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aellynera · 4 years

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Accidental Anniversary (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

ACCIDENTAL ANNIVERSARY

💜💘 Happy Valentine’s Fic Exchange, @samrockweil 💘💜

I am your Valentine’s elf (or maybe cupid?) It was an absolute blast writing this for you!! At first I couldn’t decide which guy to write for, but Llewyn spoke to me and I ran with it and I hope you love it even half as half as much as I did writing it. Happy reading and happy beeps!

Also, huge thanks to @sergeantkane for putting this fic exchange together! Love you Clarke!

Word Count: around 8k oops look i had a whole MONTH okay i’m not sorry

Summary: You meet Llewyn Davis one night at the Gaslight, and soon find out that the universe has an odd sense of humor and an even weirder sense of timing.

Warnings: A few curses. Nothing else, it’s 99.999999999% fluffy fluff.

March 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a whiskey, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as your boss flips the power on.

You’ve been working there for a couple weeks, a side job to help make your rent and keep you busy on the weekends. It’s not a terrible gig, most of the time; the patrons are pleasant enough, the performers hit or miss, and Pappi, your boss, is okayish, so long as you can mostly steer clear of him.

You begin to wipe down part of the bar while the next performer sets up on the small, dingy stage. You haven’t seen him before, but whispers from the stools at the counter hint he’s semi-popular around these parts. You quirk an eyebrow; he certainly is easy on the eyes, at least.

From the minute he takes the stage, your focus is ninety percent on him (you do need a little brain power to do your job, after all) and you find that he is also very easy on the ears. Dark curls, dark beard, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a surprisingly bright voice singing lovely songs. He finishes his set, comes off the stage, and sidles up to the bar. You hand him the requested bourbon with a soft smile.

And the next thing you know, Pappi is on the ground and this stranger is holding his hand, wincing, flexing his fingers. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “What--”

“Jesus Christ, Llewyn,” Pappi groans from the floor. “I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, doubt that,” this Llewyn person mutters under his breath, taking a seat on the stool closest to him. “Can I bother you for some ice?”

You keep a wary eye on him, and on Pappi as he gets up and wanders to the other side of the room like nothing happened, and wrap some ice cubes in a towel and hand it to him. “You decked him.”

He scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “You hear what he said about you?”

Well, no, you hadn’t actually, but having heard what Pappi has said about others in the club over the past two weeks, you can imagine. “I can handle him,” you say archly.

“I’m sure you can,” a huff of air escapes his lips, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He turns around to look at Pappi, who just glares and shakes his head. The man in front of you flips your boss off.

You refill his glass without him asking and stick out your hand, telling him your name.

He shakes it and says, “Llewyn Davis” with a sheepish smile.

April 14

Llewyn shuffles down the sidewalk towards the Gaslight, really only noticing the early spring chill that hangs in the air. It’s early, before noon, but he wants to run through his set before the night’s performance and the early hour is convenient for him to be able to do so in peace.

He’s about a block away when a sound distracts him. A voice is singing, pure and sweet - if a tiny bit off-key - and if he didn’t know any better - and he certainly does, at least most times - he would call it angelic. No, not angelic. An actual angel. That’s what it sounds like.

Llewyn stops and looks up at an open window on the third floor. He can make out the vague outline of a figure inside, but he’s unable to see any details. But that voice. A few minutes pass as he just listens, staring up at the window, thinking about calling up to get the attention of the mysterious singer. But he doesn’t, and he just stands and listens, until he finds his feet starting to carry him on to his usual destination.

Three steps into his walk, he realizes he knows the song. It’s one of his songs. Part of him can’t believe it, and the rest of him wants to offer pitch correction. Three more steps into his walk, and his face makes very solid, very resounding contact with the light pole on the corner.

“God dammit,” he shouts.

A few seconds later, the window on the third floor slides open and a head pokes out. “Oh my god. Llewyn?”

Llewyn looks up and groans inwardly as he recognizes your face from that last gig at the Gaslight. “Hey,” he waves awkwardly, leaning on the pole.

“Are you bleeding?” you call down to him.

He reaches up near his eyebrow and realizes he is, in fact, bleeding. Quite a bit, honestly. Before he can answer, you call back down, “Come up the fire escape to the side window!” The window drops shut and he can hear another slide open.

So Llewyn Davis climbs the fire escape steps and meets you at your side window, a first aid kit in your hands as you motion for him to sit. He does and you start to patch up his wound.

“You should be more careful,” you mutter as you worked, stopping briefly to look him right in the eyes.

He holds your gaze. “Sorry, I was...distracted.”

“Mmm,” you return. You fold a gauze pad and hand it to him. “Hold this on that cut. I’m going to get you some ice.” You turn to walk to your kitchen.

He mumbles his thanks and leans his head back against the fire escape railing.

May 14

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and although Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, he takes up a spot at the end of the bar and thanks you as you pass him a drink.

“How have you been?” you ask. You’d seen him a few times over the past couple weeks, here and there in the Village, but it’s been several days. You found Llewyn’s company quite enjoyable. You’d talked a bit and even shared lunch once at the diner a couple blocks away.

His lips turn up, a shy smile lighting his face. He opens his mouth to respond, when another voice breaks in.

“He’s been an asshole.”

Llewyn’s head ships around and you follow his gaze. A slender woman with long, straight brown hair and piercing eyes stands about ten feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Neither of them says anything for a beat, Llewyn turns away from her, and then she’s on him, daggers flying from her lips, going on and on about assholes and responsibility and electrical tape.

Llewyn keeps his eyes down, the bottom of his glass suddenly staring back at him. “Jesus Christ, Jean.”

You bite your lip as you glance between them. You have no idea who this woman - this Jean - is, but it’s clear she is not a fan of Llewyn Davis. In three seconds flat you decide you do not like her either.

“Is there something you needed?” you break in.

Her eyes flare at Llewyn, then at you, then bore into the back of Llewyn’s head. You resist the urge to literally toss a glass of whiskey in her direction.

“I need Llewyn to stop being an asshole,” she seethes. Llewyn rolls his eyes.

You arch an eyebrow and the words are on your tongue - I need you to back off, you crazy weird bit-- you bite your tongue just hard enough to make your mouth behave. Fortunately, she’s distracted by someone else calling her name and her attention drifts to the stage. With a final mutter of “asshole” and a rude hand gesture, she flounces off.

You point over Llewyn’s shoulder. “Um, what was that?”

He snorts. “A night of bad decisions and a lifetime of regret.” A pause. “It’s...a long story.”

You watch as she adjusts the microphone center stage. “Good lord, is she a singer? Tell me she’s not going to just smile and sing after...whatever that was.”

“Yeah. Well,” he offers by way of explanation and doesn’t say anything else. It’s almost like this woman sucked all the fight out of him and you feel your heart give a little twinge.

You toss the rag in the sink and take his glass. “Do you wanna get out of here?” The air around you has a weird vibe now, and you felt a sudden impulse to get out and take this man - your friend - with you, away from this...whatever she was, somewhere safe.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, a grateful glimmer passing through his dark eyes.

“There’s a great cafe down the block.”

“But don’t you have to...you know...work?”

You look around and shrug. “It’s dead in here, and Bobby can handle it,” you hook your thumb at a co-worker behind the bar. “And if Pappi says anything, I know someone who can set him straight.”

Llewyn’s eyes glint and his lips turn up in a real, honest smile this time. “So, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

June 14

The summer - or very last days of spring, technically - is starting to get hot and your open windows are doing the bare minimum to alleviate the warmth. Of course, the third glass of wine you’re drinking probably isn’t helping things either.

Whatever. It’s your day off.

Shoes kicked off, jeans rolled up above your ankles, feet up on the arm of the couch, a record on the turntable and your glass of red as the dusk slowly melts into dark. The night is tranquil and relaxing and perfect. It has been a shitty week, and all you want is to ignore the outside world and do exactly this.

The shrill ring of your phone bursts that bubble..

You close your eyes and tilt your head back on the couch. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away. The phone stops ringing. Deciding to take no further chances, you switch off the ringer, completely, then sigh happily, settling yourself on the couch and sipping your wine.

Perfect.

A resounding, repeated thump echoes through the room. You bit back a shriek. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away - lightning can strike twice, right? It was extremely rude of people to just call you and knock when all you wanted was--

“Hey, are you home?” a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Suddenly alert and somehow much less annoyed, you spring up and cross to your front door. Yanking it open, you find a very disheveled Llewyn Davis on the other side. He doesn’t seem to notice right away that the door was now open, and you had to jump back as his hand, raised to pound on the door again, almost knocks you in the head instead.

You take a deep breath. You catch a waft like the mat under the taps after a long night at the bar.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” You take him by the arm and drag him inside, appraising him quickly. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his curls an absolute mess, and there’s a dark mark under his left eye and a split in his lip. He looks terrible, smells just as bad, but suddenly all your desire for a quiet, no-other-humans night evaporates. “And did you get in a fight?”

“...yes?”

You sigh and point to the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ll make some coffee, and then you’re getting a shower..”

“You’re incredible,” he slurs, smiling, “And you’re so…I tried t’call you, from th’phone on the corner but you dinnt answer. An’ then I realized, hey, I’m on your corner, so decided t’come up and see you. You’re pretty.”

You take him by the elbow and lead him to the couch, only stumbling twice and managing to catch him as he sways, precariously, once. “Uh huh,” you bite your lip to hide a smile. “Sounds like you’ve had a fun night. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” He flops down on the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

By the time you make the promised pot of coffee and get back to the living room, Llewyn is snoring, still face down in the throw pillow. Turning off the music and the lights, you cover him with a blanket and take your glass of wine to your room.

July 14

Ring, ring, ring.

You’d remembered to turn the ringer back on three days after Llewyn slept it off on your couch, but your phone hadn’t actually rung again until just over half an hour ago, and honestly you weren’t sure if that was a blessing or if it was just sad.

You are sure, however, that the sheer desperation in the voice on the other end when you answered is the reason you’re on this train to Queens. Are you doing anything, Llewyn had asked, because I could really, really use some help right now. Please, I’m begging you. And now the echo of your phone ringing just, well, rings in your ears.

The train screeches to a halt and you exit, making your way to the given address. You knock on the door of a smallish, nondescript row house and it swings open almost immediately, revealing a very disheveled, slightly panicked looking Llewyn.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes and grabs you by the arm, dragging you inside.

“Llewyn? What is going on?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says. He’s completely serious.

You’re preparing yourself for blood, broken bones, water damage, collapsed ceilings, possible dismemberment, anything, really, that could explain your friend’s current frazzled condition. What you get is completely, unexpectedly, not anything like that.

There are about ten kids, all around ten years old, running around in the living room, which is also full of balloons and streamers. One giant pinata, shaped like a baseball glove and bat, hangs from the light fixture. To Llewyn’s credit, it is kind of...chaotic, but it’s far from a disaster and you can barely contain the guffaw that escapes your lungs.

“Whose birthday?” you grin at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s not funny.”

You consider this and try to straighten your lips. Nope, not working. “It’s a little funny.”

Llewyn smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and my sister forgot some party thing and made a run to the store. I was stayin’ here last night and she just decided, oh, Llewyn can watch the kids, and she was gone.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?”

“She should be back by now,” his eyes look slightly panicked.

“Maybe she had to go to a couple stores? Maybe she just got delayed by transit?”

“I can’t do…” Llewyn gestures around weakly, shaking his head. “This.”

“Llewyn, they’re kids. They can’t be more than what, ten years old? Just blindfold them and let them whack at the pinata.”

“You’re the people person. I can’t...can you help me, please,” he turns to look at you. Directly at you. You’re fairly certain his eyes cannot get any bigger or shine more pleadingly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Let’s go wrangle some kids.”

The panic slides from his face and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head in his thanks.

And when one kid takes a wild swing at that tacky papier-mache sports equipment, misses completely, and lands a clean hit on Llewyn’s thigh, neither of you talk about it.

You just get him an ice pack.

August 14

“I’m making lasagna. Come over for dinner.”

You worked early that day, and said this to Llewyn as you left the Gaslight for the day. He isn’t playing tonight, and he’s really just here to stay out of the sun, and as much as he doesn’t like to push his luck with others’ hospitality, he has to admit that a home-cooked meal does sound incredible.

He has a feeling your invitation was partly due to Jean showing up, ready to do unnecessary verbal battle because she just can’t let it go, and you’d asked to both deflect her and keep yourself from actual physical battle. But whatever.

So he finds himself at your front door a couple hours later, a bottle of cheapish red wine in hand and an odd tingle in his chest. He dismisses it offhand; he’s probably just hungry.

You open the door and Llewyn’s nose is assaulted by the smell of homemade sauce - he’s half Italian, he knows these things - and cheese and garlic. You smile brightly at him. Yeah, he’s definitely hungry.

“Hey! Come in, it’s almost ready.”

He hands you the bottle. “Brought wine.”

“Excellent,” you lead him to the kitchen table and motion to a seat. He settles himself into it and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table as you grab two wine glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a mouthful of carbs.

The timer dings and you pull the lasagna out of the oven. “No occasion. I just felt like making this and I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“Lucky for you I like to eat,” he chuckles.

Your face suddenly feels warmer. Well, you did just pull a piping hot casserole dish out of the oven, so that does make sense, you suppose. You turn and put the lasagna on the trivet in the middle of the table, then turn and grab two regular glasses for water. There is an outlandish, metallic ka-chunk-ing noise as you turn on the tap, and suddenly water is shooting from under the sink and halfway across the room.

Llewyn jumps up and dives at the faucet, a chunk of bread clutched between his teeth, at the same time you crawl halfway under the sink to try and shut the water off. The stream blasts you in the face and you sputter.

This is not how you imagined tonight. Blasted ancient, rickety building. You make a mental note to have words with the super tomorrow.

You finally get the water shut off, and Llewyn closes the tap and sinks down onto the wet floor next to you. You lean against the cabinets and try to wipe the water out of your eyes.

Llewyn fares a little better; he’s only wet from his waist down. Your head thumps back on the soaked particle board behind you and you turn your head towards him. For a long moment he looks back at you, then rips the butt off the hunk of baguette in his mouth and passes it to you.

You snort. He bites his lip.

“Sorry, I think dinner might be a bit late,” you deadpan, eyes still on him, and take a bite of bread.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “It’s okay. Lasagna is always better the next day.”

Llewyn has to admit, though, it’s still pretty good a couple hours later, after you’re both dry and the lake in the kitchen is mopped up and you settle on the couch with your plates.

And if you use the water glasses for the wine, well, neither of you mentions it.

September 14

It’s pleasantly warm today, the heat of late August dragging itself into the beginning of September, and you find yourself in Washington Square Park, on a checkered blanket, a basket in the middle and a guitar by your feet. Pigeons wander and plot to steal food, but it’s easy enough to shoo them away.

It takes a little convincing, early that morning, to get Llewyn to agree to join you. It didn’t, really; he’s quickly become one of your best friends, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, he just likes to tease you.

But he does accept, and you eat some of the bread and cheese you packed and drink the iced tea you brought, and you get out a container of fruit salad and package of cookies your down-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, made for you that morning.

“For you and your lovely man,” she’d said as she knocked on your door. You feel the warmth in the tips of your ears and you certainly see the color rise in Llewyn’s embarrassed face, but you don’t have the heart to correct her. She’s such a sweet old lady.

Llewyn plays a song or two while you enjoy your lunch, and even asks if you want to hear a new song he’s been working on, which you are more than happy to agree to.

It’s such a pleasant afternoon.

Until a small, brownish-gray blur jumps onto the blanket and grabs a chunk of bread and darts further onto the lawn.

“What the hell!’ Llewyn shouts as you yelp in surprise. The squirrel, for its part, just stops fifty feet away and turns back with a triumphant gaze, then scoots off into the bushes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

He starts to make a comment about the nerve of the wildlife, but you’re not really listening. Your eyes are fixed on the path the squirrel just ran and you tug on Llewyn’s sleeve. He keeps muttering and you tug harder.

“Llewyn.”

He finally looks up and follows your finger. There’s a flock - an honest-to-god flock, not that he has any real idea on the technical makeup of a flock, but there’s more than one so as far as he’s concerned, yeah, it’s a flock - of geese marching directly at the blanket.

Okay, so there’s only three of them. But they look angry.

The leader strides forward deliberately and bites at Llewyn’s shoe. Another yelp leaves your lips and he grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet. He also grabs the remainder of the bread and tosses it in the opposite direction as he takes off running towards the fountain, dragging you behind him.

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“No idea,” he replies. The leader falls for the bread feint, but his loyal minions do not, and they follow behind you, quacking and honking and flapping and Llewyn isn’t sure but he may dislike geese even more than he dislikes pigeons.

He jumps up on the edge of the fountain and pulls you into a protective embrace as the beasts close in. Only Llewyn doesn’t account for, you know, physics, and the force of your bodies colliding sends you both straight into the water.

Spluttering, you try to wipe the water out of your eyes. Llewyn is doing the same when a loud HONK startles you both. The leader is back, flanked by his friends, and they’re all staring at you.

“Um, Llewyn?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“...don’t geese like, love the water?”

His eyes flick to you, then the winged monsters, then you again, then the fountain like he’s seeing it for the first time and all he can do is mutter, “Shit!” and grab your hand as he pulls you to your feet and takes off running again.

You manage to swing by and gather the leavings of your picnic, blanket and basket tucked under your arms and his precious guitar clutched to him, as you beeline out of the park, soaking wet and laughing.

October 14

Llewyn slides the key into the lock and turns it, an odd flutter rolling up his spine as he hears the bolt click open. He’s had a key to your apartment for almost two months now. You gave it to him, insisted really, telling him this way he wouldn’t need to worry about finding somewhere to crash. That your couch is always open.

It still doesn’t feel real and he doesn’t always use it, but tonight he really, really doesn’t feel like making the rounds. You’ve been spending more time together recently anyway, and he feels mostly comfortable around you.

He’s greeted by the sight of you wearing a catcher’s mask and knee high rubber boots, and you’re wielding a tennis racquet. He doesn’t know what to say for a full minute.

“What are you...why are you wearing...what the hell.”

“There’s a bat,” is your whispered response.

Llewyn’s nose scrunches and he isn’t any less confused than he was a second ago. “What?”

“There’s a bat,’ you repeat. Your voice is slightly on the edge of hysteria because, well, “there is a bat. In the bathroom.”

“...okay?”

You jab your finger at the closed door. “I was just going to wash my face and brush my teeth and I went in there and it was just...in the corner, by the shelves. It was staring at me.”

He bites his lip, trying his hardest to suppress the smile tugging on his face. It isn’t working. He drops to a whisper himself and asks, “Baby, why are you whispering?”

Your head jerks towards the bathroom, and your shrug nearly sends the tennis racquet into his shoulder. “Because that’s how they...they’re...how they do the...the bat hearing thing!”

Llewyn laughs fully. He can’t help it; you’re ridiculous and his face heats a bit as he realizes it’s entirely endearing. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says, his voice sliding back to a whisper. He avoids your death glare as he makes his way to the bathroom door. “But sit tight, slugger, I’ll get rid of it.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and considers this. “Just gonna encourage it to go home? I dunno.”

Your grip tightens on the racquet. “How will that work?!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a fucking bat!” he hisses at you. “Just, make sure a window is open.” He opens the bathroom door.

Several things happen at once. Llewyn doesn’t so much open the door as he flings it wide and it slams into the wall. The bat makes a squeaky-shrieky noise (you were entirely unaware, until now, that they could even do that) and swoops out, recklessly streaking through Llewyn’s mess of curls. You make an actual shriek and fling the side window open as wide as possible. Llewyn makes a sound he can’t describe and you’re honestly not sure if it was Llewyn or the bat. The bat decides to take a few laps around the living room and you duck under the window sill just before it mercifully decides that outside is the place to be. Llewyn slams the window shut and you spring back to your feet, crash into his chest and his arms wrap around you.

Neither of you say anything, and Llewyn isn’t sure how much time passes, but he’s very aware of your hand running through his hair, and your soft words catching as you say you’re just trying to smooth out the bat damage.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll keep watch out here, make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” he jokes. “You okay?”

You finally - finally, he cheers internally - take off the catcher’s mask and nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m...good. Thanks for...thanks.”

Llewyn lets you go and takes the tennis racquet out of your hands, placing it next to the couch. He throws you a soft smile. “Just in case.”

November 14

It’s been a long night at work, a lot longer than it has any right to be and infinitely insufferable. The Gaslight is packed, patrons nearly crawling the walls and not an empty seat to be found. Drink orders stack up and you try to keep up. It’s so crazy that even Pappi doesn’t have a chance to be a smartass like usual.

Apparently it always gets like this, closer to a holiday.

Note to self - skip holidays.

There are two acts tonight. Llewyn is first, and it’s clear much of the crowd is here to catch him. It cheers you slightly, and it would certainly cheer you more if you had the time to pay more attention to him, but the constant call for whiskey and gin takes most of your focus. But for the time he’s on stage, your heart feels lighter.

Then the second act takes the stage, and Jean launches eye missiles at Llewyn from behind the microphone, and your mood sours instantly.

Yeah, it’s a very long night.

Everything is blurry for the rest of the evening, until last call mercifully rolls around and you can finally get to straightening out the mess the bar has become. You notice Llewyn still sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Don’t even say it,” you point at him sternly. “When will you stop fussing about this?” Ridiculous man. He has a key to your apartment, and still he worries that he’s an inconvenience.

You toss an orange slice at him, and he allows you a sweet grin.

Finally - finally - you’re home and Llewyn follows you inside, locking the door behind you. He heads for the couch and you head for your room, a mumbled g’night the only word that passes between you. You’re far too exhausted to deal with anything higher level.

It could be minutes or it could be hours later - your alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor and the darkish sky outside giving nothing away, and when did it start raining anyway - when a loud SPRONG and then a yelp and a THUMP from the living room jolts you awake.

It takes a few seconds to regain your senses. “Llewyn?”

“Fuck.”

You stumble out to the living room to find him half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, the quilt he normally uses tangled around his knees and ankles. He rubs a spot on his lower back and winces.

“Llewyn! What happened?” you cry.

He points to the middle cushion and you see something sticking up from the padding.

“Oh, Llewyn, jesus. I’m so sorry,” you apologize. You really do feel terrible; your couch hasn’t been in the best shape for ages, and it looks like the squeaky spring you noticed a few weeks ago finally gave up and poked it way through. And stabbed Llewyn in the back as he slept. Damn it.

“It’s...it’s fine,” he tells you, still wincing. “I can turn the other way, or sleep on the floor. Not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “Yes big deal. My couch just stabbed you, and it’s cold outside, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“S’fine. Not the first time I ended up on the floor.”

You make up your mind before you even think about it and reach your hand out to him. “Come on,” you wiggle your fingers. “Come to bed.”

Llewyn’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to protest, but your look is so firm that he relents with a soft sigh and extricates himself from the blanket. He follows you to the bedroom and asks, no less than seven times, if you’re sure this is okay and says he really has no problem sleeping on the floor. You eventually tell him to shut the hell up and get under the covers.

You both lay on your sides, facing each other, but keep a space between you. Llewyn still looks mildly uneasy but relaxes as you smile at him and the warmth of your duvet and the softness of your pillows pull him under.

“Good night again, Llewyn,” you whisper.

“Good night again,” he replies with a soft yawn.

The rain steadily patters on your window and the sky slowly lightens as morning breaks and you languidly wake, curled into Llewyn’s chest, his arms secure around you.

