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posebean · 7 months

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fantasys your alkaloid‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ref sheet of alkaloid for my alkakurei fantasy au that i totally didnt abandon crazy:B here (notes abt world+magic system and other stuff on that post)

stuff abt their outfits and etc under read more

hiiro is fresh from his village baby boy left to go find his nii-san with only his clothes and a trusty satchel at his side- he just goes around looking for his nii-san and etcetc idk how long the gap is but he finds tatsumi and mayo and stays with them for some time and during that time tatsun gets him a coat because baby boy literally only has those and hes just been doing work for some guild (idk how to explain bc guilds require education but i guess tatsun pulled strings for him) so he has money to live while also looking for his nii-san and sometimes he has to go to cold places and one time he comes home after a job in a cold place and hes sick and tatsun is like hiiro-san please take this jacket with you :..) so now hiiro has a coat custom-made for him :3! he's good with elemental magic (the 5 core elements water wind fire earth plant) very versatile and a skilled little guy (not as talented as his nii-san but no one is as talented as nii-san!) anyways yadda yadda he gets a message or smth and is preparing to leave tatsun and mayo but (spoilers for meru fic) meru points him towards the town where everyone else is and yea he goes and finds his nii-san and now his goal has changed from find nii-san to convince nii-san to go back home but he befriends everyone else too and i think they do eventually go on some kind of adventure together maybe more the three younger ppl aira hiiro and kohaku

aira is a little silly fellow he dresses nicely (very inspired by fs2 but i cant stop looking at it and thinking damn he french colored......) and loves magic so much he admires all the grand mages and everyone in the upper echelons and loves watching other people cast spells and such unfortunately for him while he has a decently high innate talent, his control is God Awful which results in magic never going well for him- with no control at all, literally negative control, he can try to cast one spell and something completely different will be cast instead- and the skill level varies too it's literally just a roll of a dice for him if he tries to cast a simple flame spell he might end up flooding the room with a wall of water, it's that bad kkshfkj also he acts like he doesn't like it but he actually loves rabuhan-junior so much he secretly spoils the hamster named after him and rabuhan junior loves him back rabuhan-junior likes to sleep in his hat or on aira's head whenever kohaku goes out and leaves rabu-han junior with aira tatsun has very normal clothes bro dresses like a dad (did you know both of his fs have the same color palettes i didnt but using them as reference made me realize, anyways-) his clothes are very comfortable and easy to move around in, especially given his injury from [spoiler event here ]. he also has a cane and his injured leg has pain suppressor sigils and bandages wrapped all over it his leg isn't completely unusable like its not broken or anything its more like. a kind of necrosis like if you unwrapped it there would be a dark mark thats like icky and sometimes it flares up and hurts tatsun so much that he falls over and :( he found the cane one day in the catacomb (wonder who put it there) he added the begonia himself as a reminder of his sin... shiro is his little mouse familiar that he conjured with the help of kaname! she's a sweet little thing, often found sleeping on an open book on tatsumi's desk. she has the tatsumi-colored ears and legs because she was conjured up rather than a pact familiar. regarding magic tatsun is pretty average on both control and power, but that doesnt really matter because most of the spells he uses are passive spells more used for healing/doing work. he likes to garden and has a beautiful garden of all kinds of flowers at the chapel :) he just doesn't dare touch the flowers in the catacomb, because he knows someone else already takes care of those also that purple gem hanging around his neck is a gift from mayomayo it doesn't do anything and has no magic but tatsun still likes it :) mayomayo dresses in all dark colors because he believes that if he always dresses in dark colors no one will ever have to be bothered by seeing his existence he comes from a lineage that practices forbidden magic, not necessarily all dark but some of the more ... interesting spells . something happens in his past and he ends up leaving, taking with him his tome and well. proceeding to get chased by all kinds of monsters out in the wild because for some reason he just attracts all kinds of beasts poor guy magic-wise he does have the forbidden magic from his family but he more specializes in healing and curse removal- he doesn't dare do anything else for fear of (redacted). besides, maybe he'll one day be able to actually save somebody instead of hurting them, maybe his existence would be worth it some day. the ribbon in his hair (the green/teal one) is from tatsun :) he said mayo would look good in brighter colors and mayo disagreed so tatsun gave it to him and now its become part of his outfit and (i combust into a thousand bits ) also because of that mayo feels like he has to give tatsun something back so thats why he gives tatsumi a purple gem he had that used to hang from his spell tome anyways i still love this au very much and i hope you enjoyed now i will proceed to forget about it again /j i still really wanna write kohaku's fic and then maybe one last one for rinne-kun or smth because aghghj there's still so much that's not developed yet but (explodes)

#enstars #alkaloid #hiiro amagi #aira shiratori #tatsumi kazehaya #mayoi ayase #fantasyau #bean art #look at rabuhan-junior he is so small please love him

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landwriter · 1 year

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Dirty Work | Corinthian/Hob | 1.6K | T fake marriage, true love, gardening, domestic curtainfic with an unsolicited side of angst, retired!corinthian, the corinthian loves rural england because he’s the hottest piece of ass for miles, hob loves rural england because the corinthian is safe with him there (and also the stars are lovely at night)

for Domaystic Drabbles, Day 5: Learning Something New

---

“What-” asked Hob. He paused, took a sensibly calming breath, and found himself feeling not much more calm for it. Onward, then. “-the fuck are you doing?”

The Corinthian smiled winningly up at him from under the brim of Hob’s favourite tilly hat.

“The fuck does it look like?” he drawled.

“Gardening.” Having a nervous breakdown, he thought, loudly and uncharitably. It was early. Not these-days early. Fourteenth century early. Lauds early. The robins weren’t even out yet. The sky was still a deep and restive blue. He was irritable. Owing less to the hour, and more to waking up to a cold, husbandless bed, to an instinctive panic crawling up his throat that saw him search through an empty house with increasing dread, before he finally looked out the back window and saw a nightmare. Turn of speech, of course.

It looked like a giant vole had been through. A giant, ruthlessly handsome vole, who remained at the scene of the crime wearing nothing but silk pyjama bottoms, now stained with vegetal viscera. The damage was extensive. And apparently not quite complete. He was still extracting a stubborn bit of Reynoutria japonica. The Corinthian grunted, muscles jumping in his arms, prised the cane loose, and then rocked back on his heels with a little huff of satisfaction. He paused to wipe invisible sweat off his face with the back of his hand, in a move, Hob was cooly certain, designed to attractively smear a bit of dirt across his forehead. The Corinthian abhorred a mess. Unless he’d made it himself. He caught the expression on Hob’s face and preened.

Hob made himself scowl again. On principle, if nothing else. “You’ve dug up most of the flowers, too.”

“Seen better.”

“It’s half four. You can see nowt and fuckall.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” His voice was perfectly casual, which meant it had been a truly awful night. I’m sorry, Hob wanted to say. It’s not fair. It was just supposed to be. But that’s not the sort of thing the Corinthian wanted to hear from him. Not a thing he could bear hearing, really.

“Should’ve woken me,” he said, in lieu of what he couldn’t, and walked over and took his mouth in a hungry kiss to say the rest of it properly. The Corinthian softened into him, making pleased sounds and sliding a hand under his shirt, but Hob could still feel it, all the coiled-tight misery. It practically twanged through the air. Sometimes, he thought it was nothing less than cruelty, what Dream had done to him and named a mercy. But he wouldn’t say that either. They didn’t talk about it. Not like that. “Jesus. You’re like a puppy,” he said, laughing, when the Corinthian finally let them pause to catch their breath. “Can’t be left alone or you’ll get bored and chew up all my socks.”

The Corinthian blinked at him, pupils blown wide in the morning dim. It was still a weird sight. Wrong. “They were shitty socks, Robbie.”

Hob snorted and turned around to take inventory of his garden. The spreading clump of invasive knotweed he’d really been meaning to get around to at the weekend (so he said every Monday) had been surgically obliterated and lay in a tidy pile. The overgrown nettle and bramble was gone. It had gotten a little wild, sure. But Hob had thought it pretty, in a tangled sort of way. And the entire bed of begonias he’d inherited with the cottage was uprooted. He’d never liked those, at least.

“They were passable socks,” he decided, and left it at that. “You’re getting me new ones.”

“The best,” agreed the Corinthian. “We’re starting over. Making something better.”

“As pretty as you?” Hob asked, just to watch him squirm a bit.

“You’re disgusting,” said the Corinthian.

“Wrong answer,” said Hob, singsong. “Nothing could be as pretty as you.”

“You’re messed up in the head, Hob, you know that?”

“’Course I do. It’s why you married me.”

“Pretty sure it was for the sex.”

Hob grinned. “Come inside, then, Mr. Gadling. The garden can wait.”

