prompt broom. The ending of classes were one of the only things that brought you joy. On a fretful Tuesday, you hurried out of the dungeon, sprinting profusely, eventually concluding by frisking right on s/o/n, legs enclosed on their waist.

"[Name]?" They questioned, astonished by your actions.

"I really missed you..." You murmured in response. "I wish we had classes together. I don't particularly enjoy studying anymore.."

Their expression configured into a frown. "[Name], you know you have to study. I don't want you to fail." Their hands found the route to your hair, fondling it dotingly(which, of course, made you grin) only to place you back on the ground.. "Please. I only want what's best for you." They added delicately.

However, you were not even aware of the most crucial thing. In the midst of your affections with s/o/n, You had been utterly and completely examined by none other than Tom Riddle. His envy and infatuation had been rooted extensively, like a coping plant—growing and growing until it surpasses the garden, destroying it in the process. He had harboured a bitter hatred towards s/o/n, so much so it turned into desires of murder. Why couldn't you comprehend how much he was better than them? He was the ideal student...with precisely placed dark curls, a charismatic (albeit untrue) smile, excellent grades, beloved by everyone..And so in many's eyes, even flawless...could it perhaps be that you were aware of his true nature? No. It simply was not decipherable. You could not have been aware. However, he should focus on you at this moment...he told himself..(or perhaps reassured?)... He could have perhaps done anything for you, anything to please you,whether it was unjust or not, yet this was what he received in turn? Perhaps he should have tortured you until you submitted. But then again, he could not watch you sobbing.

So, henceforth, it all led to you weeping nevertheless. The exception being that it was over s/o/n's corpse, not wounded, not varnished but frigid. Cold. Their eyes were vacant, no longer were they gazing at you gently. And they never would.Never again would you sprint to them after class and embrace them.... s/o/n was dead. And tears crowded your eyes, plummeting down your cheeks. How could somebody be so vicious? How could somebody use the killing curse on them without a second thought? Why was the world so brutal? Perhaps..you should have studied. After all, they did not wish for you to fail in your O.W.LS...

And so Riddle concealed his smirk and approached you, his ego calloused when you did not turn your gaze at him. His hand idled on your shoulders, in an almost comforting manner. "I sincerely apologise for your loss, [Last name]." He murmured, almost seductively if it weren't for your grief. Mine he wondered to himself. They are rightfully mine.

[shadowshrike]

Astarion on Halsin Leaving

I can't stop thinking about Astarion's lines when Halsin chooses to leave your party, so have a fun mini-analysis. Note that this text is pulled via datamining because I don't have all the appropriate saves atm. Since the context of your personal story is everything in this game and can wildly change how lines come across, please take my thoughts here as a fun exercise with the text and nothing more.

I think the things that are needed to fully understand where my head is at regarding his lines are two fold:

1. How Astarion talks about other companions leaving

Shadowheart and Wyll can both also leave in Act 2. His responses are as follows.

Astarion: I don't see what Shadowheart got so upset about - it was not that nice of a temple.

For Shadowheart he gently deflects the crux of the matter. This isn't surprising because he is a master of minimizing other people's grievances when he thinks they're legitimate but inconvenient. Otherwise, he responds fairly mildly.

Astarion: So, that's how the legend ends. The Blade of Frontiers, cast down to the Hells. Hardly a fitting ending. But so few are.

Unlike Shadowheart, Wyll is forced to leave by being dragged to the hells. There's no justification he needs to rebuff for Wyll leaving the party's side, so instead, he uses it to double down on his philosophy that 'nice guys finish last and the world is a dangerous and horrible place.' Which, ironically, is not entirely unreasonable given the circumstances.

2. How other companions talk about Halsin leaving

The Good companions don't blame Halsin for leaving. Wyll even blames himself for not doing enough. Karlach also regrets the loss of another strong person around, reminding us once again that Halsin is physically imposing in the narrative, even if the stats say otherwise because of how D&D balance works.

Gale: Druids will always follow nature's purpose over any mortal threat. Halsin goes where he is needed, as must we.

Jaheira: Halsin long urged the Harpers not to abandon this land to the curse. I cannot blame him, for being unable to bear it a second time.

Wyll: I can't blame Halsin for leaving. We could have, should have, done more for him and for the cursed lands. They may never again feel the breathe of life on them. What a shame.