December 14

Snow falls lightly outside, coats the grass and sticks to Llewyn’s curls, and his breath swirls and makes curlicues in the chill winter air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and you decide to put up a tree, a real tree, and you tell him he’s going to help decorate it.

You also tell him that a bunch of your light strings have stopped working, and before you can ask him to run to the shop down the block that sells replacements, he volunteers and is out the door.

He can’t remember the last time he was anywhere with a real tree. It was usually those cheap-looking fake ones, the green plastic branches a color that would never exist naturally, if there were any tree at all.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little excited. He comes up the steps to the apartment, a bag perched in the crook of his elbow as he unlocks the door.

“So I got the lights, like you asked,” he says cheerfully, and sets the bag down on the table by the door.

“Help.” That’s...not the response he’s expecting.

It’s two weeks since the entire living room has been rearranged. The new, non-back-stabbing couch is on the opposite wall. You rearranged all your shelves, got a new armchair, and much to Llewyn’s wary delight and bewilderment, a new side table. The side table has blank sheet music and pens and there’s a guitar stand next to it and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You just smile and tell him he needs a space to be himself, whatever that means.

The newly-opened space under the window is where the tree is going. Or, should be going. Llewyn looks down at the toppled fir and sees a foot sticking out near the trunk.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Your voice answers from beneath the branches. “Can you just help get this off me, please?”

Llewyn rights the tree and turns his head to check on you. He’s more concerned about you than the tree, of course, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t take you out again so he secures it to the stand as he takes you in. Thankfully you look fine, a few needles stuck to your sweater and a tiny scratch on your cheek, but otherwise…

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re looking very festive.”

Your eyes narrow. “Go ahead and ask,” you bite out, “because I know you’re going to ask.”

“I already did ask, before I had to be your lumberjack.”

You refrain from telling him that lumberjacks fell trees, not upright them. Whatever. You motion your head to the shiny silver tinsel wrapped around your torso. You can’t use your hands, really, and you’re not sure how they got tied up in this mess, exactly, but here you are, sitting on your living room floor in a pile of pine needles, trussed like a Christmas goose in sparking silver twine.

And your best friend is laughing at you. Jerk.

“I was trying to get this around the top part, and I lost my balance. Then like an idiot I tried to catch myself on the tree, and the whole damn thing went down with me,” you sigh. “I don’t even know how the rest of this tangled mess happened.”

He does laugh now, full and rich. “I was only gone for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, can you maybe...untie me?”

“Oh! Wait, here, I got something else,” Llewyn jumps to his feet. He ignores your request and pokes around in the shopping bag.

“If it’s not chocolate, I don’t want to hear about it,” your grumbled response brings another laugh.

Llewyn’s back in front of you seconds later, holding a small white cluster above your head. The grin on his face is equally charming and infuriating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you blink at him.

“I mean, I was just gonna, y’know, hang it above the door later and let it happen, but now seems like a better time for some Christmas cheer.”

“I think you’re pretty satisfyingly cheerful right now, idiot.”

He waves the mistletoe over your heads. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

One day, maybe you’ll be able to stop sighing in his presence, but today is not that day. You sigh again, roll your eyes, and lean in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and delighting in the shade of crimson he turns in response. He clears his throat and places the mistletoe to the side.

“Now will you untie me?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

He does, and helps you get the tinsel where it’s supposed to go and you spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree and drinking hot cider.

Llewyn sings you more than one Christmas song to make up for all the teasing.

January 14

It seems like a good idea at the time. One of your friends at your actual day-to-day job offers to set you up with another coworker, and it’s been ages since you went on a date and you figure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out the answer is, a lot. A lot can go wrong. So much that you don’t even want to think about it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is no chemistry, no spark, just an hours-long recitation of how your date is god’s gift to pretty much everything under the sun and possibly also the moon. The name-drops are just the cherry on top.

Maybe your first impression isn’t wrong after all.

You trudge up to your apartment, the bag of your favorite takeout under your arm filled to nearly bursting, and get the door open. All you want to do is stuff your face and maybe take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The melody of a strumming guitar stops as you place the bag on the side table and shimmy out of your coat. The lamp in the corner is the only illumination and you tilt your head towards the armchair’s occupant. You’re surprised that he’s there, but only because he was supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Knowing he wouldn’t be around was at least...half the reason you agreed to this stupid date in the first place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?” Llewyn asks in a low voice through the dim light.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at the Gaslight tonight?” you retort, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Might have had a few too many an’ said some things. Might’ve gotten thrown out.”

“Mmm,” you appraise him. He just looks the same way you feel; ridiculously tired. Exhausted. “Might’ve told my date I had to use the restroom but… maybe didn’t mention I meant the one at my house.”

“That bad?” Despite his snort, Llewyn sounds genuinely curious.

You sigh as you flop down on the couch and hold up the takeout bag. “I’d rather not talk about it. You wanna help me eat this?”

In an instant he’s on the couch next to you and you hand him some plastic utensils and a napkin. You get up and grab two beers. For a while you just focus on eating, passing containers back and forth with occasional comments about the food. Your knees bump sometimes as you each reach for different containers or your drinks.

“So what happened?”

You stab a piece of chicken a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid idea to go on a blind date.”

“Kind of a stupid idea to go on a date at all,” Llewyn replies softly.

“What.” It’s not really a question. You definitely don’t mean it as a question and you vaguely think about throwing an egg roll at him but that would be an honest waste of decent takeout.

“I know what the problem is,” he continues in a normal voice. “It’s the fourteenth.”

You look at him with a raised brow. He has an odd look on his face and you wait a beat before asking, “Okay? And?”

Llewyn also waits a beat before replying and points at you with his fork, a green bean stabbed on the end. You lean forward and pluck it off with your teeth. He needs a moment to clear his throat before he can go on. “It’s the fourteenth,” he repeats. “Don’t know if you noticed, but...well..weird things seem to keep happening. On the fourteenth. Of every month.”

“Huh.” He’s right, now that you think about it. You stab your food again. “What do you think that means?”

Llewyn looks like he wants to say something, like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shrugs. You put the container down and lean back on the couch, swinging your feet into Llewyn’s lap.

He idly strokes your ankles as his expression grows serious. “I think it means we should not go out on any fourteenths, ever. Just to be safe.”

You poke him with your big toe. “You’re an idiot. There are things that can happen inside. There are things that have happened inside.”

A smirk creeps through his beard. “Shit, you’re right. One-a your crappy novels might fall off the shelf and crack me on the skull.” He pauses. “More run-ins with wildlife? Oh! I know. Squirrels, but this time, in the walls.”

“That’s not funny!” you try to poke him again and dissolve into giggles as he tickles your foot. Your combined laughter ricochets off the living room walls before dissipating back into silence.

This time, you’re clearing your throat before being able to continue. “It’s been a day. I’m gonna go take a hot bath.” You get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Please don’t fall asleep in the tub!” he calls after you. “Don’t forget what day it is.”

Idiot.

After your bath, you head to the bedroom and find Llewyn passed out on top of the covers. He has a key, and he stays over far more often than not nowadays, and even though he’s been told numerous times since the broken couch that it’s okay if he’d rather sleep in a bed, you don’t mind sharing, he rarely takes you up on that offer. Okay, so this is the first time since the broken couch that he’s even sort of taken up the offer.

It’s been a weird day.

You grab a quilt and curl up on the other side of the bed, pulling it over both of you and snuggling down into your pillow.

“I wonder what happens on the next fourteenth,” you yawn mutter into the darkness of the room.

You’re asleep, so you can’t notice that Llewyn isn’t, really, and he rolls to face away from you and whispers, “Yeah, me too.”

February 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a straight bourbon, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as Pappi flips the power on.

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, and he hasn’t shown up yet, which is strange.

Another thing that’s strange? This weird feeling of déjà vu. Whatever, you’ve been working more nights at the club recently, and they’re all starting to blend together.

“Your friend’s out back,” Pappi’s voice breaks into your thoughts as he sidles up to the bar and leans back on it.

“My friend?” you ask, confused.

Pappi shrugs. “Said he was a friend of yours. Dark curly hair, worn corduroy jacket, always looks tired or pissed off or both.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Wait, why is...did he get the crap kicked out of him again?”

“Nah,” Pappi shakes his head. “At least, maybe not yet. Anyway, I dunno, he just asked me to tell you he was outside. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to.” He nods his head towards the back exit and turns to tend to the bar.

Strange.

You duck your head out the door and glance up and down the alley. You see nothing except the usual debris; trash containers, the dumpster, the rusty drain pipes that run down from the gutters, weathered fire escapes. Something skitters off at the far end and disappears between the buildings. Was that a raccoon?

You snort a laugh as you recall Llewyn’s jab about wildlife run-ins. It would be something that happens, in a dark alley behind a basket house in Greenwich Village on the fourteenth of…

Oh. It is the fourteenth.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the head of the alley.

Llewyn stands there, leaning against the brick, dark curls and worn corduroy and all. He holds a single yellow rose in his hands. He looks incredibly nervous, enough to match you looking incredibly confused.

You step fully outside and the door clicks shut behind you. “Hi?”

“Uhm, this is for you,” he says, awkwardly holding the rose out. “Saw a guy selling ‘em a few blocks down, thought you might like it.”

“Thank you? But what’s the occasion?” Why is everything coming out as a question? Even that.

He bites his lip. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s the four---” Oh. Oh.

“You wanna get out of here? Have dinner with me, maybe?” Llewyn rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen him done countless times, usually when he’s thinking about something serious and… Oh.

You twirl the rose in your fingertips and don’t quite meet his eyes. “I thought you said maybe we shouldn’t go out any fourteenths.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Um, I don’t know if you also noticed, along with this whole fourteenth business, but I...I really like spending time with you, just hanging out with you, and...I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought maybe we could, y’know, have a non-weird fourteenth day of the month for a change.”

He’s rambling and it’s adorable. You hum softly. “...on Valentine’s Day.”

Llewyn’s hands twitch in his pockets. “Well...yeah. I mean, I like spending time with you, but...I also like you. So why not?”

He has a point. And really, now that one of you has said it out loud, you really can’t deny it. All the time spent together, all the shared meals and drinks and late-night talks on the couch and letting him basically move into your apartment...it’s no secret, you realize, it never really was, how close you’ve become over the past many months. How easy it is with him. How natural it is.

All the times he helped you. All the times you helped him. All the times you were together, just being.

The fourteenth of the month be damned.

You pretend to think about it for a little longer than necessary as Llewyn watches you anxiously. “Well, I do have to work, you know.”

“I already asked your boss,” he shakes his head, “and he was more than willing to agree. Something about not getting a black eye on your behalf tonight.”

Your laugh rings out into the street. “But it is the fourteenth. What if one of us gets food poisoning or chokes on dessert or something?”

“Vomit doesn’t bother me and I know the Heimlich,” he smirks. “And I’m already asking you out in a dark alley in the Village, how much weirder can it get?”

“You make a fair point, Llewyn Davis.”

He extends an elbow and a hopeful smile.

If he notices, as he brushes his lips on your knuckles as you take his offered arm, that your breath catches and your heart rate increases, he doesn’t let on.

But later that night, as he trails kisses along your jaw and down your neck and asks you what you want to do on the next fourteenth, well, Llewyn Davis definitely notices then.

~end~

#llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #valentine's fic exchange #oscar fandom fic exchange #samrockweil

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acahope311 · 3 years

Text

Alone Together

Sleepover request

burning-quesadilla said: Can you do Fluff #3 for Glorestor? Also the sleepover idea sounds really fun, I love it & can't wait♥️ ((She/he/they) don’t compare to you. No one does.)

A/N: SOOOOOOO... Hi haha! I am back! I now have more free time to just get back into writing-- I forgot how fun it was to do this. @burning-quesadilla I am sososo sorry it took so long to do this 😭 but I hope you can forgive me and I hope you like it as well. This is technically my first only canon characters fic so... I really do hope I do them justice. But thank you so much for sending this request in! I had such a blast writing it!

Warnings: Death (but as a flashback/dream); sparring; falling; big booboo bruise on the forehead; fluff.

The evening darkness seeped into the glowing halls of Imladris. Although the hour grew late and everyone had retired to their respected quarters, Erestor’s mind continued to storm in the clear summer night. Tossing and turning in his bed, the poor elf could not relax.

“How can I rest knowing that a dark evil has arrived at our door?” He asked already knowing the answer.

His restlessness traveled from his mind to his palms, he needed to busy his idle hands, hoping that in doing so, his mind would calm. Silently, he stood and headed towards the training grounds. Now, normally, Erestor was not one to blow off steam through physical exercise, being a strong advocate of "brain over brawn", but even he knew how therapeutic it was to hit something with a sword- be it wooden or real.

Arriving on the premises, his slender fingers gripped a training sword. It had been a while since he'd gripped anything bigger than a pen, but it was not a strange sensation-- although a scholar, he made sure his body and movements were as sharp as his mind. Facing the wooden post, Erestor practiced his movements, swift and precise.

Lunge. His foot extended forward, bringing him towards his target.

"What is the next move?"

Sidestep. Quickly turning on his heel, he spun and landed a side strike-- chipping the wood.

"How can we defeat this growing malice in the east?"

Deflect. Imagining an enemy, Erestor held his sword up in hopes of stopping an imaginary attack- strangely enough reeling in the process.

"The halflings cannot take this evil alone."

Advance. Focusing once again, the lithe elf ran towards the post, preparing to land the final blow.

"What help can I provide?"

As he was about to land the finishing blow, his ankle caught on a mound of dirt he did not realize he’d formed with his movements. Instead of finishing through, his body toppled over and his face ate dirt-- literally. After a few moments-- thanking Eru that no one was alive to see that--Erestor turned over and laid on his back, in pain and frustration… and maybe a twinge of embarrassment. His chest heaved with difficulty from his exercise, but also with exasperation.

“What help can I provide?”

Still deep in thought, he failed to register the sound of another person moving through the ground to lay next to him. When the other elf laid down next to him, staring at the sky, Erestor jumped.

“Glorfindel?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A horrendous screech echoed through the stone cliffs, wracking the very bones of the elf warrior as he stood, steadfast, against his foe. The balrog of Melkor was no small enemy-- literally. Standing heads above Glorfindel, the creature surged forward with heavy but strong steps, driven with the determination to obliterate him. Under normal circumstances, anyone- with a sound mind- would turn tail and run for their lives. Not Glorfindel, not the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. The mighty elf swung his sword with precision, slicing the thick horn of the balrog. A pained roar blasted the elf back to the edge of the cliff. Looking back to his followers, Glorfindel could see his kin terrified of the events.

“GO! I WILL HOLD IT OFF! KEEP OUR KIN SAFE!” He yelled, his command piercing the howling of the beast and the wind. Turning back to his enemy, he saw the rabid look in its eyes, angered by its wounds. Invigorated by rage, the balrog lunged at him once again, hands outstretched, teeth in a snarl. It was as if evil embodied had come down to smite the golden elf. However, Glorfindel was not one to be tested so easily; quick as a flash, the ellon sheathed his sword deep in the chest of his enemy. It happened so fast that even the balrog itself had no idea what had occurred, rather its body reacted on its own. Black spots danced in its vision as it began to fall over the cliff, into the jagged peaks below. Glorfindel was the victor. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he looks to the sky sending a silent prayer to his maker.

“Thank Eru.” He closes his eyes and revels in a moment of respite as he feels the wind whip around him and through his golden hair, making it dance wildly in the air.

“Finally, I need to help-” Suddenly the world goes black as a sharp and heavy tug pulls his head abruptly in an inhuman angle towards the abyss after his enemy.

SNAP

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Glorfindel jolts awake in a pool of sweat. His chest is heaving as he gulps down air. His throat is stinging as he touches it, making him assume that he was screaming. Luckily, his rooms are in their own separate side of Rivendell away from the other citizens.

A dream… No. A memory. Trying his best to steady his breathing, Glorfindel runs through the events of the past few days to anchor him to his present, reminding him that he is not in the First Age, that Balrogs are no longer in this era.

Strange… I’ve not had that dream in such a long time. The air turns cold as he feels like he is being watched. Suddenly he remembers his escapade of saving Frodo from the Nazgul.

The Ring. A restlessness--no, an uneasiness-- falls on his entire being.

“I need to do something,” Glorfindel says out loud. Jumping up, he dresses in training clothes and heads to the training grounds.

A good spar will do me some good.

As he nears the grounds, he hears grunts, pants, and growls. Confused as to who would be here, his first assumption would be Legolas or Estel.

Good, I’d prefer a real sparring partner to a wooden doll.

As he rounds the corner, his eyes widen at the sight of Erestor, the librarian, destroying the wooden doll with such precision and speed that even he was almost impressed. Almost. He noted the fluid movement and purposeful strikes, but he pointed out the lack of determination-- he was distracted.

If he does not pay attention, he’ll- As though reading his thoughts, his dear companion decided that the ground would be his next victim as he fell, face first, into the dirt. The sight of the fallen elleth was enough to lift his spirits up, but he knew he needed to make sure that he was alright. However, Glorfindel is not a cruel man, so instead of letting loose a string of guffaws, he stealthily, walked to Erestor’s panting form on the dirt. As he laid down next to him, a sigh of relief escaped him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello, Erestor. Fine night to lay under the stars.” The golden eldar said calmly. His very presence made his companion even more flustered from fear of having been seen in his tumble.

“What are you doing here?” Glorfindel chuckled as he folded his arms behind his head and sighed contentedly.

“I was taking a stroll, and heard a noise coming from the training grounds. At first I assumed it to be the prince of Mirkwood, but imagine my surprise when I see the counselor of Rivendell flailing a stick around like an elfling trying to wave off an imaginary orc in the night.” His baritone chuckle reverberated through the cool breeze, sending a shiver down the brunette elf’s spine-- not sure if it was because of the chill or his voice. Blushing furiously, he asked,

“Why are you lying on the ground?”

“You face planted. So I am lying next to you just in case someone were to pass by, they’d think we were just resting from a night of sparring.” His answer caused Erestor to choke on his breath.

He saw! An embarrassed moan is pulled from his mouth while Glorfindel smirks.

“Don’t worry, I understand. What weighs your heart that it distracted your training? He asked without looking at him. Erestor is silent for a bit

“I am weighed down by the worries that the halflings bring, Glorfindel. I need to propose a plan of attack and defense. I need-” Erestor’s rant is cut off with his companion’s hand on his mouth.

“You need to rest. Your mind has done more work than your body-- and it is showing with that huge bruise on your forehead.” Self consciously, Erestor covers his bruise.

Cute.

“And there is no use being worried and burdened at the same time, then your punishment is prolonged and double-- believe me. I know.” The tone in his voice held a twinge of sadness that Erestor did not miss.

“Why are you here Glorfindel?” He whispers. When did they move closer?

Silence again. Closing his eyes, the golden elf sighs and confesses his dream.

“Oh Glorfindel… We need to go to the healers, they can maybe give you something for sleep.”

“No, I just… just stay here with me. Your company is remedy enough.” Glorfindel says softly, almost vulnerably. His request pulls at Erestor’s heart and mind.

“I am no healer, Glorfindel. I cannot heal you.” Erestor says, turning to him and propping his head on his arm to better look at him.

“I don’t believe so, our healers are great- do not misunderstand. But to me, they don’t compare to you. No one does.”

Still not looking at him, Glorfindel closes his eyes and just basks in Erestor’s presence with a small smile. A comfortable silence passes, so long, in fact, that the morning birds are beginning to wake. Noting the peace that falls upon Glorfindel’s face, it dawns on him that he should have given him some time to spar.

“I should leave you alone.” Erestor says reluctantly, pulling away. Before he could get far enough, Glorfindel’s hand gently pulled him back.

“I think you could use some alone time as well. So why not let us be alone together, melethen.”

Erestor smiles and nods. Laying back down, the two elven lords lay on the ground, under the dawning sky as the city around them slumbers. Erestor’s mind calmed and his heart felt lighter. A chuckle escaped his lips.

“You know… We should be alone together more often.”

Taglist: @elvish-sky

#glorestor #glorfindel #erestor #tolkien #lotr elves #fluff #writing #fanfic #sleepover #burning quesadilla

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middleearthpixie · 3 years

Text

In Time ~ Chapter Twenty-Five

Author's Note: I'm posting this far later than usual because today simply got away from me. Doncha hate that???

Summary: The Company of Thorin Oakenshield reaches Mirkwood, where Thorin will offer a deal to Thranduíl on Kili’s behalf, and later on, Amara runs into an old friend who fires up Thorin’s jealous streak

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Amara (female OC)

Characters: Thorin, Amara, the Company, Thranduíl, Aiduin of Mirkwood

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4,205

Taggin: @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @tschrist1

As it happened, their luck, did in fact hold out over the fortnight it took for them to reach Mirkwood’s border. Thorin scowled as they stood at the Mirkwood border, where two of Thranduíl’s men stood silent sentry. He didn’t want to be there. After all, the last time he and the others found themselves in Mirkwood, spiders had tried to eat them, elves tried to kill them, and Thranduíl himself had them tossed into then dungeons. If it hadn’t been for Master Baggins, who never did explain exactly how he managed it, snagging the dungeon keys, they might still be in those tiny, damp, woodland cells.

But, the hobbit had freed them, smuggled them out in barrels, in which they bounced about like corks tossed on the river’s swift current, battling not only the elves trying to stop them, but the orcs sent to hunt Thorin himself.

He looked over at Kili, whose eyes practically gleamed at the sight of the wood. It was because of this place he’d met Tauriel, the she-elf who’d saved his skin the first time. Saved his skin and apparently won his heart. Although Kili rarely spoke of her, Thorin had the feeling he knew exactly what went through his nephew’s mind. Most likely the same thing that went through his own mind whenever he looked at Amara.

Which was why they were at Thranduíl’s front door. As much as it would pain him—and it would definitely pain him—Thorin would willingly gift the Seven Stars of Middle Earth necklace to Thranduíl if it meant Thranduíl would give his blessing for Kili to court Tauriel. The same blasted necklace that kept the woodland elves from aiding Erebor in its time of need, that caused Thranduíl to threaten Erebor with what became the Battle of the Five Armies, would find its way to Mirkwood, no matter how much Thorin hated to do it. He had no love lost for Thranduíl and knew the feeling was mutual, but he’d put aside his own dislike and distrust of the Elf King if it mean Kili would find the same happiness with Tauriel that he’d found with Amara.

With that, he climbed down from his saddle and stepped up to the sentries. “Thorin Oakenshield to see Thranduíl.”

“Does His Highness expect you?”

He shook his head. “He does not, no. But tell him I have something he wants and I am willing to discuss parting with it.”

The two sentries looked at one another, then the shorter of the two turned as the doors opened noiseless, and disappeared inside.

Thorin stared down the second sentry. He didn’t like being in Mirkwood. The air was heavy with apprehension and dread, its waters were enchanted with what some considered black magic, and the spiders alone were enough to make him want to avoid the woods with ever fiber of his being, for they were no ordinary spiders. They were big enough to hunt man, dwarf, and elf, and did so without impunity. Even from where he stood, at the edge the wood and vine bridge that would lead them into the Kingdom of Mirkwood, he could see the wispy white spiderwebs in the distance. Just the sight of them was enough to bring back the claustrophobic feeling of being wrapped in one of their cocoons.