They weren’t married, of course. They were just strange and scandalous enough for the village already, without living in sin. More and more often, Hob found himself forgetting it had started as a joke. That when the Corinthian said ‘my life partner’ he was winking at Hob. But he said mine in other ways, ways he trusted and knew better, and so Hob didn’t mind much at all. Not that he’d mind it being real, either. He wouldn’t. He wanted to cling to the Corinthian. Keep him safe. And maybe it was old-fashioned of him, but being his husband, swearing an oath to cherish and protect, it would mean he could.

They went inside, and left the garden as it was, turned up and nearly unrecognizable. Like an open wound. All the dangerous and unsightly parts torn out. Scoured clean. Hob tried not think about how it felt so familiar. He was pretty sure the Corinthian already had. Had, in fact, done it exactly because of that. Because he’d wanted to know what Dream had felt, doing it to him.

---

Hob stood in his garden. “What the fuck,” he said again. In three months, it had been transformed. There was a new riot of colour and texture, brought only to heel with perfectly sculpted boxwoods and a cobbled path that undulated through the garden in a way, Hob felt confident, that was actually mathematically significant. The perfumed air fairly buzzed with insect life. In his periphery, a group of swallows darted through an immaculately pruned apple tree he hadn’t known he had, and then skimmed low over the bergamot, calling out to one another. It wasn’t a tame garden. It was the sort you wanted to watch all day, breath caught in your throat.

“It’s a start,” said the Corinthian mildly.

“It’s the bloody grand finale, is what it is.”

“Just did a bit of pruning and bought a few bedding plants. Nothing special. Was hoping you’d like it.”

Hob looked sidelong at him. The Corinthian wore a small, modest smile. He made a noise of disgust. “Cut that out.”

“Aw,” said the Corinthian. He thought it was terribly funny to pretend to be English and see how long before Hob noticed and begged him to stop. He didn’t do an accent. He just wore it. It made Hob want to crawl out of his skin, which in turn made the Corinthian mercilessly hone his impression. Dark mirror of humanity, indeed. Old habits die hard. Hob was sure he didn’t sound like that. Most of the time.

“You’ve done this before,” said Hob, staring accusingly at splendour of it all.

“Nah,” said the Corinthian, looking so proudly out on his work that Hob knew he was telling the truth. “Didn’t know jack about gardening. But I’ve learned,” he said, and meant so much more than gardening. He turned, grinning at Hob in his perfect garden with his perfect teeth. Except, Hob noticed, one of his incisors snagged a little on his bottom lip. He felt his heart lurch in his chest, another beating step further into smote devotion. The Corinthian looked back at the garden. “Good thing the fucker made me so damn curious, huh?”

He was fucked.

---

“It’s dirty work,” his supposed husband was loudly saying, despite being perfectly clean and unblemished. “But somebody’s got to do it.”

Hob rolled his eyes from where he was hanging the washing in their own garden, then looked into the neighbour’s anyways.

“Bless you, Ian,” said Mildred, beaming up at him. She bustled inside and reappeared with a fresh lemon loaf. The Corinthian grinned at Hob across the fence as Mrs. Martin hugged him goodbye. As if it would make him jealous. She was eighty-four. Far too young for either of them.

Five minutes later, Hob was viciously stabbing a slice of lemon loaf. “This has gotten out of hand. You’re being a do-gooder.”

The Corinthian pulled a hurt face. “It would’ve spread back to our garden.”

“I can’t believe she felt up your biceps. Like you’re a choice cut of meat.”

He smirked in a way that said I am, aren’t I? “You threatened by her, Hob?”

“No,” said Hob, and then chewed. “Fuck. Maybe a little. This is incredible.”

---

In October, the garden was named a runner-up in Kent Life magazine’s Amateur Garden of the Year, 1990. Mrs. Martin patted Hob’s husband consolingly on the shoulder and announced the Appledore Ladies Baking Club was unsubscribing in solidarity. All twelve of them.

The entire village, Hob slowly realized, had become besotted with the Corinthian. He was a Yank, but he was their Yank now. He’d endeared himself by sharing his dahlia tubers, lending out his wickedly-sharp secateurs, and most of all, smilingly dismissing any praise about his prodigious gardening abilities by saying, in his syrupy drawl, “I guess I just like pretty things.” Then he’d wink and say, “That’s why I married Hob, you know.” And whoever he was talking to would smile in spite of themselves, and tell Hob he was very lucky indeed.

He was. He’d just never felt guilty for his luck before.

That night, Hob murmured it into the back of his neck, soft and human-warm. “I think I hate him for it. Still. Even now. I didn’t know I even could.”

It was the first time he’d said it aloud. It felt like scurvy. Like a mended bone breaking again, in the silence of the little bedroom. But in his arms, the Corinthian only snorted.

“Of course you can. It’s the most normal thing about you.” Hob smiled into his nape. The Corinthian rolled over, and traced a hand across Hob’s sternum, landing, as he always did, on one particular puckered scar between his ribs. “You know what’s fucked?”

“What?”

“Sometimes, I think I don’t.”

#cob #domaystic2023 #this is continuing to get out of hand dang nab it #domesticity: coping mechanism edition #the sandman #my writing #fic post #hob gadling #the corinthian #(sighs)#hobrinthian #gardening as a stress response am i right #also a sort of sneak preview of my Just Like Love continuation plans #continuing to be unable to write cob without dream as a living ghost haunting all their interactions #and frankly i like it that way #hope you do too!

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plantanarchy · 7 months

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Truly a normal amount of begonias in here. Usually for winter I cut my cane begonias back before moving into their greenhouse but this year they were blooming so pretty I couldn't. Most of them are technically fine in regular house humidity and temperature during the winter, but I haven't had a powdery mildew issue since keeping them this way. Plus, I don't have enough windows and greenhouse life means I have to water less.

#my plants

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unorthodoxsavvy · 1 month

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House Plant Asks 🪴

Aloe Vera: Have you ever had any serious injuries?

Golden Pathos: Have you ever won anything?

Snake Plant: If you could have any animal for a plant, what would it be?

Moth Orchid: Butterflies or Moths?

Peace Lily: What could you use most right now?

Basil: Favorite food?

African Violet: If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?

Jade Plant: Favorite crystal/gem?

Spider Plant: How do you feel about bugs?

Rubber Plant: What’s your favorite/least favorite texture?

Dumb Cane Plant: What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?

Monstera Deliciousa: What’s your favorite mythical creature?

Rosemary: If you didn’t go by the name(s) you go by now, what name(s) would you choose?

Umbrella Plant: What’s your favorite weather?

Money Tree: If you had $1m to spend ONLY on yourself, what would you spend it on?

Lucky Bamboo: Is there anything you consider lucky/unlucky?

English Ivy: What language(s) do you speak/sign/write?

ZZ Plant: Favorite band?

Boston Fern: Favorite City?

Areca Palms: What’s your favorite climate/biome?

Fiddle Leaf Fig: Do you play any instruments/wish you could play any instruments?

Pilea: Have you ever jumped into a pile of leaves?

Bromeliad: What’s your favorite color?

Dragon Tree: Do you collect anything?

String of Pearls: What’s your favorite jewelry?

Croton: What’s in your ideal salad?

Chinese Evergreen: Do you have a favorite folklore?

Ponytail Palm: What’s your favorite hairstyle?

Oyster Plant: What’s your favorite sea creature?

Kalanchoe: Do you believe in any supernatural forces/cryptids?

Jasmine Plant: What’s your favorite scent?

Heartland Philodendron: What’s the best way to win your heart?

Cactus: Are you an affectionate person?

Silver Leaf Philodendron: What’s a silver lining you’ve found in life?

Polka Dot Begonia: If you had to wear only one pattern for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Black Velvet Alocasia: What’s your aesthetic?

Birds Nest Anthurium: What’s your dream house like?

Ficus Audrey: What’s your favorite season?

Homalomena Selby: What’s home to you?