Karlach: Pity about Halsin. I was getting used to having an extra Strong around. He smelled nice, too. Like outside.

(Fun fact regarding Karlch's comment: Astarion has a line where he refers to Halsin as "musky bear-fellow" - musky is also the word used to describe the attractive smell of corpse flowers - and Halsin's underwear smells like an herb garden according to its flavor text. Apparently, the guy canonically smells really good?)

Even Shar Path Shadowheart expresses regret in losing Halsin. Not because she wants to end the Shadow Curse, but because Halsin's nice to look at.

Shadowheart: This land remains cloaked by Lady Shar's power - good. A shame it cost us Halsin as a travelling companion though. He may have been misguided, but I liked looking at him.

That brings us to...

Astarion's tantrum over Halsin leaving

Go ahead and listen to it yourself first, and then I'll dive into both lines.

Astarion: Just like that hulking bear to stomp off in a huff. I swear, druids care more about the plants of this land than the people.

"Just like that hulking bear to stomp off in a huff."

This first statement is not only indignant and deflecting, it's so factually false that it's laughable. Halsin is always calm and regretful when staying behind no matter how you treat him.

Player: You have to come - I need you. Halsin: This place needs me. I wish it were different - I truly do. As long as the curse remains, so must I.

Player: Do as you wish. Halsin: This isn't what I wish. It's simply the way it has to be - I'm sorry.

Player: The shadow curse was always your burden - not mine. Halsin: Yes, and so it must remain. I wish you success on your path. Had things been different, I might have walked it with you.

Player: Perhaps we can still do something to lift the curse. Halsin: No. If you linger, you'll only jeopardise your own mission. This is my burden alone now until either the curse is lifted, or I breathe my last.

Halsin is renowned for letting people treat him horribly and taking it on the chin. Him pushing back is usually related to calmly setting boundaries or expectations. The only times I can think of offhand where he raises his voice in anger is with Kagha, if you interfere with the portal, and briefly after certain parts of the Evil companion routes, though not as intensely (I might do a write-up on that later because his reactions are interesting). He certainly never "stomp[s] off in a huff", and he's not doing it now either.

However, the way this is worded gives me pause. Because "just like [him]" said so angrily gives the impression that Halsin has reacted this way to Astarion before. Given Astarion's habit of rewriting exactly how events went down to absolve himself of accountability, it makes me wonder if Astarion's tried to get a rise out of Halsin in camp and been shut down. Since Halsin is the only Good companion at that point who is also old and worldly enough to not get flustered by Astarion's cruelty, mind games, and flirting, it wouldn't surprise me if Astarion has built up resentment. Halsin refuses to be manipulated or confirm Astarion's cynical worldview, and Astarion isn't ready to consider changing his mind with Cazador on the horizon.

"I swear, druids care more about the plants of this land than the people."

This is, again, a false statement wrapped in a little more truth than the first. Druids are indeed infamous for putting nature above humans (see: Shadow Druids), and Halsin talks a big game about Balance and Nature. However, Halsin is probably the most people-oriented traditional druid we see in the game, going so far as to cause chaos in his grove by aggressively taking in refugees and personally traveling with an undead and servant of Shar because they need help. He chooses people over Silvanus' classic teachings so often that it's fascinating.

That aside, given what the shadow-cursed lands are doing to anyone on the way to Baldur's Gate, choosing to stay and attempt to lift the curse is hardly serving plants over people - the Absolute and the Shadow Curse are both significant threats to people. What Halsin is doing, however, is prioritizing his own problems over those of Astarion. He's setting aside the tadpole cause, not because he's selfish or duplicitous, but because he's not willing to abandon the other people he swore to help a century ago and has obsessed over ever since.

Some fun implications

Given all this information, there are many interesting ways to read Astarion's language beyond a surface "he hates Halsin and/or druids" level (gotta love his charlatan background making almost every line capable of ambiguity). Some personal favorite interpretations of his feelings:

Begrudging affection towards Halsin. Astarion has no reason to get so angry and make such absurd statements if he didn't want Halsin to stay. He certainly didn't make such a big fuss about other companions. However, since Astarion isn't in an emotional place to be able to consider Halsin's worldview seriously now that he's staring down Cazador, that admiration gets bungled into a "well screw you, I didn't like you anyway" attitude, much like how he handles some partner breakups.