He fought off a shiver as the memory of being wrapped so suffocatingly tight, of being unable to move much more than a finger or a toe, rushing to the forefront of his mind. Again, if it hadn’t been for Master Baggins and his sword—which he’d dubbed Sting—they might not have survived long enough to find their way into those dungeons.

“What is taking so long?” Dwalin grumbled from his saddle.

“I am certain Thranduíl is trying to come up with some reason to deny us entry,” Thorin told him over one shoulder, “all the while his curiosity kills him because he knows he’ll not be able to.”

“I say we keep moving,” Dwalin countered. “Why are we even here?”

Thorin grinned at Kili. “Do you wish to explain or should I?”

Kili held his stare easily. “I am not the one who always railed about how untrustworthy elves were. I do believe that was you, Uncle.” He winked. “Tell me, do you still feel that way?”

He asked it with all the innocence one could put into a sentence and Thorin’s grin faded as the others all snickered. “Enjoy your laugh at my expense,” he growled, looking from one dwarf to the next, finally letting his gaze land on Kili once more. “But, remember, I have something he wants. So, I’d think twice about baiting me, Kili, since I’ve yet to actually give him what it is he covets. And if I decide to keep it for myself, you will most likely not be welcome here again.”

Kili’s face went red as the others now turned their snickers in his direction. Dwalin laughed the loudest. “Last time ye blushed tha’ bad, laddie, was when ye mistook an elf-lad for an elf-maiden.”

Now even the sentry grinned as Kili’s face went redder still. From the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Amara shake her head and he almost smiled when she said, “To be fair, it is sometimes difficult to tell them apart.”

Kili smiled at her. “Let them have their fun.” He looked back at Thorin. “I won’t have to eat any words.”

Now, Thorin smiled over his shoulder at her. “I don’t mind eating these words.”

“Mr. Oakenshield,” the first sentry returned, his expression neutral, “My Lord Thranduíl will see you. Follow me. Edyrm will see your ponies to the stables.”

The others dismounted and Thorin didn’t miss how Edrym’s gaze lingered on Amara. Thorin said nothing, but reached out to link his fingers with hers. “She’s with me.”

“Thorin!” Amara whispered.

“What? I’m merely stating a fact. You are with me.”

“I know that, but he does not care one way or the other.”

He shrugged. “I take no chances.”

She said nothing, but he didn’t miss how she rolled her eyes. Well, let her. He cared not. He had no problem making it perfectly clear to any curious elf that Amara was with him. Childish, perhaps, but he rather enjoyed knowing that they would at that moment be wishing they were him. And sane man—be they Man, elf, or dwarf—would want to be in his boots.

They followed their guide into Thranduíl’s palace. Unlike Rivendell, Thorin found no peace or tranquility in Mirkwood. Everything was dark, earthy tones of brown, beiges, red and gold, with hints of green here and there. The air felt heavy and thick, damp from all of the roots and vines that made up the palace walls. The walkways were wide, open of both sides, with what looked like endless drops on either side. Nothing had changed since the last time he stood in the throne room, where the Woodland Realm’s king sat perched high atop his throne.

Unlike the Rivendell king, Thranduíl was tall and lanky, with sleek almost-white blonde hair and wide, almost clear blue eyes. He wore a crown woven of golden twigs and leaves encrusted with gold and brown polished stones that changed color depending on how the light—what light there was—bounced off them. He wore long, flowing robes of gold over green, and two slender fingers on each hand bore rings of the same gold and brown stones in his crown.

Those blue eyes were not the least bit friendly as he peered down at them now. “Thorin Oakenshield. It has been some time since we last spoke. I believe I’d had you dragged off to rot in my dungeon, hadn’t I?”

“The dungeons from which I promptly escaped,” he retorted, unable to hold back his smirk.

Thranduíl offered up a bland smile. “Your hobbit friend had more to do with that than you did, did he not?”

“Be that as it may, I still escaped.”

“And then, of course, there was my visit to your doorstep.” Thranduíl’s voice grew colder, if that was even possible. “When you opted for war over negotiation.”

“I was not myself then.” Thorin cast a quick, sideline glance at Amara, whose hand tightened about his ever so slightly.

The Elvenking’s expression turned sympathetic, but only for a moment or two, then his face slid back into its impassive mask.

“So, what brings you and your—” Thranduíl’s piercing gaze slid about the others gathered around him, lingering on Amara just as Edrym’s did—“company, to my realm?”

Thorin glanced over at Kili, whose color had returned to normal, and said, “I come to you with a business proposition. One I’d rather discuss one on one with you.”

Thranduíl’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? The last time you were in my chambers, you thought to insult me. Then, you challenged me to war.”

A bit of heat came to Thorin’s face and he fought the urge to look over at his company. He’d said the same thing to Thranduíl that he’d insulted Amara with when they’d first met. “Our meeting last time was a bit—ah—tense, on account of not only had we had the pleasure of dealing with your spiders, but then we were, for all intents and purposes, treated as prisoners.”

“You were, if I recall,” Thranduíl reminded him, his voice void of any emotion whatsoever, “trespassing in my woods. Of course you were treated as prisoners. As for the spiders, they are not mine.”

“Oh, for the love of—“ Dwalin growled, but Thorin cut him off.

“Hush,” he snapped, without looking at Dwalin. To Thranduíl, he said, “Even so, I do have something I think you would be interested in and I am willing to bargain for something in return. But, I’d rather do so privately.”

Thranduíl’s lips disappeared into a thin white line and the slender fingers slowly fanned across the arm of his wooded throne. Then, he nodded. “Very well. Lorsan, show our guests to the dining hall and make certain they have something to eat and drink. Then, you may show them to the guest chambers,” those eyes flicked back to Thorin, “as I assume you will wish to pass the night.”

The last thing he wanted was to try to sleep in this tangle of vines and roots, but since he very well couldn’t say that, he nodded. “Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.”

He turned to Amara. “I will join you all when I’ve finished here.”

She looked up at Thranduíl, then back at him. “Why do you look so serious? Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, catching her hand to give it a gentle squeeze. “I’m about to throw myself on my proverbial sword for Kili and I think I’ll have but one chance to get it right.”

She leaned in and whispered, “Tauriel?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well, good luck.” She bent to brush his cheek with her lips, a hint of laughter in her voice as she murmured, “Remember, be nice.”

“Am I ever not nice?”

She pulled away, one brow arched, “Ish kakfe—”

“Unfair. You said yourself I was in unimaginable pain and so could not be held—”

“I did and you were. Just tread carefully. Elves are vain and Thranduíl more so than most.” She patted his shoulder and followed after Balin, who waited as the rest of the dwarves filed out of the throne room.

Thorin turned back to the Elven King, who now stood atop his high dais. With extreme care, so as not to trip over his robes, he slowly descended and swept toward him. “What is this about? You seemed quite adamant that you were interested only in war the last time we met.”

“Nearly dying has a way of changing the way one looks at things,” Thorin replied evenly. “I have had time enough to reflect on my actions and the mistakes I made leading up to the battle. And now, I’ve come to rectify those mistakes.”

“Have you?” A hint of amusement wove into Thranduíl’s voice, his gaze direct and unwavering. “And if your terms do not interest me?”

“They will.”

Lorsan led the group down deeper into the palace, where the air felt even colder and damper, and smelled of moss and rainwater. Amara shivered from the dampness, wrapping her arms about herself and rubbing her upper arms to try to warm herself, for all the good it did.

The others didn’t seem to notice the dank chill. Either that, or they didn’t care, for they chatted amongst themselves. She lingered behind them, looking about at how the roots from the trees of Mirkwood wove through one another to make the walls of the palace below.

“Amara?”

She froze at the soft, smooth voice that skimmed over her ears like satin. She knew that voice—or had known it, was more accurate—and when she turned and spotted the tall, slender he-elf, with the shimmering blond hair and eyes that were almost as dark as freshly watered soil, her smile rose of its own. “Aiduin?”

“You do remember me.”

“As if I could forget,” she said with a laugh as he caught up to her and threw his arms about her. “How are you?”

“I was fine but now, I think it safe to say I am even better! What brings you to Mirkwood?”

“She’s with us,” Dwalin growled, coming up behind her. “And it would be in yer best interest, laddie, to take yer hands from her.”

Aiduin’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

Dwalin none-too-gently knocked Aiduin’s arms from either side of her. “There. Was tha’ simple enough for ye?”

“Dwalin!” She glared at him over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Thorin won’t like another man putting his hands on ye.” Dwalin glared at Aiduin. “He won’t like it a’tall.”

“Thorin?” Aiduin turned his puzzled look to her. “Oakenshield? You’re with him?”

She nodded, but before she could say anything, Dwalin cut in with, “She’s his intended. So, if I were ye, I’d make myself scarce before he sees you.”

“Dwalin!” Amara gritted through clenched teeth. “That’s enough.”

She turned back to Aiduin. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d decided you were going to strike out for parts unknown?”

“Miss Amara,” Balin stepped up alongside his brother, “you should come along.”

“You all go on ahead and I will catch up in a few minutes.” She gestured to Aiduin. “He is but an old friend and I’d like to catch up with him.”

Balin and Dwalin both frowned, which made her frown right back at them. “Do not look at me that way. Go.”

“Thorin won’t like this.”

“Why? There is nothing to like or dislike. Aiduin is, as I said, an old friend.”

Balin shook his head. “Very well. But—”

“If you say Thorin will not like it again, I’m going to scream,” she replied politely, but firmly. “Thorin will not care. Why should he?”

The brothers exchanged looks and she rolled her eyes. Then, she tucked her arm through Aiduin’s and said, “We have some catching up to do, don’t we?”

Aidiun didn’t look so certain. “Your friends don’t seem to think it wise.”

“It is fine. Besides, I’ve had only them for company for a fortnight. Now it is time for me to spend time with someone else for a change.” She smiled up at him. “So, shall we?”

Aiduin led her away from the grumbling dwarves, and she tried to ignore the nagging feeling that Thorin would indeed disapprove of her going off with another elf. But Aiduin wasn’t simply any other elf. He’d trained in Rivendell with her, before striking out for those parts unknown. How he came to be in Mirkwood was something she wished to know.

“Your friends seem to think you are going to get in trouble.”

She sighed softly. “They worry. They mean well, but at times, they can be overbearing. So,” she looked up at him, “do tell how you came to be here?”

“It’s quite simple. Mirkwood needed a healer. I needed work. Thranduíl took a liking to me and here I am. How about you? Are you still in residence in Rivendell? Or do you now wander like the dwarves?”

She smiled as they strolled along an open walkway, away from the palace and into the woods. It didn’t feel quite so suffocating out in the forest itself. “I wander with the dwarves now,” she told him as they stopped near a small pool. Trees alive and dead were all around, fallen over the pathway, vines doing their best to reclaim them. “Although, wander is not the correct term, I suppose. I’m journeying to Erebor.”

“As their healer?”

She shook her head. “No. Thorin and I… We are to be married.”

Aiduin’s smile faded, but only just. Then, he caught it and it returned in full force. “You are betrothed to a dwarf? I am not so certain I believe that.”

“Why? Why could I not be betrothed to one?”

“Well, because… he’s a dwarf. And you, Amara… you could have any elf you wished. If you set your sights on him, even Thranduíl would be unable to resist you.”

“I am hardly interested in Thranduíl.” She let out a laugh then, lightly punched him in the arm. “But I am interested int what you’ve been doing. So, do tell.”

“Me? Not much, I’m afraid. I told you, I wandered about here and there, and needed work, so here I am.” Aiduin shook his head. “Hardly a fascinating tale.”

“Oh, but to one who’s never been beyond Rivendell’s borders, your vagabond life is utterly fascinating to me.”

“Really? It’s a lot of traveling, sleeping in strange places, and never knowing where your next meal is coming from.”

“Ah,” she laughed, “a true vagabond.”

“More or less.” He leaned against the low wall of woven branches. “Do tell me, how is Rivendell?”

She hesitated, a feeling of homesickness rising to squeeze her heart. “It was fine when I left. I was fortunate in that my replacement was right under my nose, and a pleasant surprise as well. Lord Elrond is the same as always, although he was a bit weary from having so many dwarves in residence.” She looked off in the direction the dining hall, where muffled shouts and laughter floated from. “They are a lively group, you know. Very high-spirited.”

“And how did a dwarf win your hand? This I must know.”

“He and his nephews came to us gravely wounded.” She turned back to meet his gaze. “The Battle of the Five Armies, you know.”

“I heard about it, yes. These are Erebor dwarves or Iron Hill dwarves?”

“Erebor.” She reached up to touch the braid Thorin had woven in her hair, her fingertip tracing along the ornament. “Thorin is their king.”

“A king?” Aiduin’s eyes widened. “Is that so?”

“It is. But he nearly lost his life at Ravenhill. Azog the Defiler ran him through.”

“He is fortunate he found his way into your Healing Room.”

She sighed softly, still tracing the ornament as she remembered that very first day, when the attendants brought Thorin into her Healing Room. “I didn’t think he would survive that night, to be honest. The sheets over and beneath him were absolutely soaked in his blood, it had soaked through his clothes, the mail he wore, and he was so deathly pale.

“But,” she lowered her hand, clasping it with her other one, “dwarves are strong and they are fighters and he held on. No matter what setback he faced, what challenges he had—and there were quite a few—he met them head on and beat them.”

“He sounds very lucky.”

She nodded. “He was. Mahal was on his side.”

“I think it’s more he was in the best of hands.”

A pleased heat stung her cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know about that, though I thank you just the same. But he’s of the line of Durin and Durin’s Folk are strong. I think he would have lived regardless.”

“So,” Aiduin looked over at her, “what brings you all here? I should think you would be making for Erebor.”

“We are, but Thorin’s nephew, Kili, is sweet on an elf named Tauriel. Because of her—“

“Tauriel? The captain of the guard?”

Amara shrugged. “I don’t know. Is there more than one Tauriel here?”

“Well, no, but I thought she was sweet on Legolas.”

“Legolas?”

“King Thranduíl’s son.”

“Oh.” She didn’t quite know how to respond to that, for she didn’t know if Kili knew about Legolas.

“Amara?”

She looked over and smiled as Thorin strode toward them. “How did your meet with Thranduíl go?”

“Fine, thank you.” Thorin didn’t return her smile and in fact, glared at Aiduin as he said, “I thought you’d be with the others.”

“Well, I would have, but then I bumped into Aiduin.” She slid her arm through Thorin’s and said, “Thorin Oakenshield, this is Aiduin Drannor. Aiduin, this is Thorin Oakenshield.”

Aiduin smiled and held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Indeed.” Thorin didn’t take his hand. He didn’t smile. In fact, she could almost feel the hostility radiating from him. “How do you and Amara know one another?”

“We trained together in Rivendell,” Aiduin replied, lowering his hand. “She was Ilyana’s star pupil.”

“Oh, hardly. You were far more skilled than I.”

Thorin’s arm stiffened against her. “We should join the others.”

With that, he turned and gave a sharp tug on her arm to pull her back toward the dining hall. She peered back over her shoulder at Aiduin, who stood there almost dumbfounded. “Thorin, that was rude.”

“Ask me if I care,” he growled, guiding her back along the walkway.

“What is the matter? I was only talking to him.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“Didn’t like the way he—“ she rolled her eyes—“and how was he looking at me?”

“As if he was trying to picture you naked.”

“Thorin!”

“What?” He glanced at her. “He was.”

“That is ridiculous. He is a friend and that’s it.”

“I’ve never heard you mention him.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him in years, so…”

“Trust me, I know what I saw.”

By then, they’d reached the dining hall and she yanked her arm from his grasp. “You are being ridiculous, do you know that?”

“Am I? I should think I know a look like that when I see it.”

“You are and I am done discussing it. He's a friend. No more and no less.” She moved down and sank onto the bench beside Dwalin.

Thorin followed her, sitting across from her. “Do you want to know how I know how he was looking at you?”

“No.” She glared at him. “I don’t, really. Because this entire conversation is silly.”

“Too bad, because I’m going to tell you.” He cast a sidelong glance at Dwalin, who shrugged and did not look away.

“I am not having this discussion here.”

“Fine.” He rose and came around to her side. “Walk with me, then.”

Mindful of the eyes on them, she sighed and stood. “Very well. But I think you are being ridiculous.”

“So you’ve said. Excuse us,” he said to the others, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back as he guided her toward the far end of the dining hall, where the room opened to another walkway.

Once they were out of earshot of everyone, he turned to her. “Do you know how I know?”

“How?”

“Because I am fairly certain it’s the same way I look at you.”

She just stared at him, her irritation draining away as she moved to slip her arms about his neck. “Thorin, he is but a friend. And even if he is looking at me that way, you can be certain I am not looking at him that way.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Thorin.”

“I don’t. And if it weren’t for the fact that we are all worn out from traveling here, I would say we were leaving this evening. But I have to admit, I’m looking forward to sleeping in a comfortable bed this night and one that has no questionable smells or stains or extra dwarves. We can leave at first light come the morning.”

She smiled. The last inn before Mirkwood had been nothing short of a horror, as the innkeeper had only three rooms for the fourteen of them and she and Thorin shared theirs with Fili, Kili, and Bofur. “No. This evening, we should have some peace. Did you know Bofur sings in his sleep?”

“I did, actually.” He sighed softly, leaning in to press his forehead to hers. “I’ve no wish to fight with you, amrâlimê.”

“Nor I with you.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “And you’ve nothing to worry about, you know. Maralmizu, Mr. Oakenshield. Nalish.”

She breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes softened and he murmured, “Maralmizi, kurdelê.”

Disaster averted.

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #AUJ #Thorin Fic #Everybody Lives AU #Hobbit Medical Drama #Hobbit ER

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 4 years

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Male Drow (Dark Elf Vevmis) x Human! Female Reader Part 4 [Slight NSFW]

This was supposed to of been posted ages ago, but here we are! - Stay safe guys! -

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 5

The Underestimated Part 4

Vevmis had been the first to awaken after a long rest, found buddled up next to you in the coldness of the barn. Still, in contrast to how the temperature had dropped within the night, he had managed to sleep shirtless, the feel of hot against cold helped him get a decent sleep.

You were still sleeping, he noted, and he didn't mind one bit you were using him as a pillow, cradled like a babe as if trying to shield yourself away from the world. Yes, oddly, he would do so for you, the human who had snuck their way into his heart.

He kissed at your hairline carefully before standing to gather his clothes. It would be now to wake you up and get a move on, but seeing the sight of you sleeping wanted him to enjoy seeing this for a little bit longer whilst he prepared.

Swift and quick as a deer, he moved with the agility that was needed when he used to be part of a group, raiding through the twilight of the countryside, on the side of the Woods Where No Men Lurk. He had it engrained in his mind like farmers controlling cattle, something he would never truly forget.

He was nimble in buttoning up his clothes and tuck them into his pants, carefully and quietly watching you whilst you slept. It was peaceful, more so better compared to life in the Underdark; everything was chaos in the darkness.

He could actually for once appreciate the beauty of silence, the charm of being allowed peace, and thoughts to himself. He had wanted the freedom ever since he could pray to Lolth; the matron Mother of all. He had waited in the shadows, waiting for his turn to finally come to experience a thing called contentment.

You stirred in your sleep groggily, trying to grab at where he had been laying, your closed eyes scrunching as if having a bad dream. The very sight of you was forcing Vevmis not to go back to join you again.

Yet, my life has been given another reason, a reason to feel content. He thought the way your hair splayed out like a halo around your head, giving you the radiant look that he didn't think he would ever see.

He had been taught to hate the creatures and races above, that the only true beauty was that of his race and female drow: of drow women with obsidian midnight skin that burnt as fierce as their tempers. With hair white as milk.

But when, he had met you, and now that he could see the likeness in this true light, he had never seen anything more beautiful.

He set to leaving you for a moment, catching you briefly before he headed out the door, carefully shutting it to keep the cold out, and heading his way to be useful.

Hot breath, heated kisses within batted beats. The thrum of beating hearts yearning for one another. You could feel him there, lying upon you and feasting over you like a starved man, naked the two of you as if had been reborn.

Begging, gasps, whimpers and moans, Vevmis laid upon the banquet as he nipped, sucked and licked at your flesh, bringing you to succumb to the wanted and growing heat growing between your legs.

You tried whispering out his name, it comes to you in a rasp, stuck in between your teeth and wanting to leave but not being able to. His spun-silver hair shone like falling silk, fraying around his head and hanging like a halo. All you could see were the darkened eyes, lustful eyes staring upon you with wanton that it made you truly believe you had lost your mind.

You bucked your hips desperately towards his, trying to get friction the closer his body and fingers moved lower down, and the rumble of a chuckle from his lips brought the chill of a winter's cold down your spine.

Long, slender fingers came to touch tenderly at your jawline, tracing as he stared down upon you.

"Be a good girl, and I'll reward you for your obedience."

You begged and gasped, wanting nothing more than to be good and get what you wanted, and the drow above you was more than pleased by your skill in staying still and obeying his words.

Like a pup learning to obey their master, you were loyal to him, and he had rewarded you when his fingers begun to crawl underneath the band of your trousers and underwear, crawling towards the heat between your legs as you waited for contact.

It never came.

You had truly opened your eyes and found yourself flustered and thankfully alone, your hair messed as you had tossed and turned in the hay, clothes unkempt as you fumbled to button them quickly.

Whether Vevmis had gone, you were glad he hadn't witnessed the rather realistic dream you had of him, and you were very sure that it was indeed real; it had been a while since you had touched yourself down there to remember how real and amazing it felt, but his touch and from previous times he had been above you, it had been melted and nestled into the depths of your mind.

Once dressed, you were smoothing your hair when the barn door swung open, a worn and tired Vevmis came running back inside, shortly shutting the door behind him when he entered.

His eyes landed and fell upon you, imagine you had been still asleep and he would've had to wake you, and you had found that you were staring back for the first time into amethyst eyes of fear.

And you had never seen Vevmis look so worried.

"Vevmis." You called to him, but he didn't reply, moving before you with such need, like a man given a task and mission; he was silently and roughly picking up his and your's scattered weapons, throwing them into bags of all sorts.

He came to you, grabbing your hands rougher than he had intended, hoisting you to your feet as he looked to your expression of confusion. "What in the name of the Seven happened?"

"We must leave. Now." His tone was clipped and abrupt as if trying to distract himself whilst he collected everything. "What? Why? What did you do?"

Vevmis looked at you, one that you had thought must've resembled a glare, but he had no time to look angry. "They're here. The ones hunting us, the rest of the drow. They've come to hunt for me, and most likely you. There was blood, human blood."

Your mind went to the siblings: were they aware of a possible attack? Were they alive? You didn't think you would ever be so worried for two strangers, but these strangers had given you a stay in their home and fed you. In your head, you had neglected from care for so long, you had almost forgotten what it had felt like to reciprocate it to another.

Vevmis had said human blood, and oh Gods, the image of two humans being innocently killed in cold blood made your blood run cold through your skin; leaving the afterbite bitter.

You were being grabbed at and dragged towards the entrance, Vevmis' words telling you something but you were now not paying attention. All you could think about now was how on earth you two were going to get out of there alive.

"The horses are in the stable through the back. They're 5 of them, roaming. We'll have to be quick, and quiet. Do you think you can do that?" He called for you, and your name, soothing your hair down as you found yourself nodding before you could understand what was happening.

"You have to say it, tell me you understand." Breathily he spoke to you.

"I understand." You swallowed numbly, taking a sword in your hand, and he took hold of the same dirk from his group, moving stealthily and quickly to open the door, you close behind him.