Sweetheart Plant: Talk about someone you love

#ask meme #ask game #houseplants

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pigeon-feet · 4 days

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really glad this cutting rooted + is doing as well as it is

#plant #plants #begonia #angel wing begonia #cane begonia #personal #my plants

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authurials · 1 year

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 ... 2/5

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 . aemond had never allowed himself to covet--not until now that is

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 . one / three / four / five

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 . 18+ situations ( MINORS DNI ! ), unintentional voyeurism, solo masturbation, accidental exhibitionism, strong language

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . here is day four of my 12 days of house of the dragon celebration and part two of my aemond targaryen x f!reader miniseries! things are heating up between the two would-be-lovers already and we still have three parts to go. what do you think is going to happen next? i’ve decided to take the day off tomorrow from writing and posting so i can recharge a bit after a particularly exhausting week of work--i also have some last minute christmas shopping to do AND other errands so i’m feeling a tad overwhelmed; this does mean my helaena one-shot has been dropped from the lineup but i’ve decided to revamp the idea and write it at a later date when i feel more inspired to write for my girl. on sunday you’ll be getting part two to my harwin x reader miniseries, candy cane! so be sure to stay tuned and let me know your thoughts on what you’ve read so far; also, finished this right around midnight but i’m still counting it for the 16th lmao

𝐏𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 . white rose

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 tucked into the waist pocket of your apron, a delightfully pinkish red camelia that you had found on one of the garden benches during your usual rounds. One might just assume that it had happened upon the stone bench in an act of nature, but you knew better–you knew it had been put there specifically for you. The camelia was only one of many you had been happening across for nearly a fortnight, starting with the lily of the valley in your chamber. Since then you had received some azaleas, baby’s breath, begonias, and your favorite, bleeding hearts; there were others as well, each placed carefully in a beautiful arrangement on your bedside table. Some were beginning to wilt from lack of sunshine while the newer ones still had a few days left in them, their sweet smelling scents mingling perfectly together like their own brand of perfume. At first, you had assumed it was one of the younger gardeners under your father leaving you the flowers or perhaps one of the hedge knights that frequented the grounds trying to secure patronage in the capital. None of them had quite caught your eye as a potential secret admirer however, at most they merely threw polite smiles your way before they moved along and out of your life forever.

As you passed a handsome bronze-haired boy, you instinctively glanced over your shoulder to assess his form, catching his eye as he did the same. Again, there was that polite smile as he nodded his head in acknowledgement, simply turning to face forward once more as he continued on his way. Sighing, you did the same, not having felt anything when you took note of the color of his eyes or the dimple in his cheek. He was quite good-looking, you would admit, but there was no resounding connection that stayed with you as you carried on about your rounds in the garden. No, you would be able to tell if you happened upon your secret admirer whether that be by chance or on purpose; you knew he would reveal himself eventually, why wouldn’t he? But you couldn’t deny that you were a bit impatient to know who it was.

Thoughts consumed with flowers and speculation, you took no note of the fact that you had an extra shadow on that day; not far behind you, separated from your person by a thick row of blooming pale pink carnations, walked a certain one-eyed prince. Making sure to stay enough behind you so that you wouldn’t take easy note of his presence, Aemond followed you with his hands folded behind his back; singular eye locked on you, a slight smirk curved his lips as he took in your dreamy expression. You softened in his absence, no longer cold and guarded as you walked the familiar tended paths of the royal garden; and each day since the lily of the valley, he had come to watch you if only for a short time before tending to his other duties–if only to assure himself that you’d received his latest gift. And sure enough he saw the newest bloom he had picked earlier in the dew-lit morning peeking out of the pocket of your apron skirt, its petal bobbing gently with each step you took. The camelia had called to him that day, a symbol of his growing affections for the sharp-tongued and quick-witted girl who had beguiled him with her boldness–with her audacity.

He wanted to break you, to have you desire him as he desired you–a fire so intense that it was maddening, an obsession that if left unchecked threatened to consume him completely. As a boy it had been but a childish sort of like, a pointless crush that he had forgotten about until the moment he saw you again. Never had he dared to hope, to dream, to covet such a thing that was supposed to be below him–not until now; now all he did was covet and desire as he followed you deeper into the gardens, your path clearly taking you to the greenhouse and workshop your father kept. When you were children you would take him there after much convincing on your part and show off all the new seedlings your father was trying to grow so he could incorporate them into the gardens; most were incredibly rare specimens, shipped all the way from Pentos and Essos and perhaps even further. You’d prattled off all that your father had told you about them, eidetic memory storing such information as if it were a precious tome that needed safe-keeping, all the while gripping tightly to Aemond’s hand with your small sweaty one. It had disgusted him at times, but for some reason he rarely found it in himself to pull away, especially when you would look over your shoulder at him with that crooked smile.

Stopping where the row of carnations ended, Aemond watched you continue on without him, not a care in the world as you hummed a melancholy tune; just as you were about to disappear from his view, he took note of the way you plucked the camelia from your pocket, head turning just enough to the side so he saw how you lifted it to your nose to sniff it. Smirk widening, he backed away slowly and turned to leave, assured that his plan was taking proper effect. All he needed to do now was reveal himself to you as your ‘secret admirer’--he knew you had been searching, eyes thoughtful as of late as you would take in your surroundings, waiting for your faceless would-be-lover to reveal himself. You were ready to know, that he was certain of, he just needed to set the scene appropriately before revealing himself to you–

But first, he had other less interesting obligations to attend to courtesy of his ever helpless family.

Leaving the gardens, he headed to the Tower of the Hand where his mother and grandfather were supposed to be awaiting his arrival. He knew he was late and usually that was unfounded for him–always the responsible one, the dutiful son, the wasted potential of a second born prince; however for once he could not find it in himself to care, as duty had become tasteless in his mouth, his mother’s praise and love no longer enough to satiate himself upon. He wanted–no, needed–more and he was determined to see himself filled no matter the cost.

He was let into his mother’s solar by Ser Criston Cole, who ever dutifully bowed his head to his star pupil; unlike the other times when he would’ve respectfully nodded back to his mentor, Aemond averted his eyes and simply gave a tense bow of his head as he moved past the Dornish man. He did not miss the way the older man frowned in confusion, dark gaze following him into his grandfather’s solar before closing the door once more. The Targaryen prince, although firm in his intentions, could not help but feel a bit guilty knowing that his newfound selfishness would disappoint the man who had been more of father to him then his own ever had. He had looked up to kingsguard his whole life, admiring the honorable way in which the man protected and respected his mother unlike the other men in her life who had neglected to do so; if Aemond had not known any better he would’ve said Criston was in love with the queen, but he did know better and knew with a certainty that the relationship between the knight and his mother ran no deeper than a shared fondness and treasured friendship. It made the young man feel guilty because in a way he was betraying the rapport he had created thus far with his teacher, years of trust diminished in the short period of time it had taken Aemond to cast away the virtue of duty for the sin of lust.

“Mother,” he greeted respectfully, bowing once more to the pious woman who sat stiffly as always in the area by the lit fireplace; nearer to the hearth stood his grandfather, who greeted his grandson with a nod and his name. “Grandfather. You both wanted to see me?”

He already had his suspicions before Otto even opened his mouth, having known for months what the man and the other small council members were plotting behind his and his father’s own backs. Viserys was too weak to really be coherent of much of anything at this point, kept numb and docile by copious amounts of milk of the poppy; he hadn’t been of use for quite some time, Aemond’s grandfather and mother taking up in his stead to rule things as they saw fit–hiding behind the guise of doing the king’s bidding. It was quite hard to do his bidding when the decaying corpse of man couldn’t even string together a full sentence, instead speaking in a broken language one often had to decode–Aemma and Rhaenyra among some of his favorite words. Aemond resisted the urge to curl his lip in disgust as he listened to what Otto had to say, though he was already calculating his rebuttal in his head.

“Your mother and I have been discussing it with the small council,” the older man hummed, “and we believe it is high time you were engaged to marry. We’ve already begun discussions with Lord Borros Baratheon in regards to one of his four lovely daughters–”

“And what if I do not wish to marry?” Was Aemond’s reply, hands folding behind his back as he glanced between his grandfather and mother, who had already begun to pick nervously at her hands as she formulated her response carefully.

“Aemond,” she begun, “we understand these things are not always desirable but–”

“But it is your duty to the family to secure a good match,” Otto interjected, “and garner more support for your brother’s claim.”

Of course, Aemond thought bitterly to himself, it is always about that drunk’s claim. But what of my own?

He studied the histories and philosophies of their predecessors, he practiced the art of the sword, he had sacrificed time and time again for his family; but still, his efforts would forever be only those of a second born son, a curse in and of itself–a constant mark against his person no matter how hard he tried to escape his destiny. Had it ever crossed any of their mind’s that he might make a better fit for king than his older brother? Who other than the fact of being born first was even more ill-suited for the crown than their whoring cunt of a half-sister or her brood of bastards. Aemond was sure that it had, but due to damnable tradition he would forever be passed over for Aegon, just as he had when Helaena and his brother were betrothed; he had had no desire to marry his sister, but he would’ve done it if only to ensure she was not doomed to a loveless and cruel marriage to that drunkard.

“Your grandfather is right,” Alicent nodded, standing up from her spot on the settee. “We will need Lord Borros’ support and to ensure it we have to create a strong alliance. The man’s father might have sworn to Rhaenyra, but that was years ago and it is my understanding that the man is less concerned with hollow oaths and more concerned with seeing his daughters to profitable martial matches. What better one than that of a prince?”

“I do not wish to marry one of the storms, mother,” Aemond frowned. “Besides, it is my understanding that they take after their father in both looks and intellect; I’d rather not have my future children be burdened with dull minds and plain faces.”

“Aemond!” The queen admonished.

“I merely–” Aemond began to defend himself.