Resentment and fear of being left behind or rejected. Astarion is selfish. He's been fairly consistent that he doesn't want to help others, but he also hates when no one helps him. That self-fulfilling prophecy is a rather large part of how he moves through (un)life and can easily continue through Act III depending on whether your dialog choices give him an opportunity to express it. Seeing a good person that he truly believes is good choosing something else over him makes the 'truth' of this cynical, self-centered worldview sting harder, especially as he is at his most vulnerable heading into Baldur's Gate.

Guilt for not doing more. Halsin has been clear about his priorities from the start. He's one of the most straightforward, reasonable communicators in the whole game. That means Astarion knew he would leave if the Shadow Curse wasn't lifted, especially since Halsin doesn't have a tadpole and, therefore, has no reason to risk his life for them. Since Astarion is almost universally unwilling to take blame for his own actions or inactions, he's trying to push the responsibility onto Halsin by painting him as unreasonable for following through on his stated priorities rather than let himself feel bad about not helping Halsin.

I'm sure there are even more readings you can think of, too. Hats off to this hidden bit of dialogue, the incredible delivery, and how much depth it brings to a relationship which is easy to ignore.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Had this thought about yandere husband gardener where he buries the corpse of ppl on his very VERY large garden who tries to take his wife!reader away and reader always sees her husband he always do gardening weirdly at night when in reality he was burying a body. And if garden is already full of corpses why not bury it on the woods nearby.

I love this!!! I believe something similar happened in the movie Secret Obsession? It's such a perfect idea.

I imagine more of a househusband who loves gardening, cooking, etc. So his... skills arent all that questionable. Why does he have a bone saw and multiple different drills? Well to cut up meats and such for your dinners of course! The sudden growth of your garden and the mysterious 7 foot holes that seemed to pop up out of nowhere? Well its growing season honey it's time to plant!It's always a liiitttle bit of a stretch, but just believable enough for you not to question it. He may come back to bed with flecks of blood and dirt occasionally, but doesn't it give him the manly musk you admire so much?

I can definitely see him as the more homely, scruffy type with dad glasses and disheveled hair. He's got a cheesy 'kiss the cook' pink apron for when hes making you homemade meals, and a dark black one for when hes disposing of his victims.

He just loves you so much-- and cant help but say it at any moment of every day that he can. There isnt a lack of love in your relationship-- that's for sure. But you always feel like something is missing, like theres something wrong but you cant pinpoint it. Maybe it's because everyone in your life seems to be disappearing, or because your husband feels too perfect.

But even though things feel wrong, you can't bring yourself to say anything to your doting husband. You cant destroy things, not when he seems so happy. You always find him grinning, either when cleaning or coming back from the garden, covered in dirt and smelling like iron.

You worry when he speaks so possessively, promising nothing will ever come to harm you, that everyone who ever could is, "out of the way." You find that the days and nights where he spends longer in the garden, the dirtier he becomes, the louder the sounds in the basement are, he becomes more loving. More doting. Hes so affectionate with you, unable to stop himself from smothering you with kisses and handsy grabs. He seems exhausted, tired yet lovestruck.

You insist that he should let you do some of the work, that he should take a break. But he always seems to do his duties with a tired grin, claiming its 'his enjoyment as your husband.' And you wouldn't want to take away his responsibilities and hobbies, right? Even when you claim you can help in the garden and do the dishes, that you're not helpless. But all he wants is you to stay his sweet little spouse, working so hard to provide for your family, while he makes sure you have a nice warm meal and a nice warm husband to come back home to.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

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.”

[raaorqtpbpdy]

Grave Discovery

Wes was so excited about having dug up some real evidence of ghosts that he forgets that police consider riding around with a corpse strapped to your bike suspicious behavior.

For the prompts: Wes Weston was proving it. Ghosts were as real as the dirt under his fingernails and the shovel he used to slice through grave earth. [from @ishouldgetatumbler], and Wes, tired and fed up with everyone not believing him, sets out on a mission. And this time, with the evidence in his hand, everyone will have no choice but to believe him. [from @ashboy-3]

Read also on AO3

[Warnings for graphic description of a corpse, police involvement, and grave robbing]

Wes Weston had bought a shovel.