The ground was soft beneath your leather boots, the crunching of leaves brought your human ears to stay observant to your surroundings; quiet as a deer, prepared as you had to be in face of danger,

"Keep going, keep your eyes trained on anything." Vevmis' voice was a mere whisper in front of you, squat as he pursued in front. You looked to his slender back, the waterfall of silver locks pulled back into a ponytail; every picture of a drow you had once feared and hated, but now you had nothing but contradictory feelings for him.

The air was thick with fog and something thicker: mingled it melted in the air as your eyes lingered back to the barn you had been staying in, with a long trail of something connecting to the path around the back, where you had been introduced to the siblings; your heart dropping in knowing what could've happened to them; defenceless and unguarded in the dead of night.

The worst way to go really, in your bed asleep and the feeling of being protected. Gods, what world we live in? Your eyes looked away, the feeling of wanting to get back to your village was growing fonder in your heart, setting you to want to save them from the fate of the winter winds.

A snap came from somewhere to the far right behind you two, Vevmis quick to hear it first before you: dirk in hand he pivoted backwards startling you, whirling back and throwing the weapon in hand in what could've been with some negligence, but when it connected with something, the metal thunking and digging itself into the tissue of something, you knew it was intentionally.

"Run, now! Forget the horses! Go!" Vevmis grabbed at your hand, running with speed out of the opening as you two pushed yourself until your lungs burnt and legs ached with the need to stop. But this was your life that was on the lines.

A hooded man jumped into your view and path of freedom, arrow locked and knocked in place, pointing at the both of you as you came to a halt, more came into view.

They were all dressed in dark umber to deep purple leather, dressed in hoods with their faces obscure, with weapons of all sort on them, pointed and snarling they trapped the two of you.

"I need you to get out of here. For everything that we've seen and done, I need to know you get out more than I." Vevmis had his back towards you, glaring down the group with no intention of losing.

You, on the other hand, didn't believe he would go in risk his life for you. "You won't. Vevmis, don't do this."

"Lower your weapons, give yourselves up before things get bloody." A female voice spoke above the air, though it played with bitterness and way of hurting you, and you didn't want to risk defying her.

The dagger you held - Vevmis' dagger he let you borrow - felt loose in your grip, and as much as you wanted to keep going and defend yourself from them, five against two was still risky.

You sighed in a long exhale, the knife dropping to the ground by your feet with a clunky thud.

That was how you found yourself in a sticky situation, where an order was barked to the group, Vevmis stepping in knowing what they had said, but he was quickly hauled and pulled away from you by two, another grabbing at you and dragging you away from him, fighting to get out of their grip.

You were pulled to the floor, the mud pouring into your trousers as you stared up to the one coming closer towards you.

Before you, a woman emerged from the four of them that had grabbed at you, and you caught instantly their distinctions from most other races, their skin similar to Vevmis.

Her skin was obsidian black like the rest of them, large bloodstone eyes staring down into your very soul like a starved hound as she glared down upon you with disgust. Her long white hair was yellowed with age, braided long past her back. A curved dagger swung on the side of her hip, with a garnet ruby stone in the hilt.

From this light and angle, she could've been Vevmis' sister in the flesh reborn; ready for her revenge on you and the so-called runt of her family.

"That's the one," Her voice was a soft timbre, like melting honey pouring from the pot, but there was a deeper sinister tone to her tone that twisted her words, "the one who killed our priestess."

You felt their many eyes on you: all deep red and grisly eyes full of malice, burning into the back of your head. From the side, you could hear Vevmis struggling to get out of their grip, cursing them in their language with might that you might've considered as otherworldly.

Your name was blindly shouted over his, the thought that he could save you seemed to grow thinner and thinner with each second.

"If I must die, you promise me one thing, that these lands aren't scarred once over with your pillaging, nor will blood be spilt of the innocence."

The female drow above you smirked, bending down to your level, that same sinister look burning in her dark eyes. "I'm not going to promise you anything."

"Then it felt good knowing this. To know that bitch I killed died with fear in her eyes. It felt good killing her, to see her life leave her eyes when I sliced her throat-" There was a ferocity to the drow's punch she had thrown to you, landing you square across the face.

When you pulled back and recoiled, you could see drops fall to the heavy ground, painting the dirt red with your blood from your bleeding nose.

You could hear your name from Vevmis once more, beginning you to stop, being silenced and beaten into submission as you looked back to your captor. "Silence! I will smile happily over your rotting corpse once I'm done with you-- And you," her eyes landed back on Vevmis, "a drow who sided for this kind, the ill kind you seek with fondness. How pathetic - I will teach you the lesson myself- that whatever you shall love will die out of your grasp."

A rough hand came to the back of your neck, throwing your head into the land in the mud below, your body contorting as it crumpled to lay stiff, your arms pulled to the back of you as you were left holding.

"I will kill you if you dare even harm her!" Vevmis' voice dragged through the air behind you, but you were not able to see his facial expression. From his tone, you imagined it to be the fury that could burn this forest down.

"Truly I can see why your sister never had a warm spot for you in her heart." The drow female mocked, a boot came into the air and kicked you hard in the side of the ribs, and your voice fell high in the air as you screeched, wanting to curl up but found it merely impossible to do so.

This continued until the kicking grew so frequent that your skin and bones grew numb and dull, your skin burning as it felt flamed. The need to pass out was making you want to shut your eyes, to get away from it all, but you needed to stay awake; to know that Vevmis kept safe.

"Please," You hadn't heard Vevmis beg once since you had met him, his voice so low it sounded as if he was almost crying, begging beyond now just your survival but to see you alive through this ordeal, "I'm begging you."

Your eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness, listening so closely that you could almost hear the faint river close by; the thunderous movement of its path it took that sounded to be drawing closer and closer to you.

Everything hushed around you, those silencing as they too, listened in. It grew and grew, louder and louder its voice grew in anger, until finally -

The sound was deafening, the sound of colliding of metal against metal; a piercing roar of a wave that rose over everything, the crash that washed and swept everything away, and following the silence that came after, as your eyes fluttered shut before you could face the aftermath.

Part 5 will be the final part, so be sure to keep an eye out for that!

#Monster #monster boyfriend #monster lover #drow elf #drow #drow writing #male elf #male drow #male drow x reader #dark elf x human #dark elf #dark elf writing #dark elf fic #part 4 #monster dark elf #exophilia #exophilia drow

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dzamie-oc · 4 years

Text

Smaugust 14 - Feathered

A dragoness and her deinonychus friend go out for dinner and discuss having feathers. Then they eat some people. (2135 words)

cw: death, gore, hard vore

Sivarel strode into the restaurant and up to the host. The dragoness sat back on her haunches to raise a paw, digits folding to make a "V" symbol. "Table for two, please," she said with a smile.

"Of course, ma'am," the employee replied. He gathered a pair of menus and handed them to a tall, slender server - probably an elf, or elven in ancestry. "Will this be indoor or outdoor seating?"

"Outdoor, please," Sivarel said, "ideally not surrounded by other tables. Cuz, you know, wings." She self-consciously brought the feather-covered limbs closer to her body.

The host nodded and made a mark on the seating plan, then gave the server a quiet instruction. "Absolutely," the server said with a professional smile, "this way, please, follow me."

The dragoness dropped back to all fours to pad smoothly along behind the elf, through a pair of glass doors, and onto the stone-tiled ground outside. They wove easily around some groups eating and conversing, before the server stopped and gestured to the table. Sivarel thanked them, then nudged one of the chairs aside to sit on the ground, shifting her weight back to sit up and get her front paws off the ground.

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

The dragoness shook her head. "Just water, thanks." After the server left, Sivarel turned away from anything and anyone flammable, held her paws together, and breathed a quick jet of flame across them for quick and rough sterilization. She was far too proud of her draconic form to transform herself just for a simple dinner. After opening the menu in front of her, she slowly extended one wing along her side and began idly fussing with her primaries and secondaries, brushing them into place with small, careful claw movements. When the server appeared with two glasses of water, she refolded her wing.

"Are we ready to order, ma'am?"

Sivarel hummed, thinking for a few seconds. "Still going back and forth between a couple of things. In the meantime, could I start with the chicken strip appetizer?"

"Of course, I'll get that right out to you." The elf made a quick note in their order pad, then walked back away, leaving the dragon to her water. Then, in the corner of her eye, she recognized a certain someone.

"Hey, Siv!" said a deinonychus with a dark red stripe down her back plumage, waving at the dragon.

"Hello, Cerise. I haven't ordered yet, but there's chicken strips coming." She gestured with her head in a path through the door and the restaurant.

"Cool!" The dinosaur tensed and sprang up, easily clearing the fence to land next to her friend. She climbed into the chair opposite Sivarel and opened up her menu. "Ooh, that's a big steak," she commented.

"Did you really just jump up? I can't take you anywhere," Sivarel said with a smile. "I'm thinking of getting the half-chicken. I grabbed a small something on the way here."

"Something, or someONE?" Cerise asked with a mischievous grin.

Sivarel stared at her. "We're in a restaurant."

"Yeah, but you're still a dragon, and I'm still a raptor." Sivarel opened her mouth to reply, but Cerise held up a claw. "No 'veloci-' there, I'm right. Anyway, people are gonna eavesdrop cuz that's what people do. Might as well have some fun at their expense." She flipped through the menu a couple times, glancing at the items. "Split a full chicken?"

"Sure. And yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to play along." The dragoness folded her menu and stacked it on top of Cerise's.

A few moments later, the server returned with a plate of chicken strips. The elf took the order from Sivarel while Cerise took a few strips to her plate to begin eating.

The duo engaged in some small talk for a while, catching up on each other's days, before the chicken arrived. They each took part of the bird, a very brief break in their conversation.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," the deinonychus said after gulping down a bit of chicken, "I went and saw Jurassic Park again the other day."

"Really? Why? I thought you hated its popularization of naked dinos." The dragon smirked and leaned in slightly. "Or did you go to see the naked dinos, you naughty murderbird?"

Cerise glanced away. "Aren't we in a restaurant or something?" After another second of being smugged at by her friend, she rolled her eyes. "But no, I'm guessing they wanted to make dosh on concessions, so they offered ninety - yes, NINETY - percent off to dinosaurs. Got plenty of feathery butts in seats, I'll say that much." She tilted her head. "Or, at least, plenty of seats filled with feathery butts. I think the t-rex ended up taking, like, half a dozen or so, between her rear and her tail. Polite enough to sit in the back so us smaller folk could actually see every inch of Jeff Goldblum..."

"Well, eye candy aside, how was it? Quiet theater, or did you get one of the fun ones?"

"Oh, nobody there took the movie seriously. If there was a dino whose species appeared on screen, there were 'constructive comments' about the scene thrown about." Cerise grinned, silently recalling some choice arguments between the velociraptors and the utahraptors. "Plus, one of the non-dragons sitting near the rex kept talking about the differences between book and movie, which was at least more interesting than wondering if Rexy in the movie was going to eat the obvious protagonists. Dunno if it was the catfolk or the... dolphin next to her, though."

Sivarel swallowed the last bit of meat on her half of the chicken. "...dolphin?" she asked skeptically. "Oh, by the way, let me know when you're done. I crave meat."

"It was a dark theater, okay? Vaguely dolphin-shaped blob. Only got the catfolk cuz they meowed." She took a quick break to wolf down some more chicken, and Sivarel mimed asking for the check to the server, then the small dinosaur continued, "anyway, all of this was supposed to be a lead-up to: you've got feathers, I've got feathers."

The friends shared a quick smile and said together, "mine are prettier," and laughed.

"Anyway, again. We have feathers, but not, like, a ton. If you had to choose between being naked, and being as fluffy as an owl, which would you pick?"

"Easy," the dragoness replied, crunching on a bone, "I have a minimum comfort temperature, and no maximum. I will be the fluffiest dragon you ever did see, and I will be comfy forever." The server set down the bill, and Sivarel quickly placed enough coins to cover the cost and a decent tip before pushing it back towards the elf. "Keep the change. Anyway, Cerise, let's hear your answer. Big feathers or no feathers?"

"Joke's on you, I came prepared. No feathers, but I would have to hang out with my dragon friend a lot during winter." The deinonychus did her best sad-puppy impression. "Surely my bestest dragoness friend Sivarel wouldn't leave me to become a raptorsicle?"

Their conversation briefly halted as they wound their way back through the restaurant and said a polite goodbye to the employee at the front. "Anyway," Sivarel continued, putting on a silly voice, "Missus Owldragon, how many licks does it take to get to the deinonychus-filled center of a Cerise-pop?" She draped a wing over her friend as they passed a small grove, and pulled her in. "Let's find out. A-"

Suddenly, an empty two-liter bottle bounced off the dragon's head with an audible "donk!" She whirled and glared at where it came from. "Really?!" she shouted, only to hear a guy cheer and call, "ten points!"

The dragoness took a deep breath. "Cerise, my wonderful murderbird friend?"

The deinonychus swished her tail slowly, building excitement boiling off in the form of energy. "Yes, Sivarel, my sister in feather and scale?"

Sivarel bared her fangs - for it could not really be called "grinning." "I'm feeling a bit peckish. Shall we see about a second course?"

Cerise followed suit, crouching in preparation. "Why, I thought you'd never ask."

Cerise darted swiftly between the trees, darting back and forth like she was running the slalom at a dog show. Sivarel, in contrast, sprang up, soaring over the tops of the trees with a few powerful beats of her wings. She watched with keen eyes as the smaller dinosaur wove through the trees, screeching a challenge. The humanoids, not nearly as nimble as the deinonychus swaying her tail with each turn, quickly made for a clearing in the trees. Unfortunately for them, clearings were exactly what Sivarel loved to see.

She folded her wings and dropped like a stone, landing with a heavy THUD right in front of them. The first - a human - she caught his head in her mouth, sending him into a blind panic as a quick kick with a foreleg sent the other - a tiger catfolk - right into Cerise's path. Between the difficulty of subduing a struggling meal shortly after eating, and the need to avoid attracting too much attention with screams, the dragoness quickly made up her mind. She clamped down firmly on the man's head and jerked her own head quickly to the side. There was a snap, and the human hung limp in her jaws. Meanwhile, her dinosaur friend had come to a similar conclusion, and had leapt up to cling to the tiger's head, rapidly kicking to tear out the woman's throat. The catfolk, however, had better reflexes than her human counterpart, and successfully threw the little dinosaur off... before falling back, herself, rapidly suffocating and bleeding out.

Cerise wiped her claws on the feline's fur, then looked up at the dragoness. "I'm gonna go scuff up some tracks. Back in a few." And like that, she trotted back into the woods, pausing occasionally to kick around the grass, dirt, and leaves.

Sivarel flicked her head back, then jerked forward, catching the man's shoulders in her jaws. Another toss and a swallow, and she'd gotten him almost halfway in. She swallowed again and tipped her head back, leaving her mouth open as she shifted and jerked her head and neck, welcoming her second course into her stomach. One or two more swallows to make sure, and then she laid down to digest her meal and wait for her friend.

A couple minutes later, the deinonychus made a reappearance, trotted over to the feline body, now thoroughly dead, and began to tear it open. "Our next trick, of course," she said between bites, "is to get back home without attention."

"Even from volunteers?" Sivarel asked with a smile.

"Especially from volunteers," Cerise answered. "They're the absolute worst for me. You can gulp 'em down nice and easy, but they seem to think I can, too." Rip, tear, snap snap gulp. "No matter how many times I tell them, they're all super surprised when I slash open their guts and start snacking on their intestines. Ooh, speaking of which..." The dinosaur made a quick cut, then began to slurp down the organ like a bloody noodle.

The dragoness's stomach gurgled and growled as it compressed and moved the meat within. "Expecting you to start at the neck, maybe? Or do they just think that you'll be able to swallow them whole anyway? What would you even look like?"

Cerise dipped her head into the torn-open tiger woman, and reemerged a few seconds later with blood on her feathers. "No, I offer the neck and they always refuse. And, I dunno, I think my belly would drag on the ground. Uh, no pun intended."

"Behold the fast and agile deinonychus," Sivarel remarked with a snicker. "Anyway, when we're ready to head out, I'll lick you clean. Anyone asks, you spilled something sweet on you and I couldn't resist."

The dinosaur nodded, then went back to her eating. After a bit, she pulled back and walked over to her friend. "Along the feathers, if you could. It's harder for me to fix mine than you yours."

Sivarel nodded back, then set about carefully licking her, drawing the blood away from the coarse feathers and into her mouth. Once she had a soaked, but mostly clean, dinosaur in front of her, she smiled and leapt into the air. "See you back outside the trees!"

The dragoness soon landed back on the sidewalk, and started preening her wings again while waiting for her friend. A couple people stopped to watch; she stared back until they went away. After a minute or so, Cerise stepped out from the grove. With a wordless nod, they turned and began to make their way back to their homes, more full than they had at first intended to be.

#dragon #smaugust #dinosaur #hard vore #deinonychus #writing #writers on tumblr #smaugust 2020 #v/ore #v ore #v.ore #death tw #gore tw

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like-bunnies · 5 years

Text

Mistletoe and Rum - An Ichabbie Christmas ficlet

I just wanted to write something cute and short and fluffy for the holidays!

Mistletoe and Rum by likebunnies

“This is the definition of insanity, Lieutenant,” Crane said as Abbie tossed him another pillow, gently hitting upside the head. He sighed heavily before he continued complaining. “How did I ever let you talk me into this?”

“Because you know as well as I do that it will be good publicity for the historical society. People will get a sense of what it is and will want to come back. Maybe spend some money. Maybe want to hold more events here. Besides, you look cute with a little meat on your bones,” Abbie said.

Crane shoved another pillow down his big red coat, trying to spread the padding around.

“An obese man shimmying down chimneys in the middle of the night. It’s more Christmas nonsense,” he said. Again. She had heard about Christmas nonsense a dozen times in the last hour. Thousands of times since the beginning of December. She was thankful he was too busy trying to get dressed to give her a lecture on everything wrong with Christmas. Maybe she should have found him a Grinch costume instead.

“This nonsense is for a good cause. The sheriff’s needed a nice, safe place to do their Christmas event for the kids and you have a nice place. Right across the street,” Abbie said. Even though she was with the FBI, she still had plenty of contacts with her old department. When they asked, she gladly offered up the archives for an evening.

“Yet that does not explain why I have to be the man in the red suit. I’m not nearly the right age… do not look at me like that… and I am nowhere near the right size for your modern Father Christmas.”

“Santa Claus. The kids are coming to see Santa, not Father Christmas and not some grumpy colonial dude in breeches,” Abbie said as Crane’s red pants started to slip down again. Even with his breeches on underneath, they were hard to fasten on his slender hips. She had pinned them as much as she could but they were still meant for a man twice his size.

He twisted around, pulled the pants back up again and somehow secured them. She hoped they would hold until the kids all got to tell Santa what they wanted and for them to receive their one present they were getting this evening.

Did she mention to Crane the part about the kids sitting on his lap and whispering in his ear? Surely he knew? He had seen enough of modern Claus to know that was part of the deal.

“You do understand what you have to do, right?” she asked Crane as she handed him the fake white beard for him to put over his shorter, dark one.

“I have to appear to be jolly.”

“That and hand the kids their presents and listen to each one of them as they tell you what they would like for Christmas. These kids don’t have a lot so their stories can get a little emotional sometimes but… what? Why are you looking at me like that?” Abbie asked.

“Am I going to have help with this?”

“Of course you are. Everything is all planned out. You just finish getting dressed and your helpers will meet you out there by the tree, okay?” she asked.

He nodded but did not look okay at all.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

Crane was sitting on the velvety Santa Throne and feeling very panicked. A few adults were starting the gather the children around him and some of the youngsters were already in tears just looking at him. He had seen enough on the internet to know this was a normal reaction many children had to seeing Santa but still, they could wait until they had a chance to meet him first. Someone had set up a camera to take pictures and the bright lights made it hard to see anything past the circle of children.

Abbie had said he would have help with this but so far that didn’t seem to be the case. Where was the Lieutenant anyway?

“Hello, Mr. Claus. How’s it going?” he heard a familiar voice ask and he turned toward the sound. He was expecting to find Abbie dressed in her usual ‘officer of the law’ outfit but instead she was in a short green and white striped skirt with a green shirt and an adorable pointy red hat, all trimmed in a white ‘fur’ much like his outfit. The pointy hat matched her pointy shoes which had bells on them.

“Are you one of my elves?” he asked, trying not to stare at her legs but failing. She had on red and white striped hosiery and he wondered briefly why this whole Christmas thing always seemed to involve stripes but he got distracted by her answer instead.

“I’m your only elf tonight,” she whispered and he raised an eyebrow at her. “We could only find one elf costume packed away and I drew the short straw. You should see how happy Jenny is right now.”

Abbie might have lost but Crane definitely felt as if he won. She was adorable as an elf. He was sure Miss Jenny would have made a fine elf but he’d rather have Abbie by his side doing whatever it was elves do.

As the night went on, he discovered that most of what this particular elf did was laugh at him when kids started screaming and to hand out candy canes when they were finished getting their gift and their photograph was taken.

He was thrilled when all the children had received their presents and he could finally exclaim that he had to get back to the North Pole. He and Abbie made their way to the historical society office and closed the door behind them. Abbie was commenting on how well he did with the kids while he was digging through the desk drawers, slamming one shut when he didn’t find what he was searching for.

“I wish I still kept a bottle of rum here,” he said, trying to pull the beard off as quickly as he could.

“Stop. I want to get a selfie of the two of us in our outfits,” Abbie said, pulling her phone out of somewhere on that tiny costume.

“We just had our picture taken about 200 times,” he said as he put the beard back in place.

“Yes, but not a selfie,” she said. She found the perfect angle for the two of them and snapped the picture. He looked at it briefly and shrugged.

“I look preposterous.”

“Says the man who once wore powdered wigs and by the way, now wears breeches to work every day,” Abbie said. She was typing in something on her phone and he was certain that the photo was being uploaded to somewhere.

“You should dress like that more often,” Crane said while she was distracted and Abbie gave him a wide-eyed stare.

“Like an elf?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I was suggesting that you… well, you do have very pleasant legs. All that running… they are… oh! You know what I mean!” Crane exclaimed before he got himself into more trouble. He pulled off his hat and white wig and tossed them aside followed by the fake beard.

“And you should wear the color red more often… you look good in it… no, you know what I mean… not red like a ‘Red Coat’ when you’re here working but… oh, I give up. Do you need help getting out of that?” Abbie asked.

“Maybe. Do you?” Crane asked in return.

“I don’t have another outfit on underneath mine so I’ll be an elf for the remainder of the evening. That should make you happy,” Abbie joked as she jingled the bells on her shoes.

“Not as happy as some mistletoe would right now,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly, and Abbie stopped jingling immediately.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

“Wouldn’t that be more Christmas nonsense?” Abbie asked. His cheeks were the now the color of his suit and Abbie was a bit stunned that he had even suggested such a thing. Or said it aloud.

“Some of the nonsense is fun,” Crane responded.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Abbie said.

“Sleigh rides. Hot chocolate. A warm fire. I have grown to appreciate that kind of Christmas nonsense,” he said with a shrug. “Gifts are wonderful. As is time spent with good friends. And I’ve always appreciated mistletoe.”

“Too bad we don’t have any,” Abbie said. It had been years since she had last had any hanging up. She had kind of given up hope that one day he would just kiss her for whatever reason. They had just saved the world or outrun a murderous jackalope. Anything would have been a good enough reason.