“Enough,” Otto snapped, mouth set in a firm line. “You stand there and insult Lord Borros and his daughters, one of which will be your betrothed. It is foolish of you to believe that you have any say in the matter; you will do as your mother and I have bid you for your father–the king–has already given his blessing to the offer. We simply wished to let you know as a courtesy before sending word to the Stormlands.”

A pause and then a laugh–

Aemond tossed back his hair, chuckle passing through the column of his throat and vibrating there as he smiled amusedly at his grandfather. The other man’s frown deepened and he took a step forward as if to further reprimand his grandson, perhaps he even intended to put his hands on Aemond. Alicent, ever the level-headed one, placed her hand on her father’s arm as her lips pressed into a thin line, worry etched forever in the plains of her forehead.

“Aemond–” She began softly.

“You are the foolish one, grandfather,” he cut her off, laughter dying out as he continued, “if you believe that you can tell a dragon what to do; you have power because we allow you to not based on your own merit, though I will commend you for your cleverness and confidence.”

“How dare you–” Otto snapped.

“No,” Aemond shot back, taking a dangerous step forward as his hands fell to his side, clenched into readied fists. “How dare you think you could go behind my back and decide my fate for me! How dare you lecture me about duty and sacrifice as if I have no idea what it means to bleed for this family?! I have already given so much–my mind, my sword, my eye–and still it is not enough for you?”

He laughed again, this time more cruelly as he backed away and paced across the room, eyes once more finding Criston’s who remained by the door. The latter had a disapproving frown on his lips–of course he did; the man was just as chained to the concept of duty as Aemond had found himself to be not that long ago. To him and the others–Aemond’s mother and grandfather–he was foolish to believe that one’s wishes should trump that of obligation and perhaps at one point the prince himself believed that to be so as well. But not anymore–not when he was so close to tasting the forbidden fruit he had denied himself for so long–

Not when he almost had you, his flower.

“Let us speak civilly about this, Aemond,” his mother urged, walking over to his side and reaching for his hand. “I know that it does not always feel like your efforts have been recognized, but know that they have and that I am grateful for your dedication to this family. Aemond–”

She paused when he pulled his hand away, turning his body to the side so that he did not have to look at her directly, the set of his jaw tense as he turned his head to the side to let her know he was at least still listening.

“You have always been so….agreeable,” she continued, trying to find the right words, “when it came to what has been expected of you in the past. What has changed, my dear boy?”

He could not tell her, not yet when things were still in motion and he did not have you fully yet; there was still the chance, however slim he hoped it to be, that you would reject him and he would not be made a fool to you and his family if that were to happen. Even absent his desire for you the repulsion he felt at the prospect of marrying one of the Baratheon daughters did not waver; he had never met them nor did he have any wish to do so, not wanting to give any of them the false hope that they might be able to bewitch a dragon. It was too late for him anyways, after all he had fallen under your spell long ago.

“Perhaps,” he found himself saying, finally glancing between his pale faced grandfather and his mother who now worried her bottom lip between both rows of her teeth, “I simply do not wish to be an animal caged in a loveless and dull marriage as I have seen my loved one subjected to.”

It was a dig at the sham of the unions of first his mother and father and now his brother and sister; both pairs forced into proximity to one another in an act of his grandfather to secure Hightower blood on the throne. Aemond knew his mother held no love for his father, not as a wife should a husband anyways, and perhaps Aegon and Helaena could’ve cared for each other as siblings if they had not been used as pawns by those who should’ve protected them. And now the pieces were moving across the board once more, and it was Aemond’s turn to be sent forward as fodder for his grandfather’s ambitions.

“Perhaps,” he adds, the hint of a smile curving his lips, “I have found something that I desire more than your fleeting approval for once, mother.”

He had always known her love was conditional, that to be the golden son in her eyes one must forgo their own happiness; but even that was no longer enough for the queen it seemed as she grew desperate to secure her eldest son’s claim to a throne he had no business sitting upon. No matter what Aemond did he would never have her favor, he would never be enough, because he was a second son and that’s all he ever would be.

It was time that he accepted that.

Without another word, he turned to leave, striding towards the door even as Alicent called after him tearfully, shaking hand coming up to cover her quivering mouth. His grandfather’s voice joined her, demanding that he stop and even commanding Criston make him, but for once the knight defied orders and instead simply bowed his head to the prince as he strode past; there seemed to be something in his eyes akin to understanding, as if he too understood what it was to be held in limbo between desire and duty.

And perhaps he had; as Aemond opened the door to his mother’s solar and walked through, he recalled something Criston had said to him many years ago–about how he had once coveted something that he could not have and how filled with too much pride he had rejected the only way in which to possess it–

A choice he did not regret until many years too late.

Aemond refused to have such regrets hanging over his head.

•°•❀•°•

𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 tucked under a white rose in your bedroom again, wanting to ensure that it would not be disturbed by just any passerby nosy enough to pick it up. It read as follows: meet me in the east private gardens when the moon is highest in the sky. Simple enough. And it gave him enough time to rid himself of the residual anger that still pulse through his blood, thrumming most prominently at the vein in his neck. With no other obligations–at least ones he wasn’t willing to snub–he found himself spending the rest of the day avoiding the gardens in exchange for the quiet of the library. He did not want to risk running into you before you saw his note and came to the garden to meet your faceless secret admirer that night; fearful he was that you might see the truth upon his face somehow and the big reveal would be ruined.

It was terribly romantic, or at least he thought so as he settled into a secluded section with a book he had already read two or three times before. His mind was not of the disposition that day to retain any new information, hyperfocused on the task at hand; he obsessed over every possible outcome as his eyes skimmed over the words, not really taking them in as he tried to prepare himself for any possible scenario. What would he do if you truly did reject him? He didn’t believe himself to be a broken hearted type, but it would surely gut him in some way if you held not even the slightest inclination towards him. Or on the other, what would he do if you did end up holding a desire similar to his own? He was not well versed when it came to concerns of the flesh, though he found himself more often than not as of late imagining what coupling with you would be like if he were to be presented with the chance.

His singular sexual experience was one he would rather forget–a forced-upon-him trip to the Street of Silk courtesy of Aegon and his wiles. It had been to make him a man–at least that’s how his brother had rationalized it afterwards, when a three and ten Aemond had stumbled out of the brothel the next day, fleeing as Aegon tried to keep him. Time to get it wet, that is what he had said as he clapped the younger boy on the back the night before, guiding him towards the establishment’s offerings; words that haunted the prince to this day and to which he tried his best to push away in that moment, instead replacing them with happier thoughts of you.

Sighing, he closed his book and laid it against his chest, leaning his head back as he closed his eyes; he thought of the small, coy smile you had given him that day in the garden when he had confronted you after all those years. It alone aroused something inside of him in its memory, fire only fueled as he continued to recall more details of you on that day. The dress you wore had been plain, the uniform red of a royal servant, a white robe dirtied by the work in the gardens thrown over it; your hair had been bound, pulled away from your face aside from a few rebellious strands that he didn’t know whether he wanted to fist and pull at or tuck behind your ear in a gesture of tenderness. The glint in your eye; the curve of your lips, the silhouette of your figure–

Shifting uncomfortably, Aemond began to feel the familiar tightening in his leathers, cursing internally as he sighed and ran a hand over his face. Never before had he been the type to so spontaneously harden at the mere thought of a pretty girl; it was not unfounded completely, no, but nor had it been as frequent as it had of late. He of course blamed you and his lack of self-control, the reluctance to delay gratification a constant struggle he battled with.

Setting the book aside, he hesitated a moment as he sat up, hands flexing upon his thighs as he glanced at the space between his legs before assessing his surroundings; there had been no one in the library when he had first entered and he was sure no one had made their way in ever since. Although he was tucked away from the entrance, he was positive he would be able to hear if someone were to come in and even though it was a risky move he found himself oddly thrilled at the element of danger. It would do him no good, after all, to walk to his chambers in such a state he rationalized to himself as his right hand rubbed up his thigh and to the growing bulge at the front of his leathers.

Groaning, he gave in and leaned back as his hand closed over the outline of his cock, gripping it firmly and rubbing in slow methodical circles. His legs shifted, opening wider as he adjusted his position to a more comfortable, ass hanging off the edge of the seat he was in as he kicked his feet out. Heel of his boots digging into the firm ground so he could gain purchase and have better control of his hips, which squirmed under his hand’s ministrations as he let his mind wander.