It was more expensive than he would have thought, and he didn't get an allowance, but he did do odd jobs for neighbors every once in a while to fund his hobbies, racking up a respectable savings before spending it all at once on a new camera lens or basketball uniform. This time, he had spent it on a shovel.

He'd tried to borrow a shovel, but the apartment his family lived in only had a couple small potted plants, and you didn't really need a shovel for those if you didn't mind getting your hands a bit dirty. Nobody else in the building had any use for a large shovel like Wes needed either. And when he asked beyond his apartment complex, people started asking questions like 'what's a kid like you need a shovel for?' and he couldn't very well tell them he was going to dig up a grave.

So Wes had pulled together his savings, biked down to the hardware store, and bought himself a brand new shovel that cost him nearly twenty dollars after tax. Wes hadn't really been expecting it to cost more than five, but the clerk at the store assured him he wouldn't find a good, long-handled shovel cheaper anywhere else.

Wes had bought it, but checked elsewhere anyway, planning to return it if the clerk happened to be lying and he found a cheaper one. He didn't.

He grumbled in frustration anyway, as he rode home with the shovel zip-tied to the side of his bike. He'd wasted all that time riding to every hardware store and gardening supply store in Amity Park for nothing.

When he turned down onto his street, he noticed some of the neighbors looking at him funny when they saw the shovel, but he paid them no mind. Most of them already thought he was a bit of an oddball, so this probably wouldn't make their opinion of him any worse at least.

Wes locked his bike up in the apartment building's garage and headed upstairs. His father was working late, and Kyle was out skateboarding with his friends, so the apartment was empty when he went to his room to hide the shovel under his bed.

What he had to do would be an all day sort of task. Probably it would even take multiple days. He knew exactly what he was looking for, but he only had a general idea of where it was buried, or how deep. He would start tomorrow.

That night, he slept restlessly, anxious for what he planned to do the next morning, both excited and afraid.

He awoke early the next morning. Well before his family, who preferred to sleep in on weekends. He took his shovel with him down to the garage, and with it, he rode out to the edge of town.

There were miles of woods between Amity Park and Lake Eerie, but Wes didn't go very far. There was only so much distance three people carrying a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight could have covered over the rough terrain of the woods. He wrapped his bike-lock around a tree just deep enough in to not be visible from the road, slung his brand-new shovel over his shoulder, and started walking.

There was a heavily marked up map in his pocket, but he'd memorized it by now, so there was no real need for him to consult it. Wes knew exactly where he was in relation to the road, the town limits, and Fenton Works, and that was all he needed. He'd done the math. He knew more or less where he needed to dig.

The shovel made a hollow metallic shink as it sunk into the soft forest floor.

He knew what he was doing. He knew the truth. And soon enough he would have all the evidence he needed to convince everyone else.

It shouldn't have been that deep, Wes thought. Even with three people together, it was doubtful they would have gone all the way down to six feet. In fact, he thought it was doubtful they would have gone deeper than three, but when his first hole got about four feet without finding anything, he shoved all the dirt back in and stabbed a stick upright into the ground to mark that he'd already dug there before moving on to the next spot.

Even if it took him all day, all week, all year, he would keep digging until he found what he was looking for. He was fed up with all the mockery and ridicule he faced from his peers and neighbors, and now he was determined. He was a man on a mission.

Wes Weston was going to prove it. Ghosts were as real as the dirt under his fingernails and the shovel he used to slice through grave earth.

He didn't find anything that weekend, and when he came home covered in dirt and leaves his dad made him do all the laundry. That didn't stop him from going out again next weekend.

He was so sure it was there. So sure he could find it.

On the third Saturday he spent digging holes in the woods, with calluses now forming on his hands and sweat dripping from his brow, he found it. His shovel hit something hard, and when he looked down into the hole he saw some dirty fabric that looked like it might once have been white, but was so badly stained now as to look brown.

Wes returned to his task with renewed vigor, digging wider and wider until the whole thing was visible.

For a moment he hesitated. It didn't... smell like he had been expecting it too. and though the white sheet wrapped around it was stained with mud, it didn't appear to be stained with... anything else.

Cautiously, Wes pulled back the edges of the sheet, wondering if what he'd dug up had been buried far far more recently than what he had been looking for. But no.