“That and the rum,” he said. He looked up at her, his blue eyes sparkling. “Wait! I remember where I hid some.”

Crane returned with two coffee mugs filled with rum and took a slow sip, savoring the taste. Abbie took a sip of hers and set it down. He looked at her again but now his eyes had grown darker. She was always mystified at how he did that. He finished his rum and put his mug down next to hers.

“Mistletoe and rum. Always moves things along,” Abbie said. She was still trying to figure out exactly what the hell was happening. Perhaps it was just the silly costumes or the holiday season but… did he really want to kiss her? Finally? He didn’t need booze or a parasitic plant for that. He just needed to get up the damn nerve to do it. “Let me help you.”

Abbie removed his huge plastic Santa belt and all the pillows fell out around their feet.

“Next year we really do have to find someone who fits in this better,” Crane said as the fluffy red pants slipped down again.

“Maybe you can join me and be an elf,” Abbie said, laughing at the thought of Crane in candy cane striped tights and jingling shoes.

“I don’t know if I have the legs for it,” Crane said.

“I don’t know about that. You have some pretty shapely calves,” Abbie said and Crane blushed again. The Christmas music had gotten louder in the other room as had the sounds of the children laughing. They must be playing a game. A far different game than the one going on in here. Maybe it was time to move this game along. She boosted herself up so she was sitting on the edge of his desk. “Come here, Santa.”

He looked confused but did go to where Abbie was now sitting. She put her hands on his face and drew him closer to her, her lips meeting his. It was just a short, sweet kiss but it was still a kiss. It was a sign that things would be going in another direction now. It would never be the same again and she was ready for whatever was next. She pulled him to her, snuggling her cheek against the fleecy warm coat. He pulled off her elf hat and cradled her head in his hand like he had done many times in the past. It was always comfortable and soothing. He was comfortable and soothing. But this time, it was just a bit different, too.

“Happy Christmas, Lieutenant,” he said. He gently lifted her face towards his and kissed her once more. Her heart began to beat faster and she grew dizzy. This was more intoxicating than the earlier taste of rum. More so than a whole bottle of rum.

Nothing else meant a thing. Holidays. People. Presents. The noise outside the door. None of it mattered except the feel of his body pressed to hers, his hands on her face, his mouth against hers seeking out more. She wanted to give him more but perhaps not here on the desk. Maybe at home. In front of the fireplace. Under the tree wrapped in cozy quilts. The kiss ended and she expected him to turn away or look a little embarrassed by what had just happened. He didn’t. Instead, he finally looked, dare she say, jolly?

“Yes,” Abbie said, looking at his rosy lips and darkened yet twinkling eyes. “Happy Christmas to all… and to all a good night. A very good night.”

*^*^*^*^*^*^

The End

#ichabbie #ichabbie ficlet #christmas fic #christmas fluff #ichabbie au because what else is there #photo not mine

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timeforelfnonsense · 4 years

Text

Apprentice April 2

(sprite by Jilljoycearts )

LONG POST

1. What does your character feel when they see their LI for the first time each day?

Fable has such a tender adoration for Julian. She’s been very guarded and private about her authentic feelings for most of her life so having someone she can be soft with means a lot to her. She loves waking up and knowing he’ll still be there no matter what.

2. What things does your character love about their LI?

She loves how thoughtful and selfless he his. Fable is a little self centered at times and she admires how willing to care for others and put their needs before his own.

She loves how emotionally intelligent he is.

She loves his wit and sense of humor .

She loves his kindred sense of adventure and wanderlust

She loves his sharp features, lushes hair, his absurd tallness, his shoulders and hands.

3. What things about their LI annoy them?

When he crosses the line from selfless to babying. Fable is very independent and sometimes Julian can smother her a bit. Sometimes his devotion to her can make her feel a little claustrophobic due to her childhood trauma but she’s working on it.

Julian has a habit of talking about his work with a bit too much enthusiasm and it grosses her out.

Julian: “You should have seen this guy’s leg today Fable! The bone was all the wa-”

Fable: “JULIIIIANNN”

4. Who does what chores?

They are both a little messy but share chores around the shop. They both grew up on ships so they have plenty of experience swabbing the deck lol

5. Do they prefer to stay at home, or do they like to go out?

The both love to go out! Drinking and dancing are always favorites. They go and see plays pretty often as well!

6. What are some little things they do for each other throughout the day?

Fable is a pretty good cook actually so she often brings Julian lunch and coffee when he’s at the clinic.

Julian leaves her little lovey-dovey notes around the shop.

7. What are some private jokes they share?

If you’ve read the first few chapter’s of For Lovers and Fools, you’ll know that they met when Fable asked Julian to walk her home while pretending to be her betrothed. They joked about being engaged all the time before the plunge/when they weren’t really dating and would sometimes put on the act for strangers.

Julian lost his v card to Fable like 7 years before the events of the route and their is some occasional teasing over how Julian was “cuntstruck” by her for almost a decade.

8. What are some embarrassing couple stories?

oooo as previously mentioned Julian lost his virginity to Fable when h e was 21 and she was 19. She said something a little too dirty for him and he ended up being kind of a two pump chump. Fable is a sex positive icon though and made sure he knew she still had fun but oh boy he was embarrassed about it for a long time.

Fable likes to get Julian riled up and flustered around other people. Countless awkward erections...

They both like to drink a little too much and have gotten in hot water with the guard for rowdy behavior.

9. Is their relationship open or exclusive?

Ok. This is a really big and hard question. Fable has a lot of commitment issues and is really afraid of letting people close enough to hurt her because of some abandonment issues. She is also very independent and values freedom. She has a lot of fears about being “owned”. She is really up front about this with her partners. The majority of her relationships have been friends with benefits or one nightstands. She’s only ever been in love with one person other than Julian and they were very on again off again.

Moreover, her father is a wood elf and for the most part they are non-monogamous and her mother’s people don’t have a persuasion for it either (monogamy is common but just as much as non monogamy). So She has never been in an exclusive relationship. She just didn’t grow up worrying about finding someone to be with long term.

I’ve added a little passage from a WIP that encapsulates her feelings.

“So,” Julian’s voice was pitched a bit higher than normal. His brows knit together, thinking of the right thing to say, “We should probably talk about what happened in the library… ”

“It was a bit of debauchery, not a big deal, Julian. Fun is fun, no strings attached.”

He put his hand on her slender shoulders, “ When I told you I wanted you that night on the docks, I meant it.”

She turned away from him her arms tight across her chest, “Look Julian, I really like you. But, I don’t really do commitment.”

Julian looked at her blinking, “So, you don’t want to be with me?”

She looked back at him over her shoulder rolling her eyes, “Never said that.”

“You said-”

“I said I didn’t do commitment, not that I didn’t want you. Not the same thing at all.” Fable shrugged, “I’m just not the kind of woman who wants to belong to someone else. And besides you hardly know me. How do you know that I’m the kind of person you want to be attached to.”

“Fable I don’t want to own you. That, that isn’t what relationships are. Not that I’m proposing a relationship. That is, we did just meet and-”

She cocked her head curls tumbling over her shoulder. Her cherry lips curled into a blithe smile that could stop a man’s heart. She let out an amused laugh, strengthening the lapel of his jacket.

“Oh, you are a sweet one doctor. That’s exactly what relationships are.” She took his hands into her own drawing them to her lips, “ I will give you my affection, my body, my company, but my independence is something I will surrender to no one.”

He followed a few paces behind her the rest of the way. Remaining silent whilst mulling over their conversation. He’d only known her for a short time. He had no reason to feel so disappointed in her disdain towards commitment. Yet, her words had put a pit in his stomach, Still, he’d take as much of herself as she was willing to share without complaint. There was something strangely familiar about her words. A bittersweet deja vu that caused his temples to ache.

That being said she and Julian are exclusive. He is the first person to want to be exclusive with her. Post game she and Julian are in a really good place and they have a really long and good talk about what they are. He would have been willing to keep things open but she could tell he was only offering for her sake. Julian gives her a sense of security and genuine love she has only had with one other person and she hasn’t wanted to be with anyone else sense they got together.

10. How often do they need to be intimate?

They hump like rabbits. They both have pretty high sex drives and physical touch is a shared love language.

11. Have they ever fought?

They don’t fight too much. Julian is emotionally intelligent enough to tell when she’s upset and Fable is pretty diplomatic so things normally work out before an argument happens. They have a bit of a Fenris/Isabella vibe and normally settle things with a bit of hummor:

Fable: (Sighs) This is silly. I don't want to argue.

Julian: Do you want to guess what color my underclothes are again?

Fable: Oh, yes, that's much more fun.

I think their biggest argument is a lot like the argument from eternal sunshine of a spotless mind, both pre and post respawn.

Pre respawn: "Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's lookin' for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours."

Post respawn:

https://youtu.be/_q0ZZKbzITI

It is much of the same argument but this time around Julian is able to understand and acknowledge her fears much better than the first time around. He was young and still had a lot of his own growth to do when he first met her her but they’ve both grown up a lot in the time between their first kinda relationship and now.

12. Describe their perfect date

A night at the Raven or a little trip on the harbor with the slope!

13. Do they have an evening routine?

They take a bath together.

Julian Brushes her hair

She rubs his back.

14. Describe a “paid scene” with your character and their LI

It would be fable just teasing and flirting with Julian at the Raven!

“I can feel my cheeks blushing from just thinking about what I could say to you”

15. Would they go on a double date?

Totally! They are both extroverts and people-people! They would be that couple that is a little too all over each other during a double date though!

16. Who pops the question?

Fable is a known Gamophobia.

This is a major charter trait for her in both my arcana and dnd cannons. It has a lot to do with her parents and how she was treated by the elf side of her family. That being said I think Julian is about the only person who could get her to settle down. They are well suited for each other being similar in a lot of ways but really different in others. Julian is quick to fall and very open with his feeling and that offers her a security she isn’t used to.

Julian is the one to propose.

He does it on a trip to Nevivon.

He takes her out to the dock at sunset.

There is a big gushy speech

The ring is a ruby from a temple of Sune: associated with love, especially faithful passionate commitment and closeness. As well as being on of Fable’s favorite colors and a call back to the “wedding” ring she gave him when they first met.

She PANICS. But does say yes.

17. Describe the wedding

They get married at sea as its a shared passion

It’s a big mish mash of their cultures.

Fable is half wood elf and her mother is fantasy Celtic and Julian is fantasy Russian Jewish.

A hand fasting & blood oath

“ Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone, I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.” (I like outlander sue me)

A pebble toss

Couples in ancient times were often married near some sort of water source such as a lake, river or holy well, believed to be favored by the Celtic gods. Wedding guests were each given small stones to cast into the water while making a wish for the couple's future happiness.

A chuppah

A glass breaking

Lots of dancing and rowdy partying

Her family sails out for the wedding as well as all of their friends and family from Nevivon and Vesuvia.

Fables dress:

I’ve included a cute little mood board.

A big Celtic gown made mostly by her aunt and mother but also worked on by herself and Portia. It’s an important custom in her culture that all the women of the clan make the wedding dress.

She wears Julian’s mother’s pearls given to her at the masquerade

A kokoshnik that belonged to Lilinka

18. Any babies?

I’m not sure I want to make this 100% cannon but, eventually they have at least daughter named Keava! She has Fable’s eyes and Julian’s hair. She was very much unplanned but it all worked out! I kind of like the idea of them being like fergus and marsali from outlander though and keeping the population up.

19. Do they stay in Vesuvia, or eventually move somewhere else?

They travel a lot! Right after they go back to piracy for a bit but keep the shop and clinic as a home base.

20. Talk about that family life. What’s it’ like?

Julian is the best dad ever.

They are both open door policy parents

They both have strong family ties and have a multi-culti home for their kid(s).

#julian x apprentice #apprentice april #julian devorak #fable Amastacia #fan aprentice #arcanaverse

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purewanderlust · 5 years

Text

Fake Dating

Taagnus Week, Day 3!!

Prompt for @taagnusweek day 3: Fake Dating.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” the tiefling snarls, raising his dagger to point it into Magnus’ face. “What are you doing here?”

Magnus has a quick, uncharitable thought about The Bureau and the distinct lack of intelligence they’d received in their mission briefing, and then Taako grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. He leans towards the tiefling, seemingly unconcerned with the way the knife swings towards him and offers a huge, fake smile.

“It’s date night! My sugar bun promised me that we would find a good place to eat--you’re not reservation only, are you?”

Magnus is so preoccupied with how close Taako is to the knife that he doesn’t register his words at first. When he does, it takes every ounce of his self-control to keep the shock from showing on his face. The tiefling glances up at him, clearly suspicious, so Magnus does the only thing he can think to do, and goes along with it. He wraps an arm around Taako's waist and pulls him gently back to his chest, which has the added benefit of getting him away from the knife.

"Only the best for my sweetheart," Magnus says with a shy grin.

The tiefling eyes them for a few more tense seconds, then steps to the side. His pasted-on smile looks more like a grimace.

"Sit wherever you like, a barkeep will be with you shortly."

Taako flounces towards a table near the back of the room and since he's still holding Magnus' hand, he has no choice but to follow. He can feel the tiefling's glare at his back. Thank gods for Taako's quick thinking. And thank Pan in particular that they'd split up, because Merle definitely would've blown their cover.

"Sweetheart, huh?" Taako says, bringing him back to the moment. "I have to admit, that's tamer than I would've expected your nicknames to be." His voice is light and casual, but he’s playing with Magnus’ fingers on top of the table and his gaze is just slightly over his shoulder. They’re still being watched.

“It seemed right?” he hazards. It’s certainly not what he called Julia, but with Taako pressed to his chest, it just felt like the correct word for some reason.

“You did very good, bubeleh.” Taako gives him a rare smile. “Way to say yes.” He’s still tracing lines on Magnus’ palm with his slender fingers and it’s a little bit distracting. Magnus forces himself to focus.

“So, now what?”

Taako’s brow furrows. “We pretend to be on a date for as long as it takes Merle to search the back for the Philosopher's Stone or whatever, then we get the fuck out of here.”

Magnus nods. It’s really the only thing they can do. The tavern is full of ruffians, and they’re armed to the teeth. Stealth is their best bet.

“I’m just following your lead. It’s been quite some time since I’ve been on any kind of a date.”

Taako slants a look at him from under long eyelashes. “Yeah?” His voice is unusually hesitant. Magnus has told him a little bit about Julia, but not much. Taako’s never pried for more.

He shrugs. “Not since I left Ravensroost.” He feels a little exposed under Taako’s scrutiny, but the elf just nods thoughtfully and then grins.

“Guess I’ll have to give you the full Taako experience, then! It’s your first date in like six years, and you’re lucky enough to bag yourself the hottest elf in town.”

Magnus laughs, the tension dissipating like morning fog. “Lucky me.”

“Ahem,” a brawny human woman is suddenly standing over their table. “What do you want to drink?”

“Ale for me,” Magnus says automatically. “And, uh, a glass of your finest red wine for my beautiful date!”

The woman rolls her eyes and shuffles away. As soon as she’s gone, Taako turns to him and waggles his eyebrows.

“Aww, you think I’m beautiful?”

“Well, you are.” Magnus says, a touch defensively. To his surprise, the tips of Taako’s ears turn pink. He recovers quickly, mouth curving into a smirk.

“I know that. I just wasn’t sure if you knew that.”

What is Magnus supposed to say to that? Of course he’s noticed--everyone notices Taako. How could they not? It doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything, even if Magnus has been noticing more and more lately.

He’s saved from coming up with a response by the arrival of their drinks. As Taako interrogates the barkeep about their menu, he takes a massive swig of ale and finds it makes him feel only marginally better.

The woman storms away, Taako picks up his glass and swirls it absently. “We’re going to be lucky if anything from their kitchen is edible,” he comments.

Magnus shrugs. “I’ll eat pretty much anything.”

“I know, it’s disgraceful. If you’d ever had my cooking, you’d never settle again.”

“You could cook for me sometime,” Magnus suggests before he’s even thought about the implications of his words. Taako almost upends his wine glass on the table. “I--I don’t mean like a date, just. Um, we have a kitchen at the moonbase…”

Strangely, this doesn’t seem to reassure Taako in the slightest. His face is very pale. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” he says flatly.

They lapse into a deeply uncomfortable silence. Taako’s gaze is a million leagues away and Magnus isn’t sure how to get him back. He swallows back the remainder of his drink and flags down the barkeep for another.

She’s just set the tankard down in front of him when his stone of farspeech comes on with a crackling pop.

“Magnus? You there?”

Taako’s expression flickers back to life. “I can’t believe you didn’t put it on silent for our date!” he says shrilly. The barkeep’s eyes flick between them and she visibly makes the decision not to stick around for the impending argument, and books it back to the bar.

“Thanks,” Magnus says in an undertone, then answers his stone. “Merle? What’s going on?”

“I’m inside, but there’s guards at the vault that I can’t get past.”

“I turned you invisible, old man, is that not good enough?” Taako hisses, leaning over the table towards Magnus to be heard.

“They’re right up against it. I’d have to be intangible too, and you didn’t cast anything like that,” Merle retorts. “Any chance you two can come up with a distraction that might draw them out into the tavern?”

Magnus looks at Taako. “I got nothing. You?”

A slow smile spreads across the elf’s face. “I think I have an idea. You better be fast, Highchurch.” He slips one of his many rings off and shoves it into Magnus’ hands. “Get down on your knees.”

“What?”

“Down on your knees, do it now!” Taako shoves him out of his chair and for lack of a better idea, Magnus drops to his knees, automatically holding the ring up as if to present it to Taako. He hears a gasp from a couple of tables over, and it clicks.

“Taako,” he says, “Light of my world, love of my life…will you marry me?”

The tavern is suddenly dead silent. Every eye in the room is on them. Taako lets out an ear-splitting scream of delight and the door behind the bar bursts open, two heavily armed half-orcs appearing. Bingo.

“Oh, Maggie!” Taako croons. “This is such a surprise!”

“Don’t keep him in suspense,” shouts the tiefling doorman. “What’s your answer?”

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you!” Taako cries. From the corner of his eye, Magnus sees that the guards are still watching.

“What are you waiting for?” the barkeep demands, “Kiss him!”

Magnus meets Taako’s eyes and raises an eyebrow in question. Taako grabs one of the straps on his cuirass and hauls him to his feet. “Make this look good.”

Magnus kisses him. Taako’s lips part on a surprised exhale and he presses closer, dipping the elf low like some cheesy romance novel. Taako has his arms wrapped around Magnus’ neck tight as a vise, and he’s kissing back with enthusiasm. Considering it’s fake as hell, it’s a really good kiss. Taako is warm and soft, making breathy little noises against his mouth. It’s strangely familiar. There’s white noise filling Magnus’ head and he tightens his arms around Taako. When they finally break apart, his ears are ringing and he feels distinctly unmoored from reality. Taako looks similarly dumbfounded, but the other patrons of the tavern are going wild, cheering and applauding.

“Let’s get out of here,” Taako mutters. He tosses a handful of coins down on the table and practically drags Magnus out of the pub while people hoot and holler in the background.

They don’t speak as they head back to the rendezvous. Taako’s ears are twitching irritably and Magnus is trying hard not to touch his own lips. Merle is waiting for them next to the transport bubble, wearing a grim expression.

“It wasn’t the real Philosopher's Stone, it was fake--Hey, what happened to you guys?”

Taako doesn’t answer, already halfway into the seating compartment. Magnus turns to Merle.

“It was fake? After all that?”

“Yeah, sorry kiddo. Apparently The Director had some bad intelligence. Are you boys okay?”

Magnus glances up and sees Taako staring back at him. He looks confused and exhausted, ears drooping and face pale. He clearly does not want to talk about it. Magnus gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and turns back to Merle.

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

Read the rest of my Taagnus Week prompts on AO3.

#taagnus #taagnus week #taz balance #the adventure zone #balance arc #fanfiction #fanfic #flash fiction #my writing #taz taako #taako taaco #taako #taz magnus #magnus burnsides #taz merle #merle highchurch #prompt fill

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jenniferhawke · 5 years

Text

Bitter jealousy

Summary: So long as the mage made her happy, he would remain silent. Even when she sits in Anders’ lap after having too many drinks at The Hanged Man, even as she kisses him openly and without uncertainty. Fenris tolerates these things, even as it wounds him like a poison burning him from the inside out. He will not interfere, so long as she smiles. Until, one day, she isn’t anymore.

A continuation of my recent Fenris drabbles (but reads well enough as a stand alone).

------------- It is hard to remain quiet. But Fenris remembers a time not so long ago when he could not speak freely. When he had no voice. When he was a slave.

Watching Hawke with Anders is agonizing those first few months when she is all smiles and eager glances. When the two of them can barely keep their hands to themselves during Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite, slender fingers running down the back of a shabby coat, calloused fingers caressing a soft cheek in return. Eyes of longing gaze through her silken fringe at the man to her left, faint lines of glee crinkling at the corners. She’d once glanced at him that way, Fenris thinks to himself, tossing another copper into the growing pile of coin as everyone places their bets. When his eyes meet Varric’s, the dwarf smirks, a look that says ‘I know what you’re thinking, elf’. He ignores it, instead returning his eyes to his cards as if they hold all the answers to every burning question ever asked. Even with a winning hand, even as his pockets feel much heavier at the end of the night, all Fenris can fixate on during his lonesome walk home is that look of adoration in Hawke’s eyes. Venhedis, how he aches to think of it, to know that it is no longer reserved for him but another.

Time is a cruel mistress, Fenris soon learns. It does not heal wounds, as others have said. Long months pass, and with them, Hawke’s relationship with her fellow mage grows. Taking to the streets one sunny afternoon, his keen ears pick up the gossiping of two housewives.

“Did you hear about the Champion?” one asks.

“That she is living in sin? Of course I heard. Any respectable man would ask for her hand in marriage before rightly moving in!”

The words sting as if vinegar poured on a fresh wound. It is a wound that festers, refusing to heal, no matter how he tends to it, no matter how busy he keeps his mind. Fenris takes odd jobs during the days when Hawke does not call upon him, and in the evenings, he catches up with contacts he’s made in his never ending search for his sister. But during quiet moments at night, when sleep eludes him, when his treacherous mind thinks of nothing but that night with Hawke, his heart lurches, breath catching in his throat as he pictures the hands of another roaming the valley of her skin, counting her silver scars, relishing in the feel of her inside. When he finally drifts to sleep, he dreams of nothing but what could have been, if only he hadn’t walked away, if instead he had chosen to stay.

The next day, Hawke collects Fenris, asking for his assistance along the Wounded Coast. Varric and Anders accompany them on their travels, and for a time, Fenris remains quiet. But even as his tongue refuses to form words, misery consumes his mind. Being in the very presence of the Darktown healer has his heart consumed with bitter jealousy. As feet cross sun beaten sand, Varric and Hawke take the lead, and soon, the blond mage trails to his side. For a moment, Fenris loses himself, unable to remain silent a moment longer.

“You … are living with Hawke now?”

“What’s it to you?” Anders barks in response.

“Be good to her. Break her heart, and I will kill you.”