He imagined you there with him, sitting to his side, your hand replacing his as it stroked over his clothed member; fingers teasing the laces at the front, he licked his lips as he saw you in his head leaning in to press kisses to the arch of his neck, leaving teasing bites as you began to undo the front of his trousers. His own mirrored your movements, except for the way he impatiently yanked at the laces while you moved slowly, not a care in the world as you focused all your attention on him. It made him feel revered, worshiped as your pressed kisses down the column of his throat, hand sliding inside to grip at his cock finally; a soft gasp left his lips as you gave it a few good tugs, matching his rhythm before pulling it out and exposing the turgid flesh to the cool air of the room. It should’ve been a relief, it was a relief, but only a temporary reprieve as Aemond continued stroking himself at a good pace; he pressed his feet into the floor, hips rocking in tandem with his touch as he thrusted into his fist. Only for a moment did he pull away, depravedly spitting into his own hand before returning it to his now fully hard and weeping erection; his strokes quickened as he panted breathlessly, head lilting back uselessly as he lost himself to the debauchery of it all.

Soon enough his leathers were wrapped around his ankles, restricting his movement as the scene shifted in his mind, imagining you taking him into your mouth. He grunted, trying to conjure up how the delicious cavern of mouth upon him would feel–hot, wet, blissfully suffocating–but it was futile; he would simply have to make do with the slick slide of his hand along his length as a poor imitation until he could bring you to bed–if he could bring you to bed. Growling at the thought of your rejection, he quickened his strokes, fucking the tight vice of his fist as he pushed such worries away; in his fantasy at least you were compliant and wanting, mouth hungry as you suckled at the root of his cock, hand fondling the heavy weight of his balls as they tightened. He gripped them harshly, the tightness bordering on painful as they drew up against his body, the end close.

“Fuck,” he cursed, squeezing his erection as he tried to delay the inevitable; your name slipped over his tongue and past his lips, saying it like a prayer as he teetered on the edge. He said it like a plea, begging his cock not to spill so soon as he wanted to drown there in his desire for just a little bit longer.

His body did not heed his words, however, as soon it was stiffening, hips arching off the chair and staying there as the first stream of his release shot pitifully out of the tip of his cock, landing on the lapels of his trousers and the lower half of his vest. Gasp locked deep in his throat, all he could do was simply tilt his head back, singular eye closed tightly as he watched himself hold you down as he spilled inside of your mouth. In an ideal world, you would accept his seed like an offering, swallowing it all down gratefully as you continued to suckle at his softening cock like it was a rare delicacy and you had yet to have your fill–nothing went to waste. Sighing, he continued to jerk himself to the prospect, tongue coming out to swipe across his lower lip as he felt his cum begin to drip onto his hand; only when the last of his release had finished did he loosen his hold on his penis, letting fall uselessly against his dirtied trousers as he slowly came down from the high.

It had been thrilling, he had to admit to, doing such a private act in the communal area of the library, the threat of being caught some kind of fucked up aphrodisiac. He almost wanted to get caught, to be happened upon in such a compromising state, to be watched while he–

He turned his head in the midst of his wicked thoughts, eye catching the familiar hue of yours as everything came to a halt; for a moment he thought–hoped–that you were still simply a figment of his imagination, but when he saw the shock written plainly on your face and the way your lips parted as you realized you were caught he knew that this was not a part of his fantasy. You were really standing there in the library before him, bearing witness to his secret shame, and he wondered when you had stumbled upon him–how long had you watched him defile himself?

Before either of you could utter a word, Aemond watched you bolt, gripping the skirts of your dress as you hurried from the room. Cursing, he quickly pushed his cock back inside his trousers, struggling with the laces as he attempted to right himself and stumble to catch. Your name left his lips again as he begged you to stay, commanding you to stop when his pleas went unanswered, the door slamming shut behind you as you slipped out of the library. Ignoring how filthy he was, pearly white cum already beginning to harden and stain his clothes, he followed you out into the hallway only to realize that you had already disappeared. Unsure of which way you had gone, he stood there for a moment and considered his chances of catching up with you; frowning as he realized it was futile, he turned on his heel and went back inside, the door once more slamming shut behind him.

He could only hope that you showed at the garden that night so that he might explain himself; although how he could he did not know quite yet. It proved unnecessary however for as midday finally turned to night and Aemond found himself waiting in a patch of white roses in the private area of the gardens, minutes turned to hours and still you made no appearance. And yet he waited as time passed him by, eventually laying back in the flowers as he allowed their sickly sweet scent to envelop him, the starry sky hanging overhead as he drifted slowly to sleep.

#˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 :#house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen one shot

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floraaurora420 · 1 year

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The gonie babes. Obsessed.

#cane begonia #begonia hybrid #angel wing begonia #begonia maculata #rex begonia #begonia #angel wing begonias

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soap-lady · 5 months

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A little suffering for me, a little pleasure for you

@tenebrare @angelqueen13art @idreamtofmanderleyagain

For the three people who like my writing, a little more.

Elliot Spencer is human catnip

The idea of a “welcome wagon” or a “welcoming committee” is a time-honored tradition (depending on the culture) that is sadly dying out. People in the neighborhood, mainly members of the Neighborhood Watch, usually led by either the person who had lived in the area the longest or the richest resident.

People, usually women, would arrive at a new neighbor’s house with food and information for services in the area; favored landscaping services, handymen, or repairmen. They would also leave their numbers in case the new resident had an emergency or wanted their house watched while on vacation.

The people in the neighborhood surrounding 55 Ludovico were less concerned with being neighborly and more concerned with satisfying their curiosity about the ones who lived there. They had all heard varying accounts about the death of “Poor Larry”, his less than friendly second wife, Julia, and that no-account wastrel of a brother, Frank. They were vaguely aware Larry had an adult daughter from his first marriage, a very pretty brunette named Kirsty. Somehow she had barely escaped being murdered herself when Frank went crazy and murdered his brother and his sister-in-law before turning his weapon on himself.

Also there was a pretty blond girl who lived there (no one recognized her so she didn’t matter as much) and a dashingly handsome man in his early thirties.

No one knew his name yet; he spent all day indoors and occasionally could be seen walking to and from the car with the blonde teen or the Cotton girl. He waved when waved to and had once helped old Mrs. Standish when she dropped her cane. Mrs. Standish reported that the man had pretty blue eyes and so did the blonde girl so they must have been related. Larry Cotton had blue eyes and blond hair so everyone wondered if he was somehow a distant cousin of the Cottons. Perhaps that meant he’d be living there awhile and was available. He seemed a bit too old for the Cotton girl but Ms. Greene had seen the Steve boy young Miss Cotton had been dating show up once only to be chased off so there was a breakup story somewhere. No one really liked Steve; he couldn’t park worth a damn and had once destroyed Mrs. Standish’s begonia by parking on them.

So the neighborhood welcoming committee had waited for the blond girl to go to school, driven by Miss Cotton and knocked on the door, hoping the handsome man would be home. There was no answer.

Mrs. Standish turned to Ms. Greene. “Maybe he went with the Cotton girl to take the little one to school.”

“I would have seen him leave if he had,” Ms. Greene worked from home most days and her office window faced the Cotton house. She always kept the blinds slightly open to watch the comings and goings of the neighborhood and was ever on the alert to see the tall slim man.

“I’ll knock again.”

Mrs. Standish shifted the Tupperware container she carried (avocado green, a relic from the 70s) to her left hand and knocked again.

The five other women with them shifted from foot to foot with bored impatience. They’d waited almost a month for the newcomers to get settled in before coming over and they wanted their restraint rewarded with a glimpse inside the house and maybe some juicy gossip to lord over everyone else.

This time they heard footsteps, a mechanical click, and the slide of wood against wood as the door opened and a man stepped out. His clothing was simple; a navy V-neck and gray denim with brown dress shoes but he wore it with grace and style. His blue eyes slid over all of them, wary and assessing. Suddenly he smiled and every woman present (the one stay at home dad on the block had a dental emergency with his youngest) stood a little straighter and smiled back.

“Good morning, ladies,” his accent was crisp and British. “What brings you by today?” His eyes glanced over their heads as if searching for something or someone. “I’m afraid Kirsty is out at the moment but I’m sure she’ll be home shortly.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, dear,” Mrs. Standish patted his arm, paused and then squeezed his forearm a little. “Quite, quite all right.” She held up her Tupperware container as if just remembering why she was there. “We brought over some treats for you all to share.” She smiled, looking a little embarrassed. “If I’d known you were English, I would have made some scones for you instead of cookies.”

He looked a little touched. “That’s incredibly kind of you, madam.” He hesitated as if remembering something and gave her an embarrassed laugh. “Oh! Terribly sorry,” he gave her a little bow of the head. “I haven’t even introduced myself. Elliot Spencer. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.?” He raised a brow and made it look elegant.

Mrs. Standish felt a little apologetic. “Oh, right! My name is Mrs. Judith Standish. Widowed, unfortunately.” She smiled when she said it to make sure he knew she was available.

“My condolences,” he murmured the appropriate response.

Ms. Greene not so subtly nudged her. “We really should be standing around on the stoop like this. May we come inside?”

Now he looked a bit uncertain and they all felt slightly bad about putting him on the spot. “Well, I’m a guest in Kirsty’s home so I don’t feel like it’s my place to give you permission…plus, the house is mostly under renovation so I can’t give you the grand tour.”