He had been expecting a reeking lump of rotting decay barely recognizable as the person this corpse had once been, but that was not what he found. What he found was the corpse of one Daniel Fenton, a student who still attended Wes' school, even in death, and the son of the town's local quote-unquote 'ghost hunters'. 

It was perfectly preserved, like he was only sleeping, except his skin was deathly pale, his eyes glassy and sunken, his cheeks gaunt. The body was covered in burns, as was the jumpsuit it was wearing, holes melted right through the rubber in places, and black scorch marks on the surface. But though it must've been buried there for months by this point, there was no bloating, no decay, and no smell of death. 

A cloud passed over the sun as Wes marveled at it in curiosity, and when the light dimmed, he could see that the corpse was glowing faintly.

Wes didn't know why, but he checked for a pulse. He pulled off one of the gloves, melted to the point of being nearly unrecognizable for what it was, and pressed his fingers to the corpse's wrist. 

Nothing. 

He breathed a sigh of relief.

Now all there was left to do was transport the thing back into town and show everyone. And this time, with the evidence in hands—or dragged along behind his bike, rather—they would have no choice but to believe him.

Wes wrapped the sheet back around the corpse and dragged it to where he left his bike, then took both of them to the edge of the road. He'd brought with him his skateboard and some rope. Wes almost never used his skateboard. He and Kyle had both gotten one from their aunt on their thirteenth birthday, but Wes had never gotten into skating like Kyle had.

He lifted the corpse onto the skateboard. It wasn't tall, but neither was the board very long, so it's feet still dragged on the road behind. It would have to be good enough, Wes decided as he lashed everything together and to the back of his bike.

The road was rarely busy, but on the weekend, there were a few cars carrying people out to the lake for fishing or camping or what-have-you, but Wes didn't especially notice or care. 

So single minded was he in his mission, that he didn't even think about how it would look for him to be pulling along a corpse behind his bike until he was stopped by the police.

"Uh... what's the problem, officers?" Wes asked.

"You mind showing us what you got under that sheet there?" One of the officers asked.

Wes grinned. "Absolutely officers!" he said. "What I've got here is absolute proof that ghosts are real, and you two get to be the first to see it!"

He loosened the ropes only slightly, planning to tighten them again once the officers acknowledged that he was right and brilliant and sent him on his way. Then he pulled back the edges of the dirty sheet to show the police officers the sunken face of... Danny... Fenton's... corpse....

Once Wes was literally staring in the face of what he had done, he suddenly had second thoughts about so eagerly showing his proof to law enforcement. Well... shit. It was too late now.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," one of the officers breathed out. 

"Lay down on the floor and put you hands behind your back," the other shouted. "Down on the floor, now!"

Wes did as the officer said, mentally kicking himself for being so thoughtless in his excitement to have proof.

He was pretty sure that, technically speaking, he hadn't done anything illegal here. Digging in the woods wasn't illegal. They couldn't exactly charge him with obstruction of justice, or accessory to murder, or even a cover up, because he had been very specifically uncovering up something. It wasn't illegal to show people a dead body someone else had killed, especially not to show cops. They wanted you to do that.

Yes, this looked very very bad, but once the misunderstanding was cleared up, Wes was sure he'd be let go without any charges being filed... probably... hopefully.

"I know how this looks," Wes said, as he was handcuffed and roughly shoved into the back of the squad car. "But I want you to know that this is just a big misunderstanding. I discovered the body and was bringing it back to town to show people. Someone tried to hide it in the woods, and I found it there. I am not a murderer."

The police officers did not look convinced as one of them read him his Miranda rights and the other called for back-up to deal with the... well... the crime scene, he supposed. His bike was a crime scene now.

"Hey, am I gonna be able to get my bike back after this?"

"You have the right to remain silent," the officer reminded him. "Fuckin' sicko."

Never in his whole life had Wes dreaded a call home as much as he did this one.

Despite having definitely broken the law before, usually breaking and entering and privacy violations, he'd never actually been arrested for it. Now that he was being arrested, he technically hadn't broken the law, but it was looking increasingly less and less likely that anyone would believe him.

Luckily, he was a minor, so they weren't allowed to question him without talking to his parent or guardian first, but unfortunately that meant they had to call his dad in on his day off after he'd been working over time all week. His dad was a patient and understanding guy, but even he got grouchy when his day of rest was interrupted after a 60 hour work-week. 