The mage rolls his eyes at this, quickening his footsteps until he catches up to Hawke, wrapping an arm around her slender waist. Fenris knows Anders well enough to know this is his petty way of showing Fenris whom she belongs to. But Fenris is not one to take ownership of another. Hawke would always be free to make her choice. And if Anders was what she truly wanted … then so be it. He had walked away from her, had thrown away his chance at a life with the woman he cherished. It would always haunt him, but he had no right to voice his distaste. So long as the mage made her happy, he would remain silent. Even when she sits in Anders’ lap after having too many drinks at The Hanged Man, even as she kisses him openly and without uncertainty. Fenris tolerates these things, even as it wounds him like a poison burning him from the inside out. He will not interfere, so long as she smiles.

Until, one day, she isn’t anymore.

Two years pass, and slowly her smile fades into something resembling indifference. At first, Fenris thinks little of it, assuming her relationship with the healer has turned into less a novelty and something resembling routine. But then Anders stops coming to Varric’s suite for cards. Hawke brushes it off the first few weeks, saying that his work at the clinic has him overburdened. It is not completely out of the usual for the apostate to be swamped with patients from time to time. But weeks turn into months, and the mage’s absence becomes something of habit.

One evening, after everyone has piled out of Varric’s suite and have said their goodbyes for the night, he watches as Hawke returns to the bar. A mug of whiskey is poured for her, and she knocks it back as if it’s nothing, immediately ordering another. She’s already drunk, that much had been made clear during their game of Diamondback with her constant insistence of more rounds and her speech beginning to slur. As Fenris approaches the bar, he can see the frown on her face, the one she desperately tries to hide from her friends.

“Hawke” he says as she knocks back her second mug as if it is merely water.

“Fenrissss,” she drawls out his name, giving him a sloppy grin. “Want another round? Isss on me.”

“Perhaps another time,” he politely declines. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he asks, as if he wasn’t already planning on escorting her home in this state.

“I suppose that might be wise.” Hawke reaches in her coin purse to pay her tab, several coppers dropping to the floor in her clumsy effort. Fenris bends to pick them up, handing them back to her. Soft fingers grasp them from his palm, and even now, after all this time, he aches to remember how she once felt against him.

“Thanks,” she says, plopping them down on the bar. Together, they leave the Hanged Man, and begin their walk home.

It takes twice as long to reach Hightown, with Hawke’s stumbling and her refusal to let Fenris help her. Three times she has to stop to relieve herself in an alley, muttering half apologies and shouting the words of a song he does not know in an attempt to cover up the sound of her emptying her bladder. Fenris shakes his head, but even so, a wry smile tugs on his lips. Even in her drunken stupor, it is impossible for him to find her anything less than charming.

As they reach Hightown, her sullen mood from before suddenly returns, and when Fenris glances at her, her eyes carry the weight of the world within them. Loudly, she sighs.

“I’ve been lying, you know.”

“About?” he asks, perking a curious brow.

“Anders. He’s not busy with his patients. He’s … “ she stops.

“He’s what, Hawke?”

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “He’s never home anymore. And when he is, he wants nothing to do with me. He’s always working on that … that Maker forsaken mani--manisessto,” she slurs.

“And this surprises you?” he asks, colder than he intends to.

“You don’t know him like I do!… Like I used to,” she says defensively. “I used to mean something to him. But now, all I’m good for is a warm place to sleep.”

“You know you are worth far greater than that,” Fenris says and Hawke suddenly stops mid step, eyes upon him.

“How should I know? No one ever stays for long.” Her eyes shine with sadness and uncertainty, but before Fenris can stumble on something to say to comfort her, she picks up her pace once more. They walk in an uncomfortable silence as her house nears. “You know, he doesn’t even kiss me anymore.”

Fenris feels fuzzy, and not from drink. He doesn’t wish to know anything about her intimate life with the apostate, nor does he think she wishes him to know such personal details. “Hawke, you are drunk. Perhaps we can discuss this in the morning when - “

“Nothing will change. Not tomorrow, or the day after that or … “ she chokes out a sob. Fenris’ lips pinch together in a thin line.

“Then he is a fool,” he says quietly, walking her to her door. Under the light of a lit lantern, she peers up at him, sapphire eyes seeking his own.

“You really don’t like him, do you?” she asks, and Fenris scoffs.

“Have I ever made a secret of my distaste for the mage?” he asks.

“No. I suppose not,” she says. “I never meant to fall in love with him, you know.”

“Hawke -- “.

“He was supposed to be a simple distraction. But I suppose with Anders, he would always want more. I was hurting. I missed you and … it just … happened.” A shaky breath flutters past her lips. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“Why would I hate you?”

“Oh … I dunno. For sleeping with your arch emasis?” she slurs yet again, in that ever so endearing way of hers.

“The mage is far from my arch nemesis,” he corrects. “Besides, I could never hate you Hawke. Do not think such things.”

Before he can realise what he’s doing, Fenris brushes an errant hair away from her cheek. Hawke responds by nuzzling against his hand, and as if pricked by a needle, he pulls away. Even as he yearns for her touch, he cannot take what she cannot rightfully give. A single taste, and he would be starving for more. “If you are unhappy, I think you should bring it up with the mage.”

Hawke sighs. “He’s never home long enough to have a real conversation. And when he is … he won’t listen.”

“Then make him listen, Hawke. If he truly cares for you like he should, he will fight to keep you in his life.” The words taste pungent as breathes them to life, for he has thought of them far too often. I should have fought for you, he thinks bitterly, then is even more perturbed upon realising he is consoling the woman he endlessly yearns for about her relationship with another.

They stand there, lantern light hanging above, casting a soft glow around Hawke’s lovely features. “I guess I can try,” she finally says. “Thank you … for walking me home.”

“It was no trouble at all. Drink some water before you retire,” he says, offering her the smallest hint of a smile.

“Probably a good idea,” she says. Pulling out a key from her pocket, she turns it into the slot of the door. As she tugs the heavy door open, she stumbles back, and Fenris catches her before she can fall head over heels. He slowly rights her posture, their eyes meeting once more. A shallow puff of her breath caresses the skin of his throat, and he is all too aware of their proximity. “Fenris,” she whispers, as if a familiar lover, and he does not fail to notice the longing held within her eyes … the look he has yearned for desperately so. He wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and kiss her, to taste the whiskey on her lips and replace it with his own flavour. But it would not be right. She is drunk and still lays with another. It matters little how often Anders returns to her bed, it is the fact that he is still free to do so if he so wishes. And Fenris … he has yet to resolve his own circumstances. If he were to kiss her now, he would not be the man she deserves.

“Goodnight, Hawke,” he says, slowly backing away, as reluctant as he is.

“Goodnight Fenris,” she sighs, shutting the door behind her. As Fenris walks the short distance to his manor, the tickle of her breath still lingers on his neck, the hunger in her eyes still haunt him, for it is a hunger that matches his own. The fire in his belly that burns for her burns all the brighter now, knowing that perhaps, after all this time, she might still care for him as she once did. He wants to quash this newfound hope, to extinguish it before it grows. Before it can hurt him more than he already aches. Drunken confessions matter little if they are not spoken with a clear mind. But even as he retires to bed, Fenris does something he hasn’t done in a remarkably long time. He smiles. For even though he cannot yet be with Hawke, it no longer seems such an impossible dream. As he falls asleep, it is finally a dreamless sleep, with no stolen memories or lost lovers to haunt him.

A week later, the first letter from Varania arrives, and it changes everything.

#Dragon Age #Fenris #Hawke #FenHawke #Fanfic #Dragon Age fanfiction #JenniferHawke #Dragon Age 2 #Dragon Age fanfic

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foxglovestories · 5 years

Text

Who Betrayed Who? Revised 11/28/19

Foxglove hung from a drainage pipe, his feet dangling in the darkness of the alley between the Laughing Pig tavern and Lacoul the wine merchant's shop, and allowed himself the faintest of grunts. This was already going not as smoothly as he liked. "Shhh!" hissed Raven from the roof. "You know you just shushed me more loudly than I grunted, right?" he murmured. Raven's luminous eyes popped up over the lip of the third story roof. "If you're so smart, why am I on the roof and you're hanging in the air like an idiot?" Foxglove rolled his eyes dramatically, and smoothly curled his lower body upward. "A tiny miscalculation." He wrapped his legs around the pipe, and in a maneuver that even some less experienced medical students might find unbelievable, shifted himself in one inhuman looking move to the roof. As he came up over the side, he suddenly found his wrists held by a powerful grip. "Shit!" he hissed. Before he could try to break free, he felt soft lips pressing firmly against his. "Careless," whispered Raven, and she kissed him harder. "You're insane." whispered Foxglove into her cloud of black, softly fragrant hair. "Mmmhmm," she replied, then whirled silently and darted across the roof like a shadow. Foxglove sighed and followed, out of habit checking his daggers one by one to make sure they were all ready. Left sleeve, right sleeve, belt, right boot. All present and accounted for. He grinned in the moonless night. A tiny setback. Nothing to worry about.

----

Cat Mother scratched gently at the cheeks of one of the many felines she kept in what she fancifully referred to as her lair, the top floor of the Lower Harbor District Thieves' Guild. Cats roamed freely throughout the squat, ramshackle building, but especially enjoyed congregating near their mistress. The upper section of the Guild was replete with tapestries, many of them ragged from application of various needle sharp claws. When they deteriorated too far, they were replaced, so the look of the lair was constantly mutating. It smelled of rich incense with a faint undercurrent of cat piss. "Boy," she said imperiously, "You're late." Foxglove kept his face impassive, but his hackles rose at the "boy." He had been a runt, slow to develop while his fellow street urchin cutpurses matured into burglars, thugs and killers, but now he was as skilled a thief as any in the guild, maybe more than most, he thought. "Sorry, Mother," he smiled sweetly. "Town watch came by early. I had to wait them out." He tossed a packet wrapped securely in waxed cloth on her desk. The tabby she was petting meowed peevishly and jumped to the floor. Cat Mother took a tiny knife, razor sharp, and sliced open the top of the packet carefully, dipping an elegant fingernail into it and bringing it up to a nostril. "Yes. As good as I was told. Pure. Well done." She opened a drawer and the packet vanished into it. She drew out a small bag of coin and tossed it to him. He caught it deftly, and it seemed to disappear into thin air. "You've been practicing, I see." Foxglove nodded. "Most people wouldn't have seen it go up your left sleeve." "Your gaze is inescapable as always, Mother." "Never forget it." She gave him a hard look, but then smiled. Her slender, handsome face had a kindly cast at first glance, shrewd but grandmotherly. Only if you paid close attention would you see the merciless coldness of her eyes. "I found you in the garbage, boy, I can always toss you back if you wrong me. But you wouldn't do that, now would you?" She gave a warm smile that chilled him to the bone, but he kept his expression blank. What the fuck did she know? ------ Tokk was a big man, over six feet tall and seemingly made of gristle and irregular steel bands. His swarthy features, snoutish nose and upsettingly large teeth bespoke a mix of something human and something rather more sinister. He casually flipped an evil looking dagger end over end, not looking at it, as he grinned down at the cutpurse he had backed against the alley wall. "Mother says you ain't bringin' in enough monnnney," he drawled. "What's wrong, little friend? Are ya sick?" The teenaged pickpocket tried to burrow into the wall with his shoulder blades. "I asked you a quessssstion, boy." "No. No, not sick." he stammered. "Mmm. Good. Gooood." Tokk smiled warmly. That was the apparent intention, anyway. The actual result of the expression was something that made the boy want to cover his eyes and scream. "I'd hate to think you were ill." Something seemed to come to him, and he looked thoughtful. "You wouldn't...no, of course not. You wouldn't be...skimming Mother's take?" "Oh gods. No. Never. I'd never." "You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I've always had the highest opinion of you, umm..." A voice called down the alley, half weary, half amused, "Tokk!" Tokk kept his gaze on the squirming boy. "What was your name again?" A dark skinned slender shark of an elf appeared in the gash of moonlight cutting through the space between buildings. "Stop playing with your food, Tokk, we have somewhere to be." Tokk sighed dramatically, and backed away from the boy, glancing over his shoulder. "Never time for any fun." With a near-imperceptible flick of the wrist, the dagger flew abruptly into the cutpurse's eye. The boy had just enough time to gasp. "He was lying, of course," he said to the elf. "Never steal from Mother." "Of course." The dark elf spared the body a glance as it slid down the wall and Tokk retrieved his blade. "Speaking of which..." "Yessss, Xandor?" Tokk wiped the dagger on the cutpurse's clothes. "Is it Foxglove? Please tell me it's Foxglove." Xandor chuckled indulgently. "It is." "Finally." Tokk grinned like a child presented a long awaited new toy. "I am going to drink that little shit's blood. Let's go." -----

The Laughing Pig was busy when Foxglove sidled through the loose hanging front door. It was always an effort to close and lock it, so the tavern's owner, Epotepp, just stayed open most of the time, even in the sparsely attended daylight hours. According to legend, the door had been broken in a bar brawl that had included first a hobgoblin, then as time passed, a goliath, then a troll, and most recently a hill giant. The offending party seemed to get a little bit bigger every time Epotepp told the story. Foxglove slid into the back booth and whispered into Raven's delicately pointed ear. "Is this a good idea, meeting here?" She leaned in to him and whispered, "Who would have the nerve to spend time at the tavern right next door to where they had perpetrated such an audacious crime? No one, of course." She took his pale, long fingered hand in both her dusky, elegant ones and squeezed, her breath hot at his neck. "You're too reckless, little bird," he hissed. "That old fool Lacoul may not suspect, but Mother knows something. I can feel it." Raven raised an eyebrow. "Did she say something?" Foxglove glanced around the room nervously. "Not exactly. At least nothing specific. But I've known her a long time, and I know when she's angry. She's angry about something." "Maybe it's nothing to do with you. She knew about the opium, and you gave her that. But she said nothing about any allnight powder, right? And that's worth enough to get us out of this garbage city." "Right, right. I just can't shake the feeling that she knows something." "You worry too much." She danced the tip of her tongue around his ear, which was also slightly pointed. "Have a drink, my love." She released one of her hands and lifted her mug to his lips. He grumbled, but took a sip. "It's good." "Only the best for the best thieves in the city." ----- (Five years earlier) "C'mere, runt!" bellowed Tokk. Slightly younger than his quarry, he already towered over him by more than a foot. The smaller boy tried to run, but Tokk's long arm reached out and clotheslined him, sending Foxglove down to the Guild floor in a puff of cat hair. "Nice try." He put a foot on the boy's chest and peered down at him. "Aw, just a baby." he said. "No hair, no muscles, no dick." "Leave me alone, you tower of shit!" screeched Foxglove. "Foul words for such a tiny boy," sniggered Tokk, holding the squirming boy down with ease. "Will you ever sprout hair, I wonder? Or will you just be a baby forever? Don't bother calling for help. No one is going to save you. Not even Mother. She doesn't want us to be soft, you see." He lifted his foot, and Foxglove tried to scurry away, but Tokk was too fast, grabbing the little thief by his collar and dragging him out the front door of the Guild into the street as he struggled helplessly. The Lower Harbor District had once been home to some of the city's wealthiest, and boasted an advanced sewer system. However, when the Lower (as most denizens called it) fell on hard times, the maintenance of the labyrinthine sewers fell by the wayside quickly. The tunnels were no longer cleaned, and many of the access points lay open as a hazard to those walking the streets. One such hole gaped in the road in front of the Guild, and Tokk dragged Foxglove toward it with grim purpose. Unceremoniously, the boy was dumped into the foul-smelling tunnel with a pitious shriek. Tokk laughed. "Bye, bye, now. Hope you find your way out." He slammed a previously hidden lid down on the hatch. "If something doesn't eat you first." Foxglove, stunned by the long drop, lay panting on his back in a shallow stream of putrid sewage. "Now what?" he muttered. It built slowly, first a murmur, then a sort of low moaning, then a basso profundo sort of vibration, that made his guts tremble. His stomach lurched and his vision blurred as an acidic panic started to burn through his body. Something was coming. ---- Foxglove writhed helplessly in the waste water, retching painfully. The small amount of food in his stomach gone almost immediately, he found himself unable to stop vomiting, gasping and weeping as dry heaves shook his body, and the low groaning chorus grew closer and louder. He tried to get up, but as he pushed himself up to his knees, the world lurched violently, and he fell forward on his face, foul water entering his mouth and nose. Something grabbed him around his waist. He tried to scream, but only succeeded in swallowing more sewage. Some weirdly quiet part of his brain thought, well, at least that's something to throw up... And then he was being dragged out of the water. Huh, so this is how I die? He fell on his back onto something solid as whatever it was released him. His blurred vision saw a shape above him, and he tried to swing at it. "Put your hands down, idiot, I'm trying to help you!" What? Suddenly, something soft shoved its way into both his ears. The horrible moaning all but vanished. The vomiting stopped, his eyes began to focus. A ragged looking girl with large eyes and pointed ears appeared in his vision, skinny, all arms and legs. Better? she mouthed. Can you get up? Foxglove sat up abruptly. He nodded, eyes wide with fear. Then run, stupid! She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. They ran. ----- While Raven, her laughter ringing out across the room, drunkenly made the rounds with friends and strangers in the Laughing Pig, Foxglove stared into his wine and went over the heist again and again in his head. So we climbed up to the third floor of Lacoul's shop, where the office and storage was. Had that brief slip, but didn't make much in the way of noise. Didn't see any guards, didn't trip any traps. No torches or lanterns, just went by natural night vision, a gift from forgotten fey parentage on his part, and from Raven's full sylvan blood. He rewound the scene again in his mind, concentrating on details, trying to push past the parts he already knew. What was his memory missing? Wait. When they had popped the little access door on the roof (it was remarkably easy, it had merely required a crowbar...not even reinforced with steel. Lacoul likely wouldn't make that mistake again in the future), he had half seen a shadow move out of the corner of an eye. Looked around, though, nothing. Then they had moved like ghosts into the office, and Raven had picked the lock on the desk while he watched for any problems. Nobody came, no cry of alarm. If one of Mother's thugs had followed them, surely he would have heard or seen them. The most stealthy of that bunch may as well be wearing plate armor made of pots and pans to either his or Raven's senses. But that shadow still nagged at him. None of Mother's thugs, no way... But what about one of her cats? Oh, shit. Foxglove bolted to his feet, wobbling a touch from the potent top shelf wine they had been drinking. He moved quickly across the floor, weaving through the crowd to Raven's side. She was whispering something salacious into the ear of a plainly captivated dancer, who was all curves, with a light frosting of nearly nonexistent silken clothing. He grabbed Raven's arm. "We have to go." "Foxglove darling, meet Melisandre," she grinned, "She's my new girlfriend, I'm afraid I'm done with you now." The dancer laughed, a trifle nervously. "Oh, fine, you can share me." She put one arm around Foxglove while still hanging on to the dancer. She leaned in to his ear. "Can we take her home? I like her. I think you'll like her." "Normally I'd be keen, of course, but we really must go. Right now." He dragged Raven to her feet. She pouted. "So. Serious. What is it, my love?" Her eyes, soft with wine and lust, stared up at him...and then flickered behind him. "NO!" And she shoved him, hard. Foxglove found himself on the tavern's filthy, sticky floor, looking up at Raven, who had suddenly sprouted the hilt of an ugly looking dagger just below her collarbone. Melisandre screamed and tried to scramble away, as Raven slowly collapsed on her. "I'll take that," hissed Xandor, the dark elven assassin, shoving the weeping, terrified dancer out of the way, and letting Raven fall into his grasp. "Naughty girl, that dagger wasn't for you." He met Foxglove's eyes with cool detachment. "This one was." And with a single, fluid move, he sliced her throat open and blood gushed from it like a tiny crimson waterfall. NO! RAVEN, NO! Foxglove struggled to his feet, and grabbed for his own blade. He pulled it out but was jostled by the crowd around him, all running from the deadly assault happening in the crowded tavern. A hard impact to the back of his head rattled his teeth and his vision rolled wildly around. The dagger left his nerveless fingers and sailed harmlessly off into space. He whirled, and backed up diagonally, trying to keep track of Xandor's position in his periphery. He saw Raven slump lifeless to the ground and the killer stalk slowly towards him through the fleeing crowd. Tokk stood before him, grinning crookedly down at the much shorter man, flipping another dagger in his hand, a match for the one in Raven's chest. "I knew this day would come, runt. You were always too smart for your own good. Now your bitch is dead, and you're gonna die too." Tokk approaching from one side, Xandor coming up on my flank. One dagger down. He gritted his teeth and shook his head, trying to clear his vision form the blow to the head and the tears that he was trying desperately to hold back. Then a pop of each wrist and deadly knives appeared in each hand as if by magic. The thief hurled both with all his might, one at each assailant. The dagger thrown at Xandor flew like a hawk at a mouse and sunk with extraordinary force into the dark elf's eye. Dead almost instantly, he went down like a felled tree. The dagger thrown at Tokk picked up some unfortunate spin, and hit him in the face, but with the hilt, not the blade. The half-orc thug cursed and clutched at his broken snout-like nose. Run, stupid! A sob wrenching itself from deep in his chest, he ran. ----- "Welcome to my nest," Raven grinned, as they crawled through the window of a high ceilinged squat at the top of a rotting deserted warehouse by the docks. She unselfconsciously shrugged out of the sewage soaked clothes she was wearing and peered back at Foxglove, who was staring awestruck at her. "What?" "I...oh...nothing." He hurriedly looked down at the floor, automatically noting dangerous looking floorboards. OK, she wasn't all arms and legs after all. "You're ridiculous," she laughed. "Don't you want to take those clothes off? I mean, no offense, because I'm in the same boat, but you need a bath. We both do." "A bath?" "Ah, yes." She strode across the room to a a rather large metal tub, which was positioned under a discolored iron pipe that led into the ceiling and pulled a lever. Water began splashing into the tub. "Rainwater collects in a cistern on the roof. I think there was a small smithy up here once upon a time." "That's, ummm, convenient." "Yes. But here's the best part. I have a little trick of my own." She muttered under her breath and made a few arcane gestures, and a flame rose from her palm. She blew on it, and it arced over to the tub. There was a hiss, and steam began to rise from the water. She winked, and climbed in with a sigh. "So, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to take off your clothes and get in? There's plenty of room." ---- Later, entangled in each other's limbs, skin wet and a little bit cold in the harbor breeze coming in through the window, Raven murmured, "So what kind of name is Foxglove?" Foxglove said nothing for a moment, listening to the nearby seawash, mixed with occasional street sounds, and the distant chiming of marker buoys on one side, and the hum and hiss of the city on the other. "What kind of name is Raven?" "My mother liked birds. Your turn." He grunted with mock annoyance. "OK, fine." He drew little circles in the palm of her hand, as he closed his eyes. "Apparently, whoever had me dropped me in a patch of foxglove flowers down at the Lower dump. That's where some of Cat Mother's gang found me, or so I was told. I was just a baby, I don't remember." "They carried me back to the Guild, and I became one of her adoptees. She collects unwanted children and cats." He smirked into the darkness. "I guess I should be grateful. Instead of being a meal for rats, I ended up with a home and a trade. Of sorts." Raven nodded, and snuggled up closer to him, her breath soft and warm on his neck. "And unwanted, awful siblings like that ugly fuck that dropped you down a hole." Foxglove shrugged. "I guess I'm just lucky in my bad luck. I get tossed in the trash, somebody pulls me out. I get thrown in a sewer, and a beautiful girl comes to my rescue." "Sweet talker." She kissed his cheek. "I was only going to have my way with you once and send you packing. Now I may just have to have you twice and send you packing." "Dear lady, I am completely in your hands. Do with me as you will." "In my hands? Not true." She adjusted her position, and he gasped sharply. "NOW you're in my hands." -----

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searchingwardrobes · 6 years

Text

Underneath the Tree

Surprise @killiancygnus! I’m your @cssecretsanta2k18! You said you love fluff, modern aus, especially friends to lovers, and I may also have stalked your tumblr a little and discovered that you would also love to just see CS cozy in front of the fire. This fic has all of that. I also decided after you told me you had never had a real tree before that I had to give you one in fic form. I have had a real Christmas tree every year of my life, so I can honestly inform you that getting one is neither as easy or romantic as portrayed in Hallmark movies, which was the perfect way to get some humor in this thing. And what better way to get CS cozy in front of the fire than to have them get caught in the rain? I hope you enjoy this story as much as I have enjoyed getting to know you, Francesca! Merry Christmas 🎄

Summary: Emma Swan has never had a real Christmas tree before, and her best friend Killian Jones is determined to give her one. A real live tree from a quaint tree lot like in a Hallmark movie. Even if it’s pouring down rain . . .