Ms. Greene was tired of Mrs. Standish getting all of the handsome man’s attention. “Oh, it’ll be fine! We all knew Mrs. Cotton, Kirsty’s grandmother. I’m sure Kirsty won’t mind if old friends of the family stop by. “ She gently pushed on his chest and he was forced to back up unless he wanted to be steamrolled by women with casserole dishes and plastic containers. She was a bit disappointed she couldn’t snoop but being entertained by such a charming man made up for it.

He ended up in the middle of the living room and weighed the seating options. The sofa could seat three people and there were armchairs on either side. There were six guests plus himself so he would have to get two chairs from the kitchen. Mrs. Standish was the physically oldest person in the room so he would allow her to choose her seat first.

The women all crowded around him, shouting over each other to introduce themselves and showing food containers at him. He held his hands in the air and gave them all a stern glance.

“Now, ladies, I’m very grateful for your company but I’m afraid I can’t hear all of you at once.” He used the same friendly and firm tone he’d once used when addressing new recruits. It still worked because they settled down immediately.

He turned to Mrs. Standish because she seemed to be the leader here. “Madam, why don’t you have a seat while I fetch a few chairs? You can all put your gifts on the table while I put the kettle on and make us some tea? I’ll get some plates and utensils and we can try your biscuits…I mean cookies…together.”

Ms. Greene tried to get his attention again. “I could help-”

“Thank you, but no. You’re guests here and as a good host I wouldn’t hear of it. Just put your containers on the kitchen table and then we can all have a chat over tea.”

He was fortunate they seemed charmed by his manners or tone of voice because there was no argument. Each woman brought her container to the table and set it down like good soldiers and trooped into the living room to politely argue about who would sit where. Mrs. Standish took a seat in the middle of the sofa and Ms. Greene sat on her right. Mrs. Lopez sat on her left and Miss Williams and Miss Lee grabbed the armchairs before Mrs. Stein could grab one. Elliot came to her rescue with a chair from their kitchen table (the dining room was being renovated) and another for himself. He made sure his was a comfortable difference from the woman’s while he went to get some plates, cups, and utensils.

He came back into the living room only to find his chair had been moved closer to Mrs. Stein’s. She giggled at him and he gave her a stern look before setting down the plates, cups, and utensils on the coffee table. It was long and broad and very solid, too solid for them to move without help so they’d kept it.

Elliot selected some loose-leaf tea for his guests, an Assam Kirsty had found for him at a gourmet market. The kettle whistled and he poured the water into a lovely white teapot with a blue flower pattern. It was one of the few things Kirsty had saved from her grandmother’s and was at least as old as he was.

He brought the tea into the living room and once he’d poured it for everyone he set the teapot down in the middle of the coffee table, moved his chair away from Mrs. Stein and sat down. He let his tea cool while he addressed the women. “Now that we’re all comfortable we’ll start with introductions. I know Mrs. Standish of course but what about the rest of you?” He pointed at Miss Lee. “Why don’t we go counter-clockwise? Starting with you, of course. Is it missus or miss?”

“Miss,” Miss Lee smiled, showing off her nearly perfect (and natural) white teeth. I’m Ai Lee. I live in the ranch house next door.”

She’d barely finished when Ms. Greene showed up. “Chloe Greene. I live just across the street.”

As each woman introduced herself he smiled, said “nice to meet you” and desperately hoped Kirsty would be home soon. The school Tiffany attended wasn’t far but according to Kirsty traffic was bad in the morning so he hoped she wasn’t stuck.

There was a few minutes of silence as everyone sipped their tea and nibbled on the scones. Finally Mrs. Standish set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap. She leaned towards him and asked with eager politeness. “So, tell us about yourself, Mr. Spencer. How is it you know the Cottons? Are you related?” The others leaned forward as well, clearly hoping he was Kirsty Cotton’s cousin or some such and not her lover.

He cast his mind back for the cover story Kirsty had invented. She’d kept it fairly simply so it would be easy to remember.

“Well, Tiffany is my cousin,” he began.

“Oh, that makes sense,” Mrs. Lopez interrupted, “you have such pretty blue eyes. My son is in her class and says she has pretty blue eyes.”

The other women shushed her but he wasn’t offended. “Yes. Strangely common in my family. Her mother sadly passed and I think her father preceded her. Tiffany and Kirsty were both in…therapy. Grief counseling, I suppose, is the term.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie and sounded better than “they were in a mental institution because someone wanted to exploit Tiffany and my former self tried to drag Kirsty to Hell.” He was very lucky neither girl held his past against him.

“Unfortunately, Tiffany had no remaining family in The States so after an exhaustive search they finally located me in England,” he continued after another sip of tea. “I’d just finished…military service so I had nothing but time on my hands.So when it was discovered we were related and she needed a guardian.”

“So you gave up your life in England to come help your family?” Miss Williams asked with an admiring look. “That’s so selfless! I can’t think of any guy I know who’d do such a thing.”

“So, what did your wife or girlfriend think of you moving here?” Mrs. Stein was fishing for information. “Was she mad? Is that why she didn’t move here with you?”

He was starting to find all this attention amusing. He felt their eyes all over him, sizing him up with sly smiles and lustful eyes. He wondered how they would react to his former self. Probably not with lust. Probably.

Elliot shrugged. “Ah, no. No wife or girlfriend to leave behind. Just a few work mates. I had thought I was the last of my family until I learned about Tiffany.”

They nodded, still giving him admiring glances.

“And…what about Kirsty Cotton?” Mrs. Stein wanted to know. The other women pretended to drink more tea or finish their scones but they were listening intently.

He chose his words carefully. “Tiffany and Kirsty bonded in therapy you might say. Tiffany sees her as an older sister. When the two of them…recovered Tiffany had nowhere to go and I’m bereft of funds at the moment,” the single women looked disappointed. “So Kirsty very kindly offered to let us live with her for as long as we needed to. She’s a very good friend and we’re lucky to have her.”

“That’s so nice,” Miss Lee complimented Kirsty but Elliot could tell she was dismissing his friend as competition. That annoyed him.

The door slid open and Kirsty walked inside, as if summoned by his thoughts. “Hey, El, did you notice you left the door unlocked-oh,” she stared at the group. “I didn’t realize we were expecting company.”

“We weren’t,” Elliot answered before anyone else could. He waved a hand at the group. “These ladies were kind enough to come over and welcome us to the neighborhood.”

Kirsty nodded and smiled and her eyes zeroed in on Mrs. Standish. “I remember you! You and my grandmother were friends.”

The older woman was very pleased to be recognized. “Little Kirsty! Laura looked forward to your visits.” She smiled fondly. “It’s amazing how much you look like your mother, dear, but you have your grandmother’s eyes.”

Kirsty’s smile faltered and she whispered. “Yeah. Dad used to tell me all the time.”

Mrs. Standish took her reaction as some sort of cue. “Well, we shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have a lot to do, getting this old house back into shape.” She stood up and the other women reluctantly copied her.

“Yeah,” Kirsty agreed. “Lots of work to do. It keeps Elliot and I busy all day.”

Elliot stood and held the door open for his guests. “Thank you all for coming by. I feel very welcomed and I’m sure Kirsty does too.” She nodded.

Mrs. Standish led the way, her cane thumping on the hardwood floor. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Spencer.” She pressed a slip of paper into his hand. “This is all of our numbers, as well as the number for the local police and fire departments.” She winked. “Call us anytime you need anything. Kirsty,” she turned to her. “We left some dishes for you on the kitchen counter, as well as a few recipes.” She gave the younger woman a half-hug. “We should catch up sometime, dear.”

The other women left as well, with smiles for Elliot and polite waves for Kirsty. After they were gone she locked the door behind them. She looked at her roommate sternly then laughed out loud.

He was confused. “What?”

*****

Later over a dinner that did not include questionable casseroles but instead red curry chicken, Kirsty repeated the day’s events for Tiffany’s amusement.

“You should have seen them, Tiff,” she said between bites and giggles. “They were all over him, practically licking their lips at the thought of taking a nibble out of our very charming captain,” she leaned back and gave Elliot a wide smile. “He’s quite the chick magnet.”

He put his fork down and gave her a confused look. “Sorry. Chick magnet?”

“They’re thirsty for you,” Tiffany tried to clarify. “Clearly out to smash.”

Elliot had no idea what either of them were saying. “Tiffany, I’m not sure we’re getting the best value for Kirsty’s money at that school. Is that even English?”

They both laughed and he let them. They'd suffered so much, so young. Especially Tiffany. He knew teasing him was one way they showed affection and although he pulled his punches with the blonde girl, he had no problem taking the piss out of Kirsty when he could.

Kirsty furrowed her brows as she thought then raised them. “Hey, El, you know what catnip is?”