"Wes..." his dad looked absolutely exhausted. He sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Why did I just get a call from the police telling me to come down to the station because my son had been found in possession of an unidentified corpse?"

"I didn't kill anyone," Wes said immediately. "He was like that when I found him."

His father sighed again, more deeply this time, and blinked tiredly at him.

"Why don't you explain this whole thing to me, from the beginning?"

Wes began to recount his theory about ghosts, about Danny Fenton. He explained how he'd learned that Fenton had somehow died, and that his friends, possibly with his help, had taken his body out to the woods and buried it. Then about how Wes had bought a shovel so he could find the body and show everyone the truth, that Fenton was dead, and ghosts were real, and he was one. Finally, he told his dad about being stopped by the police and arrested when they saw what he was transporting.

"But technically speaking, I haven't done anything illegal," Wes finished. "At least... I'm like 90% sure nothing I actually did was illegal. So this is all a big misunderstanding."

When he was done, his father just stared at him silently for a very long moment. When he spoke, he said only a single word, shaking his head, looking more tired world-worn than Wes had ever seen him

"Why?"

"Because I'm right!" Wes insisted. "People need to know the truth, that there a ghosts walking among us. They could be dangerous! And even if they're not, think about what this means for humanity! This is proof of an afterlife, that our souls can stick around even after we're dead. This is world-altering information, and I had to prove it, and I have the evidence now—"

"And you're in a holding cell!" His dad pointed out, tone cold and harsh. "Wes, you know I love you no matter what, and I never discouraged you from pursuing your hobbies and theories before, but this is a step too far, kid. There is a corpse involved now, and my fifteen-year-old son had been arrested under suspicion of murder. This is serious. Do you understand how much trouble you could be in if we can't prove that you aren't responsible?"

Wes snapped his mouth shut and swallowed before shifting his eyes downward and nodding guiltily.

His dad sighed once more and scrubbed his hands over his face. Evidently he'd rushed out of the house so fast he'd barely been able to change out of his PJs and didn't even get the chance to shave, because his face was scruffy, and his clothes were rumpled, and he hadn't properly aligned the buttons on his shirt.

"I'm sorry," Wes said. "I didn't mean for you to get dragged into this."

"No, don't... don't be sorry about that," his father said. "Be sorry about digging up a corpse and transporting it through the middle of town in broad daylight. I thought you were smarter than that."

"Yeah, I got over-excited," Wes admitted.

"Is this why you've been coming home covered in dirt the past few weekends?"

"Yeah. Are you mad?"

"Oh, you are doing everyone's laundry for the next year after this little stunt, mister."

"That's fair."

It wasn't long before an officer came to take Wes and his dad to an interrogation room, where Wes was handcuffed to the table.

"Is that really necessary?" his dad asked.

"It's standard procedure for suspected murderers," replied the cop gruffly.

His dad scoffed and rolled his eyes, and the cop sneered at him.

"You should really be taking this more seriously," the cop told him darkly. "Your son was discovered transporting a dead body through town without any indication of remorse for his actions. If the coroner determines it was murder, he could be tried as an adult."

"Maybe you should consider that I know more about it than you do right now, and take my lack of concern as a sign that you're blowing this whole thing out of proportion."

Wes gawked a bit at how coolly his dad was handling this. He knew the man was taking this situation as seriously as anyone, but he was acting very convincingly like he didn't think it was a big deal, and the cop seemed to be genuinely put-off by it. Wes had to hand it to his father, he was selling it well.

A few minutes later, a detective came into the room and dropped a thin file on the table. He sat down across from the Westons, took out a pen and notepad, and opened the file to reveal crime-scene photos of Wes' bike and the makeshift corpse trailer behind it. 

In the corner of his eye, Wes noticed his dad grimace in disgust, but he kept quiet

"Let's start with who this poor stiff is," the Detective said. It wasn't a question, and it left no room for debate.

"Daniel Fenton," Wes replied. "He is a freshman at Casper High."

The detective's eyebrows shot up in surprise at how easily Wes had answered him. "Sounds like you're gonna make this go nice and smooth for me," the detective said. "In that case why don't you go ahead and confess for me."

Wes scoffed. "Weren't you listening?" he asked. "I said he is a freshman at Casper High, not was. He's still a student there. I can guarantee you he'll be in class tomorrow."