Rating: M-ish because Fran says she likes, “kind of smutty, but not too smutty” which I totally get!

Title from the song of the same name by Kelly Clarkson, the lyrics of which are perfect for this friends to lovers story.

Can also be read on Ao3

She shook her head before heading to her bedroom to change. The first time he had tossed out the “L” word so casually, it had freaked her out. Now she knew how he meant it. The love of a best friend, that’s what they had. A comfortable one filled with no pretenses, casual affection, and innocent flirting. A rarity in Emma’s life for sure, but Killian Jones had proven too stubborn to go away when she got prickly or threw her walls up. Since she couldn’t get rid of him, she eventually accepted his unflagging loyalty and occasional burst of heartfelt sentiments.

It was Killian’s stubbornness that had them heading to a Christmas tree lot on a cold, rainy Brooklyn morning. She had mentioned that she had never owned a Christmas tree aside from the pitiful tabletop thing that resided in her apartment. It came with red baubles already attached to the plastic limbs. All she had to do every year was dust it and set it on the table. Killian, however, had insisted that just wouldn’t do. They were getting her a tree, and not only was it going to be a decent size, it was going to be real. They were going to a tree lot like in those montages on Hallmark Christmas movies.

“Will Rockin Around the Christmas Tree be playing in the background?” Emma had asked sarcastically.

“Maybe,” he had told her with a smirk.

So now Emma was shivering in the passenger’s seat of Killian’s pickup truck, peering past the windshield wipers at the giant, waving Santa welcoming visitors to “Santa’s Treeland.” Killian parked, then came around to open Emma’s door like the old-fashioned gentleman that he was. The rain had tapered off to a light misting, but it still increased the sharpness of the cold. Emma yanked her beanie down farther over her ears and shoved her hands inside the pockets of her parka. Killian wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against his side, rubbing her arm up and down to warm her more. She had to admit, it helped.

Luckily, the trees were stored beneath an awning made of tarps. A sweet looking middle-aged man approached them as they neared the lot.

“Welcome to Santa’s Treeland!” he said as he handed them candy canes. “First Christmas together?” he asked with a wink.

Killian chuckled warmly, tugging Emma closer against him. “You could say that.” He winked down at her as they walked away, and she poked him in the ribs with her elbow. He just laughed more as he rubbed the sore spot.

The trees were organized by size: 4-5 feet, 6-7 feet, and then 8-9 feet. Emma gaped at the prices.

“Fifty bucks for a tree that’s shorter than me?”

Killian frowned at the tree she had tilted upright. “No way, Swan. Your apartment may be small, but I’m not letting you get a tree unless it’s taller than I am at least. And yes, that’s the price. They’re ten dollars a foot, cheapest in any of the burroughs.”

Emma folded her arms over her chest and shook her head. “Nope. I refuse to pay that much for a dead tree.”

He ignored her completely, hoisting a tree that was over six feet from the next stack over. “Well,” he said, eyeing the thing up and down, “good thing you’re not paying for it.”

Emma blinked rapidly. “Y-you can’t do that!”

He sighed and gave her a tender smile. “Yes, I can, and I will. Now, what do you think of this one?”

Emma, always uncomfortable about receiving generosity, shifted from one foot to the other. She contemplated arguing with him, telling him she didn’t need his charity. If this were Mary Margaret or David, she would have. But with Killian, she knew it wasn’t like that. His upbringing had been similar to her own, and he would never direct pity her way for it.

She tilted her head, chewing on her lower lip. What was she even supposed to be looking for? “It’s okay I guess?”

Killian chuckled. “Is it full enough?” He started turning it slowly. “Or does it have gaps? And the shape, is it close to a triangle or is it too thin or too squat?”

His questions helped as he continued to spin it. Emma frowned. “Now that you mention it, one side looks like it’s missing some branches.”

He nodded, then shoved the tree back with the others. “Then we keep looking.”

They looked at four more until they finally found one just at six feet that was perfect. Unfortunately, while they had been looking the rain had increased. Killian dashed through the rain to where he parked the truck, and by the time he got back his dark hair was plastered to his forehead and rain dripped off his coat. An employee helped him slide the tree into the back of his truck, and Killian quickly covered it with a tarp. Even Emma got slightly drenched just dashing to the passenger’s side of the vehicle. Killian gave his head a shake while Emma squeezed out her damp hair, and they both laughed even as their teeth chattered.

The rain didn’t let up as they drove home. Emma wondered at the wisdom of dragging a wet tree into her apartment, but Killian didn’t seem at all concerned as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, humming “Oh, Christmas Tree.” When she hesitantly voiced her concern, he just smiled at her.

“I covered it with a tarp, so it won’t be too wet,” he assured her, “and we’ll let it dry before we decorate it.”

His festive mood finally had her relaxing, and she actually found herself tapping out the rhythm on the door handle when he switched to humming “Winter Wonderland.” He parked in front of her building, and Emma realized there was no way she wasn’t getting soaked now. He couldn’t get the tree out of her trunk and up to her apartment by himself. Just as she suspected, by the time they had the thing leaning against the door of her second-floor apartment, her wet clothes clung to her skin and her shoes left puddles in their wake. But somehow, Killian was still smiling.

“Where’s that tree stand I got you?” he asked, shaking the rain out of his hair.

“I set it up right in front of the window like you said, with an old sheet under it.”

Killian rubbed at his jaw as he righted the tree. Then he started to shake it, sending drops of water flying all over the place.

“Ugh!” Emma protested, lifting her hands in front of her face to block the onslaught. “I think we should let it dry out here before we take it inside.”

“We can’t do that, we have to get it in the stand and water it right away, or it will dry out. They drink gallons of water when you first get them home.”

“What are you, a Christmas tree expert?” Emma laughed.

“Well, Liam got me a few trees when I was a teenager,” Killian said as tilted the top of the tree Emma’s way. She grasped the slender half as he hoisted the trunk. “And then there’s Google.”

They both grunted as they maneuvered the thing through Emma’s door. She wanted to ask if he’d had a tree since Liam passed, but she didn’t have the heart to dampen his mood. Besides, she’d been to his place the last couple of Christmases and knew full well he had no tree. She wondered if this little outing was as much for him as it was for her. After all, Christmas traditions just weren’t the same when you were alone.

They tilted the tree so they could set the bottom of the trunk into the red metal stand. Killian’s smile – the one that had scarcely wavered all day – faded somewhat as he shoved the tree downward. His brow furrowed.

“What the -” he muttered. “You got a good hold on it?”

Emma tightened her grip and nodded, her frigid fingers getting poked by the tree’s needles. Killian let go of his end and got down on his hands and knees. All Emma could see was his ass sticking out from underneath the bottom branches. He swore under his breath as he struggled with something; the sound of clanging metal accompanying his curses. Yet all Emma could do was grin as she admired her current view of Killian in his tight jeans. Now that’s a gift any woman would like to see underneath her tree.

“It won’t go in.”

“Excuse me?” Emma startled, blushing furiously as Killian’s head popped back out from under the tree. His hair was disheveled, and his cheeks and elf shaped ears were bright red. Even though he was staring at the tree, and not her, she suddenly felt she had been caught at something.

“It’s too wide for the stupid stand,” Killian muttered gesturing at the tree.

“Oh,” Emma breathed out in relief.

Killian grabbed at a fistful of hair. “Surely we can fix this.” He stood up and eyed the tree critically. “Keep hold of it, Swan, I'll be right back.”

He dashed out of the apartment, and Emma stood there, feeling foolish as she continued to grip the tree. Her wet jeans were driving her mad, and the branches of the tree were poking their way up the sleeve of her parka. She adjusted her grip and groaned when she felt sticky sap coating her palms. What in the world was taking Killian so long?

Emma’s eyes widened when he returned with a huge pair of pruning shears. He squatted down by the tree again, and damn it, Emma couldn’t help where her eyes kept going. Something about the way his wet shirt was plastered to his skin, the way his slightly damp hair was curling at his nape, made her suddenly aware of how well built her best friend was. She really needed to get out of this wet parka because she was suddenly really hot.

“There’s a branch sticking out of the very bottom of the trunk, and I think if I trim it off, it’ll fit in the stand just fine.”

Emma tore her eyes away from his rear end to actually look where he was pointing. “Um, are you sure you want to do that?”

But he was already cutting at the base of the branch with the shears, and as it fell away . . . there went half the tree.

“Shit,” Killian grumbled, running his hand through his hair in frustration again. He really needed to quit doing that. It was making Emma’s fingers twitch.

“Hey,” she told him, “it’s no big deal. We’ll just put that side against the window. No one will be able to tell from the street.”

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he told her, frowning for the first time that day, “I ruined your tree.”

She shook her head. “No, you didn’t. Now can we get this thing in the stand already? I’ve got sap running down my arm.”

That got a chuckle out of him, and he bent down again to tighten the screws in the stand. Once it was steady, they both backed up to examine it.

“Is it just me,” Killian asked, “or is it . . .”

“Leaning? Um, yeah.” Emma finally shed her parka, then stretched her arms. She grasped the tree again while Killian loosened the screws. Then he backed up to assess things.

“A little to the left . . . “ he instructed as Emma adjusted the tree, “a little to the right . . . There! Perfect! Don’t move!”

He dove back under the tree and tightened everything, then he and Emma stood back to admire their work. She smiled, and Killian put his arm around her. Maybe she was beginning to see the appeal of -

Then the tree seemed to lean to one side in slow motion before crashing to the floor.

“Shit,” Killian swore again.

“At least we didn’t water it yet.”

*****************************************************

Killian’s swearing had taken on epic, sailor-like proportions. They finally realized, after many balancing attempts, that they had chosen a tree with a crooked trunk. No matter what they did, the damn thing ending up sideways on the floor. Now Killian had retrieved a tackle box from his truck and was wrapping the thing in fishing wire. He ran the line to the lock mechanism on her window, and now her tree was basically tied to her window so it wouldn’t fall down.

Emma looked at what they had spent the last half hour doing: there were tree branches and pine needles all over the floor, the tree still dripped rainwater from its branches, the back half of it was completely missing, and Killian’s tools and tackle were scattered over Emma’s kitchen table. Killian himself was shaking the tree to ensure that it was held securely by the fishing wire, and he was even more wet than he had been when they’d gotten home from his multiple trips back to his truck. Suddenly, the whole thing struck Emma, and she burst out laughing. At first, Killian seemed startled, and slightly indignant, but then a slightly sheepish grin overtook his face right before laughter spilled out of him as well. He shrugged his shoulders as he stepped away from the hopeless tree.

“Well, I promised you a real tree. I never said anything about quality.”

Emma’s laughter faded as another emotion overtook her. She looked him up and down as he stood there scrutinizing the tree, his arms crossed. Then he lifted one hand to rub at his jaw, his thumb brushing his lower lip. Emma swallowed as realization crashed over her.

“I love you,” she blurted out.

He turned to her tenderly. “Aye. I love you too, Emma.”

She shook her head in frustration, the look in his eyes clearly telling her he misunderstood. “No. I mean, yes, I love you. But I also love you.”

She puffed out a breath, irritated at her lack of eloquence, and a strand of hair fell across her eyes. Killian stepped forward, reached out, and tucked the strand behind her ear.

“What was that, Swan?”

He had a slight smirk on his face that made Emma want to smack him and take it back, but then she saw the slight widening of his eyes and the way they darted across her face. Insecurity. That was the emotion in his gaze.

She managed a tiny smile. “I just realized as I was standing here . . . all of this, how you’ve gone to all this trouble to give me a Christmas memory I’ve never had before, it’s just . . . “ She bit her lip and crossed her arms, then nervously uncrossed them again. Damn it, why wouldn’t her words make sense? “You’ve always been such a great friend to me, but somewhere, somehow . . . I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His eyes sparkled then as a wide grin filled his entire face. He surged forward, claiming her lips, his hands cupping her face. She melted into it as his thumbs caressed tiny circles on her cheeks. They both changed the angle to deepen the kiss, their lips parting for one another. One of his hands slipped from her cheek to her hair while the other one grasped her waist and yanked her close. Emma moaned as she slipped her arms around his neck. He pulled back, breathless, and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I have been in love with you for so long, Emma, it’s been sheer torture.”

“Then why didn’t you -” he cut her words off with another kiss, and every thought fled her brain. Not that she needed an answer. Prickly Emma Swan with her impenetrable walls? Of course he hadn’t thought he could tell her how he felt.

Their kisses were more frantic now, hungry and full of want. But everywhere Emma’s hands drifted was wet and cold. She pulled back and smiled when Killian chased her lips.

“I’m still wet,” she explained, and an involuntary shiver punctuated her point.

“And cold,” he added with a frown.

He rubbed her arms up and down, the warmth from his palms sending tingles down her spine that had little to do with his body temperature. When he let her go to start gathering up blankets that were tossed about her living room, a shudder of loss went through her. When he bent to light the fireplace, she pouted.

“I uh, guess I’ll go change,” she told him, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“Don’t you dare.” The deep timbre of his voice made her stop in her tracks. When she pivoted back to face him, the smile he was giving her was filled with lustful promise. He quirked a brow as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I plan on warming you up thoroughly, trust me, love.”

She swallowed hard, but forced her voice to sound light and airy when she answered him. “Well you better hurry it up before I get hypothermia.”

He chuckled and quickly got the fire going. Then he stood and laid Emma’s fluffiest blanket out on the floor in front of the hearth, the one with the thick, plush lining. Then he grabbed an oversized quilt and walked – no sauntered, he was sauntering – towards her. He tossed the quilt down on the couch next to her, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he drew her close, kissing her passionately, sending heat skittering across her skin. He loosened his hold on her, yet didn’t break the kiss as he undid the buttons on her flannel shirt. Then he pushed the damp garment from her shoulders, sending it falling to the floor with a plop. It felt wonderful to no longer have the wet fabric clinging to her, but goosebumps rose up on her now bare skin. Killian, his lips still fused to hers, attempted to chase them away as he ran his hands down her arms and up her back. He quickly unclasped her bra, and removed it as well. His hand came around and cupped her breast, his thumb caressing her nipple. Emma moaned, her head tilting back as Killian finally pulled away from her lips. He trailed kisses along her neck, her collarbone, then lower as he sank to his knees. Emma whimpered, however, when he didn’t linger on her breasts, and he chuckled.

“Don’t tease me,” she admonished as she yanked on his hair.

He smirked up at her. “I make no promises.” Then he winked as he unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. As wet as they were, she had to shimmy to help him slide them off. He grasped her hips and kissed her navel, then took the waistband of her panties in his teeth and slid them off too.

He wasn’t through teasing her, however. As soon as she was completely naked, he rose and grabbed the quilt. He wrapped it around her and brushed her lips with a chaste kiss.

“Better?”

Emma debated just dropping the quilt from her shoulders, but she was too curious about what else he had planned. His teasing was driving her insane, but it was also a huge turn on. Still, she couldn’t help kissing him roughly, dragging his lower lip between her teeth.

“A little,” she finally answered, “but is that the best you can do?”

She yelped when he suddenly scooped her up in his arms and then deposited her gently on the blanket in front of the fire. “Patience, love. I’ve waited too long for this to rush it.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and it wasn’t from the fire. She tilted her head up at him. “Can I make one request?”

“Anything.”

“I think you’re overdressed.”

He clearly understood her meaning as a smile lit up his face and he quickly began undoing his own buttons. Emma couldn’t help licking her lips as she watched his shirt fall away, that chest hair that always teased at the top of his shirts on full display. Then he peeled his own tight jeans off, then his boxer briefs, and his arousal for her was on clear display. Her heart beat faster in her chest at the sheer masculinity displayed before her. God, he was a beautiful man! How had she kept him so firmly in the friend zone all these years?

She said nothing, merely opened the large quilt for him to come and join her. They lay down before the fire, wrapped up together in the warmth. As he caressed her and kissed her deeply, Emma had never felt so content and full of want at the same time.

***********************************************************

Emma blinked her eyes open, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fireplace. Killian’s arms were still wrapped around her. She glanced up to find that he had fallen asleep, too. She took the moment to run her hand along his arm, feeling the strong muscle beneath her palm, then to drag her fingers gently through his chest hair. They were both still naked, but they hadn’t yet made love. They had pleasured one another in other ways – Killian hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to take his time – and then in the drowsiness and warmth had drifted off. Emma rolled over to prop herself up on Killian’s chest.

“Babe,” she whispered, tracing his jaw gently with her fingertips. His eyes blinked open and he smiled drowsily at her. “We fell asleep.”

“Aye,” was all he said. Then he tilted his head up to look at her wonky tree. “I suppose it’s dry by now,”

Emma scratched lazily at his chest hair, giving him a coy grin. She shifted higher, the feel of her bare breasts against his chest hair sending a buzz right down to her core. She thought to say something flirtatious, but when her eyes met his, she couldn’t string words together. So instead she kissed him. Lazily at first, and then with aggression. She could feel his body responding beneath her. His hands drifted down her back, then grasped her hips. Words failed him, too. He rolled her over, and that conveyed everything.

**********************************************

An hour later, they lay sated and content on their backs amongst the piles of blanket, looking up into the boughs of the Christmas tree. Killian’s fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder. Emma breathed in deeply, a gesture of contentment, and the smell of pine filled her senses.

“You know,” she said softly, “you were right. A live Christmas tree is really beautiful.”

Emma enjoyed the feel of his responding chuckle against her cheek. “We haven’t even put the lights on it yet.”

She rolled over to cup his cheek, her thumb tracing the scar beneath his right eye. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow night, and we’ll decorate it then?”

He smiled as he threaded his fingers through her hair. “Alright, love, I’ll be here tomorrow night.” Then he pulled her down for a kiss that curled her toes.

Killian came the next night to help her decorate the tree. Even with the back half missing, the crooked trunk, and the fishing wire hooking it to the window, it was beautiful once it was lit up and covered in tinsel and baubles. When the lights were all out except for the Christmas lights, Emma loved to admire it from the sofa across the room, her feet tucked under her and a mug of cocoa in her hands. But her favorite view of the tree was from underneath, with piles of blankets, and all wrapped up in Killian’s arms.

#csss2k18 #cssecretsanta2k18 #cs ff #friends to lovers #killiancygnus

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pikapeppa · 6 years

Note

40: "Come here. I'll teach you." for the FenHawke prompt please? :D

omg I LOVE YOUR FENHAWKE ART. I feel like I’ve been contacted by a celebrity. Needless to say I filled your prompt immediately for @dadrunkwriting! I hope you enjoy this silly fluff! :3

For everyone who hasn’t seen: @rhythm-diary does the most beautiful Fenris/femHawke art, please check it out here!

Read this drabble on AO3.

****************

With a whisper of metal and a satisfying thunk, Fenris’s knife sank into the Archon’s face.

Fenris stared at the damaged painting with malicious satisfaction. If only this hideous portrait were an actual Tevinter magister. Though if it were, he’d probably get more satisfaction from using his sword than this puny knife…

He lifted another throwing knife from the set. With a deft overhand throw, the blade sank into the centre of the oil painting.

At that moment, Hawke wandered in, her hands in her pockets and a smile on her face. “Ooh, a new hobby. Cleaving your foes into a bloody pulp isn’t enough for you anymore?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Mastery of a new weapon is always a boon,” he said. He threw another knife, pleased when it sank into the center of the vile portrait’s nose.

Hawke plopped herself down on the floor, immediately pulling off her boots as she was wont to do. “I didn’t know you knew how to throw knives,” she said.

“Isabela taught me,” Fenris replied. “I have done my best to practice when I have the time.” He whipped another blade at the painting, and it slammed directly into the Archon’s right eye.

“Ah, Isabela. Of course,” Hawke said. She leaned back on her palms and stretched her legs out in front of her. “I can’t decide who that must have been more enjoyable for. Did she stand behind you while teaching you?” She adopted a droll imitation of Isabela’s sultry voice. “‘Here, Fenris, let me put my arms around you and show you how to make a man bleed…’” She sighed happily. “Two beautiful people learning a beautiful lesson together. Varric should write a book about it.”

Her jests would have seemed genuine to anyone else, but Fenris knew of Hawke’s strange little insecurity when it came to her own best friend. She might have been drunk when she’d revealed her envy of Isabela and Fenris’s flirting years ago, but Fenris had never forgotten it.

He shot her a chiding little smirk. “Hawke, how is that you are jealous of Isabela? You’re the one who used to sleep with her.”

“Why else do you think I’m jealous?” Hawke retorted. “I know firsthand what Bels is capable of. She does this thing with her tongue, like this rolling thing, and it’s just…” She trailed off, her smirk wry and expectant, and Fenris folded his arms.

“Yes?” he drawled. “Please, continue. You’ve got my attention.” He was only half-joking. His lewd and mindless cock was stirring with interest - not at the thought of Hawke and Isabela together, which is what she likely expected, but rather at the fond fantasy of his own tongue rolling against certain sensitive parts of Hawke’s lithe body…

She grinned slowly at him. “I bet I do,” she purred. “But I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You just were,” he said flatly.

She dissolved into laughter. “Okay, fine, I do, but only because Isabela did first! But I’m not saying any more. I don’t want to give you any more ideas about Kirkwall’s sexiest pirate. I just barely caught your eye, I’m not about to cut myself off at the knees.”

She tossed him a rueful smile as she pushed herself to her bare feet, then strolled over to the painting. Fenris frowned at her in confusion as she began pulling the plethora of blades from the canvas. Just barely…? Why would she think his interest was so hard-won? Or so fickle, for that matter?

She turned away from the damaged painting with the throwing knives in her hands, and Fenris accepted them with a silent nod of thanks. Hawke sat on the floor again with her legs stretched out. “Well? Impress me,” she purred.

“I’m not here to put on a show for you,” he grumbled.

“Fenris, everything you do is like putting on a show for me,” she retorted. “You walking… You picking up a bottle… You swinging your sword into someone’s face… oof, someone get me a glass of cold water.” She fanned herself playfully, then winked at him.

He shook his head despairingly, but a traitorous little smirk pulled at his lips. “You are an idiot,” he informed her.

“Only for you, Fenris. Only for you,” she said, just as she always did, and her reliable response made his smile stretch wider.

He threw a few blades at the painting, and Hawke hummed to herself as she watched him, her toes bobbing in time to whatever song was stuck in her head. Then Fenris picked up another blade, but instead of throwing it, he ran his thumb idly across its narrow handle and eyed her speculatively.

She stopped humming as she met his gaze. “What is it?”