He nodded. “Yes of course. Cats adore it. They want to roll around in it.”

She pointed at him. “That’s you. You, Elliot Spencer, are human catnip for the ladies of the neighborhood. They want to rub their faces all over you and purr.”

He understood. He’d picked up on the undercurrents of the conversation when company was over. He missed how straightforward Cenobites had been. If one wanted pleasure or pain, one only had to say so. “I see.” He looked at both of them. “And…what are your thoughts on that?”

Tiffany grinned. “You’re a grown man. If you want to smash the whole neighborhood I don’t care as long as you use protection.”

“Good idea,” Kirsty stood and began gathering the plates. “After I drop off Tiffany at school, I’ll swing by the pharmacy and buy you some condoms. Maybe a day planner so you don’t double book your lady friends.”

“Condoms?” he asked.

Kirsty rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me?” she said as she stacked all the plates and she and Tiffany began clearing the table. It was their turn. “You Cenobites kept up with modern technology but you don’t know what condoms are?”

“Well, I was a bit busy, you know. Serving my God, torturing souls and being summoned to Earth by idiots who didn’t know what they were doing,” his reply was a bit tart. He hated the fact he knew so little about the modern world he had to be guided through life by his “family” of two.

Tiffany rinsed the dishes then started loading the dishwasher with plates and utensils. “Well, that’s my part done. I’m gonna start my homework while you give Cousin Elliot ‘the talk’.” She grinned and hugged him. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she bounded up the stairs.

Kirsty hand washed the pans and explained to Elliot about modern prophylactics and all the deadly diseases they were used to prevent. It was quite a bit of information but it seemed important to her that he understood. He nodded along but made a mental note to read all the packaging of the condoms to make sure he was following instructions.

“Thank you, Kirsty,” he said when she was finished and the dishwasher made a low thrum as she put little pods into it and turned it on.

“You’re welcome,” her smile was warm and then turned almost as sly as his neighbors’. “But I’m sure you don’t need instructions on how to please a lady. And even if you did, I’m sure the welcoming committee would be glad to teach you. Oh, Mr. Spencer,” she held the back of her hand to her forehead and spoke dramatically. “You’re just so dashing and exotic. I may just…swoon.”

She pretended to faint and leaned on him. He held her upright, made sure she was steady and gently pushed her away. “That’s quite enough of your cheek tonight, little missy.”

Kirsty laughed and batted her eyes at him while adopting a mock seductive pose in the doorway. “What? What are you going to do, Captain?” She gave him a sultry look. “Spank me?”

Elliot knew she was baiting him and didn’t mean it. Still, he reached into a drawer and pulled out an extra wide spatula. Brandishing it at her he growled, “I just might, Kirsty Cotton.”

It was a good enough imitation of his former Cenobite voice that her eyes widened before she burst out laughing. “Okay okay okay,” she giggled as she waved her hands at him. “I’m just messing with you.” She gave him a warm smile, brown eyes radiant with affection. “Sorry if I embarrassed you. You always hurt the ones you love.”

Her statement surprised him. He blinked as he slowly lowered the spatula and put it back in the drawer. “And you…love me?”

She looked at him, her eyes wide with astonishment. “I’m surprised you have to ask.” She frowned. “I guess I’ve really been busting your ass today. I’m sorry, El.”

Kirsty approached him slowly as if afraid she might startle him and put an arm around his waist to pull him closer. She looked up at him.

“Elliot,” her face was serious and sincere. “When I said you, me and Tiffany were a family, I meant it. I love both of you very much and I want you to be happy.” She sighed and let him go. She stepped back.

“And I know you’re a grown man and have needs and there are a lot of pretty ladies and hot guys who live around here.” She held up her hands before he could protest. “Just a statement. I’m not judging but I have a few guidelines if you want to…date.” One finger went up. “Rule One, be discrete. Your life, your decisions but I don’t want Tiffany hurt if people start gossiping about her cousin. Rule Two, be careful if your dates are married, because I don’t want angry wives or husbands showing up to kick your ass. Calling the police could blow our cover.”

“Rule three,” she held up a third finger and cut him off when he tried to speak. “No overnight guests. I don’t want your floozies sleeping over at my house.” She gave him a cheek kiss as well. “Good night. I’ve got some reading Daddy’s lawyer asked me to do. Something about investments.”

She headed upstairs and Elliot was left to look after her in astonishment. While he appreciated her affection and care, he was a little discomfited at how modern society was so open about sex. He chuckled to himself. A prudish Cenobite? Leviathan would sound with laughter.

*****

The day after as he took a load of clean laundry back to his room he found a bag on his bed. It contained a day planner, two large containers of personal lubricant, some smaller containers of flavored lubricant and seven different kinds of condoms.

He thought about the list of phone numbers his visitors had given him and smiled.

There was no need to squander Kirsty’s gifts, was there?

#kirsty cotton #hellraiser #domestic fluff #captain elliot spencer is human catnip #tiffany is their daughter/little sister #pinsty

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conretewings · 2 years

Note

what about some random dude out in public sees viktor’s cane and limp and tells reader he could show her what it’s like to be with a ‘real man.’ back home, viktor shows her just what a real man can do (wink wink)

-Aaaah, intriguing. *runs hands together* I've never written for Viktor but! I do also love him, and I'll do my best here. :)

Viktor x fem!reader (NSFW! 18+ only!!)

———————————————————

"Can you believe they mixed up the Acacia and Acaena genuses? I mean, I understand they're similarly spelled but honestly..."

"Well, not everyone is as passionate and sharp-eyed as you, dear."

Stars twinkle above in the blue-purple evening skies, the rain shower from earlier making the cobblestones shine under the light from streetlamps and windows as you walk arm-in-arm with Viktor down a shop-lined street. Having both been cooped up in your respective labs for the greater part of a week and not having time to see each other, you'd finally managed to find said time (and managed to pry him away from his desk) to head out on a much-needed date.

You'd heard about an upcoming exhibition on plants, flowers and their various adaptations to different environments at the largest and nicest museum in Piltover, and being an enthusiastic botanist you couldn't pass up the chance. When you'd suggested the idea Viktor had been...less enthused yet still intrigued; perhaps this would be a welcome distraction from his own intense schedule, a breath of fresh air to help him refocus. Not to mention, spending an evening with you was a delightful idea in itself.

"One would think that, being a scientific institution, they would make certain displays were correctly labeled before it opened. What if people learned the wrong plant names and made a fool of themselves? Or which would be pleasant in your home and which would release revolting smelling pollen?!" you continue with self-assured indignation.

A bemused, teasing smile tugs at Viktor's mouth, "What indeed. Goodness it would be a shame if someone walked into their kitchen to find it ruined by a houseplant. Truly a tragedy."

"Very funny, Viktor." you dryly reply, then pause suddenly, gently pulling your arm from his and gazing forlornly at your feet. He stops as well, eyebrow raised in question and you sigh, "I'm...sorry I get so...into my field. I know it's not your thing."

He hums, shifting his weight and giving his cane a few thoughtful taps on the ground, then points to a nearby planter overflowing with red and pink blooms, "What are those flowers called?"

"They're begonias...?" you reply, mildly confused.

"Ah, see, without you I might never have known that," he turns to look at you, "But now I do. The point is, though our passions and fields of study are different, it doesn't mean we can't appreciate and even learn from each other's," his lips quirk up in a small smile, slender fingers on your chin to tilt your face upward and you almost have to stop yourself from kissing him right then, "Sometimes looking at different things, or the same from a new angle, affords you a better understanding and love for them."

Touched, you break into a shy yet beaming grin, simultaneously hating and loving how easily he could make your face warm and heart flutter. You lean forward enough to bump your nose against his with a tiny huff of a laugh.

"How dare you make me blush like a smitten teenager...but thank you..."

He tilts his head ever so much, a silent signal and you do the same, your lips finally meeting with the softest touch and you swear you could melt to join the puddles in the cobblestones below. Pulling away, he moves to take your arm again and you both resume walking, chatting more about the exhibit and Viktor's newest discoveries with his own research.

A few minutes later, among the many small shops you pass a bakery and patisserie, it's windows bordered with tiny lights and displaying a neatly written sign declaring a '50% off sale on our famous macaroons!'

"I've actually never had a macaroon." you muse aloud, and Viktor shrugs, "Nor have I."

An idea grabs hold and you grin, telling him with a quick peck on the cheek you'll 'be right back!' and pull away to slip inside. Viktor shakes his head lightly with another crooked smile, then pulls a book from his coat pocket and steps off more out of the way to await.

Mere minutes later, you emerge cradling a neatly folded white paper bag containing four assorted flavors-in your enthusiasm you'd forgotten to ask Viktor what sort he may like-when you pass an all-too-familiar figure just entering the shop, who does a double-take and smirks, faking surprise.

"Ah, we meet again, miss." he says coolly, his voice like velvet and yet sandpaper.