"Now how's he gonna do that when he's stuck in a drawer at the morgue?"

"The same way he's been doing it for the last several months despite being buried in the woods," Wes said. "He's a ghost. Or... ghost-adjacent maybe. He's not an ordinary human, at least. And I didn't kill him. You can call him up yourself to come identify the body. I'll even give you his number."

"That's real cute," the detective said with a sneer. "But I'll take that number."

Wes gave it to him, and he wrote it down on his notepad to check later.

"Now, if you're really gonna claim you didn't kill him, why don't you explain just how his corpse happened to end up tied up to your bike while you rode into town?"

Wes explained again, just like he had to his father, the whole story, from the first time he realized Danny Fenton wasn't quite right, to finding the body and taking it into town.

The detective nodded along, occasionally interrupting to ask for clarification, or details, but it was clear he was just trying to catch Wes in his lie and didn't actually believe a single word he was saying.

"Alright, well we're gonna send someone to verify every single part of that story of yours," the detective said. "Until we get a cause of death back from the morgue, there's not much more we can investigate, since clearly you didn't kill him on your bike in the middle of town. We're done for now, but don't think for a second that this is the end. I'll send someone back to take you back to your cell in a minute."

There was no way Wes' dad could afford bail, so Wes made himself as comfortable as possible in his holding cell. Luckily, he didn't have to share it with anyone. That didn't really mean there was any privacy, just that he wouldn't have some drunk falling all over him.

He spent most of his Sunday there, bored out of his skull, although one of the beat cops let him have her newspaper when she was done with it. Then, late in the evening, the detective that had interrogated him came to the door of his cell, his face pale as a ghost, and opened the door with trembling hands.

"You're... you're free to go," he said, his voice weak and cracking with... fear?

"What changed?" Wes asked, stepping to the door of his cell.

The detective moved out of his way with a look of terror as Wes stepped around them. The fact that Wes was a good few inches taller than him probably wasn't helping him calm down.

"The uh... the victim," he managed to get out. "He's still alive."

Wes raised an eyebrow, and that was apparently question enough before the words just tumbled out of the man in a rush.

"He came to the morgue and... and he looked just like the corpse. Same DNA, same everything. Hospital records confirmed he doesn't have any twin, no explanation he just... he just said 'that's me, don't worry about it' and... and-and then he walked out afterwards like nothing was even wrong, like nothing was... fucked about the whole thing. He said you didn't kill him—that-that-that it was an accident and... fuck. I don't know how you did it. I don't know how anyone could do something like this, but if the victim's not dead, then... then...."

He shook his head. It seemed like he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"You're free to go," he repeated finally.

"Don't supposed there's any chance of me getting the corpse back?" Wes asked.

The look the detective gave him wasn't just horrified, or baffled... it was broken. He gave Wes the most broken look the boy had ever seen, then mutely shook his head and stumbled down the hall as if he was either very drunk, or very much wanted to be. 

"Can I get my bike back at least?!" he called after the man.

"That's... a question for impound," came the warbling reply.

Wes frowned, but did not pout as he walked out of the holding area and to the front desk to see who he had to talk to about getting his bike out of impound. He couldn't get it back right away, and had to make an appointment to reclaim it. He would also need a photo ID and proof of ownership. He wasn't sure he even had proof of ownership. He'd bought that bike at a garage sale, so it wasn't like he had a proper receipt for it.

He'd have to figure something out before next Wednesday, but for now, it looked like he was walking home.

The next day at school, Danny found him and gave him a very angry talking to about violations of privacy, and the severity of disturbing someone's grave, unmarked though it may have been.

"I'm going to show everyone the truth, Fenton," Wes told him, unafraid of the monster before him. "Maybe I lost the corpse, but I'll find new evidence. And when I do, everyone will know the truth about you. Everyone will know what you really are."

Danny scowled and threw his hands up in frustration and left Wes alone.

The was nothing in the news about Wes' arrest, or the corpse. It seemed the police had chosen not to release any information about Wes' initial arrest until they had more information—and once they got more information there was simply no plausible way to explain it to the news outlets, so instead they decided to cover it up.

Maybe Wes should have been grateful that his arrest wasn't in the news, but he was mostly just frustrated that his evidence wasn't either. He'd worked hard to find that corpse, and now it was just going to sit in a drawer in the morgue, or a pauper's grave... not rotting.