Oh no. Your smile and stomach drop as you remember dealing with him a mere couple hours before at the very exhibit you and Viktor had recently left; he'd approached you when you'd wandered away from your date for a moment to more closely inspect a display, asking if you'd like to join him for drinks...and it had taken several increasingly curt refusals before he'd begrudgingly given up.

"That offer still stands, you know," he continues with a clumsy bow, "I would love to show such a lovely creature a lovely time..."

"As I've already stated, several times if I recall, I'm not interested, and happily spoken for thank you-" close to him as you are, you're able to catch the whiff of alcohol on his breath and clothes; apparently he'd already started without you and your nose wrinkles, "And it seems my company wasn't needed for your inebriation anyway. Good night."

Without waiting you turn on your heel and stalk back to Viktor, your heart instantly at ease when he looks up-then his expression shifts as his eyes dart behind you, and you glance to see you, unfortunately, had a tag along. Reaching Viktor you immediately link your arm with his and spin to face the absolute buffoon who it seemed was more determined than you thought.

"Erm, who...?" wonders Viktor aloud, catching your gaze as he slips the book back into his pocket.

That gaze then settles fiercely on the man, silently warning him to leave, "He asked if I wished to join him. I politely declined. Multiple times. Let's go, darling."

The man takes a quick step to the side, blocking your paths. His face has warped from a cool yet polite smile to one of irritable disgust as he suddenly scans Viktor up and down, noting his slender frame, cane and slightly unsteady gait. Viktor glowers back at him, as much for your sake as his own, knowing exactly what the man was thinking.

Unable or unwilling to suppress a sarcastic laugh the man scoffs, "Really now? You would choose him, this frail thing, over someone like myself? Goodness my sweet, you're beautiful and vibrant! Surely you can find a real man to attach yourself to! Luckily for you," he tugs on his lapels and tosses you a wink, "I'm more than happy to show you what it's like to be with a real man..."

You feel your rage bubble up so swiftly it steals your voice for a moment, but just as you open your mouth, Viktor lays his hand across your arm reassuringly before standing up tall, a cold fire in his eyes and voice steely, "In my experience, sir, I've always observed that those who feel it necessary to declare themselves 'real men' with the most conviction are often, ironically, farthest from it."

The silence that follows is deafening, as the man's face reddens from indignation and fury. It takes much of your self-control not to laugh at the sight, and without another word you and Viktor quickly step around him and vanish into the crowd.

-When you two finally reach your humble but cozy apartment, you were both chuckling about the whole situation, though you were still fuming as well. You toss your coat over a chair, kick off your high-heeled shoes and stalk to your kitchenette to prep some tea, having to move a tray of seedlings you'd placed on the stovetop earlier.

"The sheer audacity-!" you huff, grabbing two mugs from a cupboard, "Who does he think he is?! Pestering me and insulting you! What an oaf."

Viktor has, meanwhile, settled himself into a cushion covered dining chair and rests his chin on his knuckles as he watches you bustle about. Observing you work, whether in your greenhouse lab or here, is something he always enjoys; your quick, graceful movements almost like a dance, he realizes. He smiles, remembering what he'd said earlier about appreciating different ways of looking at things.

Bringing over both your steaming, fragrant mugs on a small tray with proper accompaniments and a plate containing the macaroons you set the lot on the table and flop into a high back wicker chair next to him, still mumbling about what the man had said to Viktor and move to prep your tea.

At last you register him watching you, a bemused smile tugging at his mouth and wonder, "What?"

"It seems you're more upset by this matter than myself."

"Well how could I not be upset after what he said to you? Insinuating you're somehow lesser than him just because you need a cane. If ever we see him again you should see how he would like it stuck in certain places."

Viktor snorts out a laugh, then gestures to your leg, and you gracefully lift it to rest your ankle across his knee as he begins to massage the muscles of your foot and calf with one slender hand, the other holding his mug, "No, no, that would be terrible, and besides I like this one..." a mischievous smirk tugs at his mouth, "Perhaps we'll find a more suitable item instead."

You both share a devious laugh, turning the conversation then to other topics, sipping your tea and enjoying this treasured, all-too-brief time together. Lazily, you stretch out the leg Viktor was still absently massaging with a contented sigh, "Thnak you again for this, love. It's so wonderfully soothing..."

As you stretch, your dress slips, sliding down your legs so far your upper thighs are fully exposed, a tantalizing glimpse of the garter straps that hold your stockings and lace-edged panties just visible. Viktor's sharp eyes do not fail to notice, and a jolt of heat courses through him to settle in his core, spreading to other areas and words are suddenly harder to grasp. The ever-constant analytical portion of his mind turns this over, pondering why his reaction is so strong and quickly finds the answer; your intellect and passion for knowledge has been on full display tonight, as well as your ferocity and unwillingness to roll over and let injustices toward things or people you care about stand. All of these are things he finds irresistibly magnetic about you, and though he dared not admit it aloud, quite arousing. Those coupled with the lack of any time for...intimate activity lately and now abrutply finding your negligee on display combine to temporarily muddle his senses.

You can't help but notice his silence, nor the way his cheeks and ears redden or the sudden flash in his golden eyes.

"What is it-oh, goodness-" you ask then stammer upon glancing down and seeing the state you're in. You reach to pull your dress back into place when his hand shoots forward and covers yours, holding it fast. His skin is so warm, and his thumb rubs small circles on your inner thigh; between his touch and the intensity of his gaze you feel a shiver dance up your spine. The mood in the air between the both of you shifts, and you barely resist biting your lip at the anticipation of what that gaze promised.

"What's all this about?" you smirk, full well recognizing the suggestive gleam in his eyes and welcoming what came with it but playing coyly innocent.

He huffs out a small laugh and answers in a low tone, "It just occurred to me what would have been, perhaps, an even better answer for that bastard..." just as slowly, he moves himself off his chair to kneel in front of you, gliding his hands up both your legs until they rest against your hips, enjoying your ever reddening face as you realize his intentions, "A real man is one who loves and appreciates his partner, one who helps and supports them..." his lips graze the inside of your thigh, thumb gliding under the edge of your panties as he moves your legs apart more and you let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh. He can feel his cock twitch at the noise and knowing how much he's already turning you on but focuses.

"And also..." he hums, breath ghosting over your most sensitive spots, making you have to fight back a squirm, "One who loves to please and make them happy..."

Your heart is racing, heat pooling in your belly and hands gripping the chair, marveling at and welcoming this unexpected boldness, but you have little more time to admire the downright sinful look in his eyes before he moves your panties aside with deft fingers and plants a soft kiss upon your mound. That alone is enough to elicit a gasp, yet those gasps swiftly turn to soft moans as his tongue joins in, gently and lovingly lapping at your folds. One shaking hand goes to his hair, tangling itself in his deep chocolate tresses and you whisper his name.

His gaze, now positively burning with desire, meets yours and you can feel more than see his smile, free hand gripping the smooth skin of your thigh to keep you where he wanted. He moves his attentions upwards, dragging his tongue over your clit and gently sucking and you nearly come undone right then, head falling back against the wicker with a loud whine.

It's far too short a time, not that either of you are noting it's passage, before you can feel the burning, familiar coiling in your core, threatening to snap and your back involuntarily arches, your body seeming to move on it's own toward his, seeking more of the pleasure coursing through you.

"V-Viktor-!" you groan, "I-!"

His own groans, lustful and encouraging, rumble from deep in his chest and reverberate through you, aided by his tongue delving briefly inside you before sliding up again to circle that sensitive pearl, faster this time and finally, you fall over the edge.

Gasping, shaking, your body arcs, moaning his name repeatedly like a prayer while the waves of ecstasy wash over you and his strong grip holds you in place as much as possible as his mouth continues it's work until you're almost overstimulated and definitely spent.

Both your breaths ragged, he tenderly kisses the inside of your thighs again, one then the other before meeting your eyes with his golden ones, the smugness and desire burning there. You reach a shaking hand to run your fingers down his face and murmur your love for him, still half out of it from the intensity of your orgasm.

A tiny, falsely innocent grin graces his handsome face, "You seem a bit, eh, out of sorts darling. What happened?"

You chuckle, "Cheeky man...I wasn't expecting, well, that."

He helps you stand, pulling you into a hug and you shudder anew at feeling a familiar pressure against your lower belly. Smirking up at him you raise your eyebrow, "What do you think about continuing this in my room love...?"

"What about the tea? It'll get cold." he teases, pulling you a little closer.

"Oh sweet Viktor..." you smirk, running your hands from his shoulders to his waist, letting them drift to his ass and biting your lip, "I trust it's going to be hot enough in here it won't matter..."

#arcane #arcane fanfiction #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #arcane viktor x reader #arcane viktor x you #nsf/w #minors begone #very spicy #oh geez I tried #*hides face*#i hope you like this

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