[sophiethewitch1]

johnny x reader, drabble, mw3 spoilers, hospitals, chronic illnesses and injuries, can you tell I'm listening to too sweet by hozier, might make this into a full oneshot idk; 900 words

Thinking about Johnny meeting you in the hospital. He's at his lowest, sick and in pain. Bitter at being put out of the fight but thankful he's not a corpse, that the bullet didn't hit anything he was using inside his empty skull.

And then there's you. Another one of the patients, healthier than him but not by much. He sees you out the window of his room often, taking care of one of the small plots of the garden. Even though it obviously strains you, the nurses can't seem to convince you to give up. Every day, until one day you catch him watching you. Instead of telling him to fuck off, you give him a tired wave and a wide, toothy grin.

When he is eventually given the go-ahead to leave his bed, the first thing he does is nag Ghost into wheeling him out to the garden where you work. You're happy to meet the two of them, sweet. You invite them to stay and have tea with you. The next day when you catch Johnny watching again, you wave him down with an eager grin and a call of his name he doesn't hear. Ghost doesn't ask why Johnny makes visiting you a habit, but his eyes are knowing.

He gets better. You don't seem to. You don't talk about it, so Johnny doesn't press. Eventually, he's able to ditch the horrid wheelchair and spend time with you one-on-one. He doesn't have anything better to do, so he helps you garden. Pull out the weeds, water the flowers. Throws dirt at you when you're not looking. You in turn spray him with the hose. The two of you get lectured by the nurse nearby, heads bowed demurely as she rats you out for wetting his bandages.

He gets you back, of course. The next day your lecture is interrupted when you toss the mud caked into your hair right in Johnny's face.

The two of you spend hours chatting about the seeds you've planted, the vegetables you want to add to your sad hospital food. Eventually your conversations turn deeper. He talks of the wars he's fought, how he almost died. You tell him your war is internal. That you were born with a shitty body. That you'd spent so much time in and out of hospitals, you'd learnt to bring your hobbies with you.

One day, months and months later, a doctor says he should be ready to leave soon. Johnny finds himself shocked by the sudden despair he feels. He heads out to your spot, crouching down beside you as you work. You greet him with the same eagerness as usual, yammering on about your next plans for the bed. Johnny's silence eventually makes you stop. Concerned eyes rove over him, before asking what's wrong.

He tells you he's getting out soon. All you can manage is a quiet, 'oh'. After a minute's hesitation, you go back to weeding. Quiet this time.

The rest of the week is spent similarly quietly. Johnny tries to return your happy smile, cracking jokes and starting silly fights like the ones you always had. You can't manage to find the energy. Say you're just tired, that your illness is acting up. Johnny doesn't know if you're telling the truth. He wonders if the stress he's caused you made it worse, and he feels so guilty he almost pukes.

When his last day rolls around, he finds himself watching you through his window again. He knows you know he's watching you, but you refuse to even glance up at him. He can't help himself. He's back by your side in the garden even as he knows the guys are waiting to pick him up by the front desk.

You dig the shovel into the dirt with more anger than he's ever seen. So hard you're probably butchering the roots you've so delicately, lovingly cultivated. His hand reaches out, wrapping around yours, stopping you from causing any more harm. He pulls your hand to his, carefully prying open your hand. The shovel falls to the ground.

His fingers carve into yours, intertwining with your dirtied, grimy palms. He feels the granules between you, rough against your smooth, cold skin. You let him move you silently. Your fingers twitch against his, hand relaxing into the garden bed.

His other hand finds your chin, turning it so you're staring at him, into his stunning blue eyes. The hand moves so he's cupping your face. There's tears running down your face, wetting his palm. He's not sure who's the one who moves. He thinks it's him. In the end, his lips are pressing to yours, the kiss soft and sweet and slow and sad. You move against him with a desperation he's felt for you since he first saw you. When his tongue slips between your lips, and you let out a sickeningly sugary sound, he's glad you feel it too. When your hand grips his tight in your dirt, he knows that no matter what the doctors say, no matter what his body can do now, he can't really leave you. Not truly.

The next day, he applies for a visitor's pass, and again, you kiss each other in the garden. The nurse nags him for getting you all dirty. The joke he makes gets him an elbow from you. And Johnny thinks, thank god he got shot in the head.