He studied her for a moment more, then waved his hand for her to approach. “Come here. I’ll teach you.”

Her eyes widened, and a huge smile bloomed across her face. “Really?” She scrambled to her feet.

“Yes,” he said. “You should learn another method of attack. Blades are more reliable than your blasted lightning and firebolts. You mages never seem to anticipate physical attacks.”

Hawke frowned and opened her mouth to retort. Fenris waited, the back of his neck already prickling in anticipation of an argument, but she hesitated.

Finally she shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. I mean, I’m great at lightning bolts,” she winked at him again and he pursed his lips with displeasure, “but as a famously broody handsome elf once said, ‘mastery of a new weapon is always a boon.’”

She deepened her voice in a mocking impression of him, and he smirked at the terrible imitation. She might be teasing him, but she’d clearly heard what he’d said. “I will take that as a ‘yes’?” he said.

She nodded happily. “Yes. Teach me something new. I’m ready.”

He handed her a blade, then demonstrated with the knife in his own hand. “There are many ways to throw. I will show you one that’s quite powerful with little effort on your part.” He placed the base of the knife against the meat of his thumb and positioned his index finger along the narrow edge. “You will throw it from the side with a flick of this finger, like this.” He launched the knife at the painting, and it sunk into place with a solid thud.

“Oh, so it’s like skipping stones!” Hawke said.

Fenris frowned. “What?”

“You know, skipping stones on a pond like you do when you’re a kid. Didn’t you…?” She trailed off, her face falling slightly as she realized what she’d said.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a tiny voice.

He shook his head in a silent dismissal, then took a step back and gestured at the painting. “Go on. Try your hand.”

She settled herself into a ready stance, then threw the blade.

It spun through the air - a sure sign she’d done it wrong - then bounced harmlessly off of the canvas.

Fenris shrugged. “Try again.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Hmm, I like it when you’re bossy. Any chance of that ice water anytime soon?”

He sighed tiredly. “Hawke…”

She laughed and turned back to face the painting, and Fenris thoughtfully watched her dismal attempts. As often as he argued with Hawke, one of the things he most appreciated about her was that she always heard him. She’d debate with him and she’d make her jokes, and they’d disagree most of the time, but at least he knew she was listening. As fond as Fenris was of Isabela, she always turned tail and ran at the first sign of a controversy. He might never get angry at the buxom pirate, but he’d also never really had a meaningful conversation with her.

Hawke kept on trying with the knives, her technique growing more erratic until she finally stopped and leaned her head back with an exasperated groan. “Fenris…”

He came out of his reverie and held out his hand. “Here.”

She tried to hand him the knife, but he shook his head. “No. Give me your hand.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, and Fenris supposed he couldn’t blame her. He almost never initiated physical contact, after all.

She tentatively placed her hand in his, and Fenris carefully stepped closer until he was standing behind her. Gingerly he placed his unoccupied left hand on her hip and adjusted her posture, then molded his right palm around the back of her knuckles to adjust her grip. “From the side, like this,” he told her quietly. “Keep your hip rotated. It will help your balance.”

She was silent as he adjusted her body. When he had her positioned correctly, he paused, then realized that he was holding his breath.

Hawke’s knuckles were warm against his bare fingers. The slender curve of her hip fit perfectly into his palm. Her back brushed against his chest from their proximity, and there was a jittery little kick beneath his ribs, thrumming hotly through his chest and down into his belly.

Hawke argued with him and teased him constantly. She wielded magic instead of metal weapons, and her knife technique was truly abysmal. And she was the most appealing woman he’d ever known.

On impulse, Fenris leaned closer to her. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” he murmured in her ear.

He heard the hitch in her breath as she inhaled, and he watched with a swelling of fondness as her cheeks grew pink. “Shut up, you flatterer,” she muttered.

Fenris smiled. Then slowly - and quite reluctantly - he stepped away from her. “Try again now.”

She did, and the blade bounced harmlessly off the painting, but Fenris wasn’t bothered. He sat in her former spot on the floor as she practiced, her face growing more serious and focused with every failed throw.

A considerable time later, the point of a knife sank into the painting, and she whooped and punched her fist in the air. “Finally!” she exclaimed. “Fuck’s sake, I was starting to think I’d be here all night.” She hurried over to his side and grabbed her boots.

Fenris sat up from his lounging position as she dragged the boots onto her feet. “Are you leaving?” he asked. He was frankly surprised; it was unlike her to leave his house so quickly.

“Yes, I was supposed to meet Sebastian at the Chantry over an hour ago,” she said, then burst out laughing. “He’s going to murder me. And then he’ll probably wail and gnash his teeth and beg my bleeding body for forgiveness. You know how he is.”

Fenris smirked. She was such a mess. “If you don’t show up tomorrow morning, then I’ll know what happened,” he said.

She swept her hair back from her face and grinned at him. “Exactly. Just make sure I’m buried on Sundermount Peak, all right? I’ve always wanted to be resurrected as a cursed wraith. Merrill can bring me flowers and offerings.”

Fenris rolled his eyes in disgust, and Hawke laughed merrily. She pinched his chin, then ran for the door. “Bye!” she shouted.

“Shut the door behind you,” he yelled, and he smirked as the door closed with a hearty slam.

Fenris slowly pushed himself to his feet, then resumed his practice with the knives. As he hit the canvas with blade after perfectly-cast blade, he couldn’t help but think of Hawke’s determined face as she tried to do the same.

Completely abysmal, he thought. She really was bad at this.

Maybe she’d be interested in another lesson sometime soon.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/f!hawke #pikapeppa writes #artist love!!

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theimmersivist · 6 years

Photo

EYE SPY WITH MY MAGNUS EYE =========================== The roiling storm at the center of the vortex roared with the deafening rumble of a score of dragons all belching their draconic Thu'um to reality-rending effect. Lightning and sparks arced and crackled from floor to ceiling, and the great Eye throbbed in the center of the atrium as the haughty and devious Altmer mage greedily siphoned secret and long-lost energies from within its core.

"You've come for me, have you?" he laughed wickedly. Akhara stopped mid-sprint as soon as her eyes fell upon Tolfdir who was pinned, in mid-air, against one of the stone pillars, held there at Ancano's destructive magickal whim. "You think I don't know what you're up to? You think I can't destroy you?" His golden eyes flickered and a strange shadow passed across his face, an umbra within the orc could just barely make out a twisted visage, something far more evil than a simple power-thirsting elf. Something dead. Or worse.

The Orsimer warchief approached cautiously, jade scimitar drawn in her main hand, a ward already shimmering and primed in her off-hand. There were about twenty or so feet between them now. A lot could transpire in twenty feet, particularly if it meant a powerful sorcerer and a dragonborn warlord clashed in the center of one of the most magickally volatile locations in Skyrim. Ancano tossed his head, his long, silvery bangs leaving his face. "The power to unmake the world at my fingertips, and you think YOU can do anything about it?"

"Spells h-have no effect!" cried Tolfdir, distracting the orc for a moment.

The Altmer threw back his head and laughed maniacally as more electricity and blue-purple light danced from the floating orb through the air and into his silken-gloved hands. "Of course they have no effect!" the mage roared disdainfully. "I am beyond your pathetic attempts at magic! You cannot touch me!"

Just then, Ugor and Ogol ran up behind. Ugor's jaw dropped and she shook her head in disbelief as she stared at the incredible visual before her as it unfolded. Ogol was more stout and headstrong in his approach, as he charged Ancano head on, only to be blown back several feet when his enormous, twin-bladed axe exploded against an invisible ward that shimmered around the sorcerer. Tolfdir's eyes went to Ugor and the Staff of Magnus she had been carrying on Akhara's behalf. His eyes widened in disbelief.

"Th...the Staff! Use it on the Eye!"

Akhara Shug immediately sprang into action, and Ugor didn't need to wait for a command. She tossed the staff through the air, and Akhara caught it nimbly with her spell hand, aimed it directly at the giant hovering sphere of ancient doom, and channeled her energy, spirit, and will through it, producing a much-larger-than-expected burst of brilliant green energy that leapt directly from the head of the staff and arced directly into the center of the Eye like an ancient, complex, Dwemer key fitting perfectly into the singular lock it was designed for.

For a moment, all of the sound in the chamber withered. Breath died in the lungs of all present. The only sound anyone could hear was the deafening pulsing of blood through eardrums. And then, as swiftly as the sound had dissipated, there was a great, ravaging surge which resulted in the immediate shattering of every single pane of glass in every window in the auditorium. Every single candle in the room blazed fiercely with blue instead of golden flame. The Eye howled and moaned, the ancient glyphs and sigils emblazed into its surface glowing ominously as metal began to bend, warp, distort and shift. Ebony metallic pane slid across pane and like a puzzle being disassembled in reverse order, the relic began to open from the outside in. This resulted in the chain of magicka connecting Ancano to the eye to sputter and wan in intensity. The Altmer's jaw tightened, his brows cross, and he shrieked vexatiously at the orc opposite him. "Enough! Still you persist?! Very well! Come then! See what I can do now!"

The Orsimer hurled the Staff back toward Ugor before pivoting and launching herself furiously toward the Altmer. Her steadfast ward absorbed the two fireballs the mage managed to hurl at her before it shattered, but by then the two were in melee range of each other. Akhara delivered what would certainly have been a death blow in normal combat, but her blade collided with Aetherius given form, a sorcerous, shimmering sword of spectral blue flame the Altmer had conjured without so much as uttering an arcane whisper. He smirked wryly, then released his concentration on Tolfdir causing the old man to crumple to the floor as he used his free hand to whip sparks, stone debris, ruined texts, and various fractured metalwork from the atrium into a sizeable storm elemental several feet behind him. Above, black-green stormclouds began to whirl around the ceiling, the glow of lightning shimmered, and it began to rain and sleet at once inside the room.

Akhara engaged Ancano in melee, but for a wizard, the tall, slender Altmer wizard proved quite a match with a spellbound sword. He seemed to parry and deflect most of the warchief's attacks with relative ease, and despite her superior musculature and strength, he didn't seem to tire. Instead, her desperate surges and bloodcurdling battle cries only seemed to bolster his confidence and resolve.

"Aaaaaahahahaha!" the Thalmor mage cackled. "Pathetic! Do you see how strong I have become?! Even the Dragonborn can't stop me! I am a match for her both in spells and arms!"

In that moment, Akhara Shug remembered at the very core of her being, what it meant to be Dragonborn. What made her different from virtually everyone else in Skyrim, and possibly Tamriel. She wasn't JUST a swordswoman. She wasn't JUST a spellchucker. She literally shared the blood of ancient, aedric demigods, titans of the Old World, the Children of Akatosh. Dragons. And beyond simply blood, both dragon and Dragonborn shared a tongue as well. A tongue that could either make or unmake the world, a choice that was as intrinsically necessary to her soul as breathing was to her lungs. With great power came great responsibility, and as Tamrielic history—particularly recent history—had shown, power corrupts, and absolutely power always corrupted the hearts of mer and men absolutely. But Akhara Shug was neither mer nor man. As half-Altmer, half-Orsimer, she was both. But as one of the Dov, she was neither. Perhaps her use and channeling of power would not lead her toward the same end as those who came before her. Was the choice even truly hers to make?

Ancano's storm elemental blasted Ogol backward through one of the shattered windows, and to all in the Hall of Elements, it looked as though he'd been blown to his death far below along the shores of the Sea of Ghosts. Akhara's eyes bulged, and she shouted over the cacophony to Ugor to see to their comrade. Furious, she turned her focus back to the Thalmor, and her irises began to glow the same brilliant blue-green that the Staff of Magnus itself had emitted.

"You don't know anything about power," the orc began to chuckle, projecting a ward that would not shattered despite Ancano pressing his beam of sparks with all his might. "You're like a child, fumbling around in the dark! What, because you think you had a little chat with the Augur of Dunlain that you're even remotely ready to wield power?! Power is a curse, Ancano, not a gift. And it is a curse that will be your undoing!"

The Aldmeri looked nervous, but unconvinced. He shouted several arcane litanies up into the stormy rafters, and six more bound swords appeared in a semi-circle behind him, and all six surged forward toward the warchief. Akhara deflected two of them with her glass blade, dodged a third, but was lacerated along her upper right thigh, ribcage, and left shoulder by the remaining three blades. This broke her concentration, and her ward shattered, allowing Ancano's spark beam to breach her defenses and explode in a loud crackle of energy, ragdolling the Orsimer spellsword across the floor, slamming her hard into one of the stone pillars.

"You see!" the Altmer roared again with renewed confidence. "There is nothing you can do to stop me! You are the child fumbling around in the darkness, Dragonborn, and I... I AM THAT DARKNESS in which you are enveloped."

Akhara wiped the blood from her lips and tusks and smirked. "You might be right," she breathed heavily as Ancano haughtily strode over to where she lay, confidently preparing to torture her with more magicka before electing to finally finish her off and turn his own name into a legend befitting of his newly acquired power. "You might be better than me at magick and swordplay... I mean... to be fair, you've been alive a few centuries longer than I have." At that Ancano frowned and shrugged, offering a little nod that seemed to imply 'Well, you have a point.' The orc continued, "But there's one thing I can still do better than you..."

The Altmer arched an eyebrow as a ball of flame began to charge between both his hands. "Oh? And that is, Dragonborn?"

Akhara's mouth curved into a devious sneer, and suddenly, she grabbed the Thalmor by the robes and pulled his head down to her level. "I can SHOUT," she whispered into his ear.

The very next words Ancano heard would not be a whisper, but they would be the last three words he'd ever hear.

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tumbleintonothing · 6 years

Photo

If you were at the fight- You are 100% ok welcome to say you saw Mae there and if this gives you the chance to message me for rp, I welcome it. Some NSFW some spoilers. )

Music- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fngvQS_PmQ

It felt cold. Not like ice or snow cold, but as if the warmth from leather clad fingers was fading, my bow having fallen quite a while ago it seemed, my toxic hues drifting in slow motion around me, watching friend and foe alike fight. Cas was there, so was Sil, for… Some strange reason. Had they been the reason I was fighting a war I never asked to fight. Were they the reason I felt that arrow in my chest sink deeper, feel the liquid pool around the other two in my back.

As if it were not of his control, he’d feel a deep thud resound along the ground, the weight of his knees digging to earth. Eyes flickered upwards once more, around- A troll’s arm flying off to his right, forsaken spewing plague to his left- The young king and Jaina in the far off distance, a cry of war and hoard, seeing Sylvanas’s arrows fly true above head, even hearing her cry in her namesake. The world grew a bit more fuzzy- And if this were a movie you’d probably hear the narrator say something along the lines of ‘ You’re probably wondering how he got into this mess in the first place’, which, at this point he was wondering the same himself. Gravity took control of his form, and he’d hear the snap of arrows as he brushed across a wall to fall backwards, slumped there, feeling his body grow stiff. He’d lost track of Tao, and he only hoped the massive tiger that was his animal companion got out alive, away from the blight.

As he slumped there, his thoughts slowly turned about, recollecting the moments that led up to this particular point in time…

………………………………………………

“This is fucking suicide. You realize this. “ Mae’Thyn shook his head, watching his shorter, sharp tongued older brother a moment, arms now moved to cross over his chest, that cascade of ruddy tresses falling over his shoulders and back. He hadn’t expected -this- particular company to find him at the inn room he had taken home to that night in the city, but here he was, Castinus Shadowsong.

“ Brother. Every fight can be our last. Are you not hearing me? This isn’t a fight you can just turn your back on and expect it not to affect you, not to affect this world. We have to heed its call- Did you not even hear yourself a moment ago? She burned the -tree- down. -Their- tree.” Cas watched his brother with that mirrored green eyesight, his smooth leathers a vast contrast to the heavy mail that the hunter wore.

Mae’Thyn paced now, one hand moving to thread fingers through thick red tresses, boots making soft thuds against wooden floor. “ I know Cas. I know. I heard the rumors. I came here to try and find work- Find somewhere to back me before this shitstorm got worse… But I guess I don’t get that luxury do I? Why is it always go with this fucking war…” He’d let out the deepest of sighs now, turning back to face his brother once more. Unlike Cas, Mae’Thyn had taken off most his armor, bare chested with his leggings and boots still on when he got the knock on the door, so the vast amount of tattoos and scars that littered his form were bare to the candle light, jagged things weaving a horrendous and colored past.

Cas couldn’t help but chuckle then, giving Mae’Thyn a sideways glance, before his own right hand lifted to tap his cheek thoughtfully. “ I wish I had the answer to you for that one dear brother, but as it stands I hardly understand our father, let alone much of anything else. Truth of it I tried to stay as far from the fight that transpired when the demons attacked us, but even that found this city…” He’d shrug, and hand dropped away.

As the speak of the Legion, Mae’Thyn felt his features turn darker, his lips pulled into a thin line. Left hand had lifted then to touch the necklace he wore, bearing two slender wedding bands- Both having the nature to be feminine. A moment, the barest of touches before he’d release them and look back to his brother, that same hand now moving to rest at his hip. “ War always calls for a price brother. It will never stop calling for one. That is the nature of it all, hm?” This last retort was left with a very bitter taste into the mans mouth, his usually smooth baritone voice riddled with jagged edges. Cas could only shrug then, before tossing a missive towards Mae, with he caught with deft ease.

“This is the call that Saurfang gave to the whole of the Horde. You should look it over- There is a bit of gold in it if you join to save Lordaeron as well… Though I’m more or less going in the hopes I can get some action going, possibly ass afterwards.. Who knows.” Once more that dry tone that Cas offered had Mae lift his brow, looking the envelope over, before attention was once more pulled to his brothers features. “ Well… I guess we go tomorrow. Save the world?” Cas would only chuckle then, before shifting to the door to pull it open.

As he started to walk through he’d pause, and let eyes drift back over his shoulder to Mae. “ Oh. Sil will be there, too. Family reunion, yay.”

…………………………………………………………

Mae’Thyn always hated teleportation, felt it was far to tricky and always left his stomach queasy when he’d feel land underfoot once more - However this had been the way they had been told to take to get to Lordaeron, or more aptly known the Undercity. Once there he’d hear the call of the Queen, of Saurfang to collect yourselves and be aware of your surroundings, that the siege had already started. As always Mae’Thyn had called to the aid of his trusted companion Tao, a massive black tiger with eyes of jade to be the eyes in his back.

He never liked the Undercity. TO dusky, to moldy- The stench of decay and the ugly fel rot that bubbled around the city proper always something that set the hunter at unease with. The questionable motives that often were handled deep in the bowls of this place of death. As he’d shift a bit he’d take a careful look around, duly noting others that looked upon him as well.

For elves, particularly blood elves he was tall, much taller than his kin race, a sort of bastardized fact he often used to intimidate people simply to keep them from bothering him. As always he’d be wrapped in deep greens and golds with leather that accented in tans and deep rich browns, the leather itself soft and worn from years of rigors use, this evening his fingers wrapped in leather as well. Atop his head would sit that hood, its mail chinks softly chiming as head drifted to one side, then the other.

As others of the Horde gathered together, he could hear the whispers of some of the combat-ions. Some of them scolded the actions that Sylvanas had done, that they sided with the idea that there had been no honor in the actions, while others had gleefully been chomping at the bit to spill alliance blood, that the war between the demons and Azeroth wasn’t nearly enough for there taste. Either way, the hunter had no enjoyment on his face this day, rather stoic and stiff, he hadn’t really slept much the night before.

After his brother had left him, he had written a letter to the headmaster at his children's boarding school, informing him that if something were to happen to himself, that all of his estate and what he had stored away as a ‘rainy day fund’ would be used to keep the kiddos at the school until they themselves could choose their path in life. And as thoughts drifted to this moment, he’d let his mind's eye fall to the pair. Jae'Dren and Vari'Delsa. Jae was starting to form out a bit more, having his mother's snow white hair, but that strange mixture of one blue eye and one green. His sister had taken the red hair of Mae’Thyn, and aptly named after his wife Vari it suited her, she too taking the strange two toned gaze. Both had fair skin, and both were so intuitive now.

Mae’Thyn felt something inside his chest tighten, and he’d shake the thoughts out from his head, hearing as Sylvanas and all the commanders now started to rally the troops, call people to arms and draw them to the fight ahead. As he’s ready his bow he’d feel one hand touch his arm, another give him a punch at his shoulder. Head turned left, then right, the smirking face of his younger brother Siliron and his passive older brothers face Castinus greeting him.

“You ready there pretty boy? Ready to face death?” Sil taunted, giving Mae another smirk before his fists glowed a deep blue, and he’d push forward at the call of the army to force itself forward. Cast as always had vanished, his skill set much better seeded in the darkness- And rightly so. A sigh echoed across Mae’s lips, and he’d pull bow closer, moving on the outskirts of the collective mass, picking targets out with steady fingers, plucking magic enchanted arrows from his quiver and lining up shots as if it were childs play.

The sound of elves and humans like tore through the walls of the decaying city, as the Horde pushed it way through the massive circle, up and across the stone and tattered banners, the forsaken that lived here having already taking up arms to protect their home. As Mae rounded a corner he’d come face to face with three forsaken looming over the corpse of a felled druid in bear form- The three clawing out innards and flesh and chewing like ravenous wild animals. It took all the willpower within his stomach and throat to keep the bile that rose quickly to fall back down, and a snap turn had him face to face with one of their shadow steppers.

A quick arch of bow and the sound of metal on metal had him strike dagger wide, before thick big booted foot pushed forward, squarely kicking the night elf off balance- Bow back in hand before arrow was nocked and let to fly free, striking the elf in the throat. A gurgle of protest was all the elf could give before blood spilled from both wound and throat. He’d turn then, and follow the mass once more through the winding curving city- Till finally they were escorted to the courtyard.

Once here the collective group started to fight, and oh did they fight with a vigor that was almost murderous and insane. Mae himself had taken up a perch on a rock, letting arrows fly wherever he could manage- That was until Slyvanas took it upon herself to let loose the blight- And with only second to spare both hunter and pet had ducked backwards towards the city proper, the massive green goopy air thick and acidic. Mae at this point felt himself fall to the stairs of the city proper, still trying to pick off targets with arrows - That was until he realized that not only had she killed alliance… But Horde as well.

He’d feel his arrow falter, and then bow slowly dipped down, hearing the screams of his comrades as they fell to the blight, realization setting in as hunter let his toxic hues drift backwards to find Sylvanas, the moment she called to her dark magics to raise the very mass of graves she just dug.

W..Why would I fight this war for a leader that gives little care for my well being….

His thoughts would quickly be shattered as the sky parted in a massive wave, clouds being peeled away like wrapping paper, a massive ship soon to spill free from the parted clouds. Mae would watch in both awe and fear as the massive ship turned on the city wall proper, he’d see the chill of ice start to descend across the land, once again only having seconds to duck back behind a wall to keep from tasting its cold bite. At this point the man was severely doubting his need to be in this fight, but with little in the way to stop or leave he was there for good or worse.

War raged, walls were shattered, and once the fight spilled proper into the city, it was almost as if the very thing Sylvanas had been trying to protect and keep safe was simply lost- So it was in that moment that he had let his guard slip, a second was all it took before three arrows found themselves true in his form, and this was where he now settled, resting against a wall, tasting the tangy sweet of copper as it spilled over his lips, a soft cough splattering it. Moments passed, and he’d let eyes slowly drag across the spill of bodies around him, both alliance and horde, see others cry out and fall, a massive tangle of corpses.

A moment more and he’d feel the soft bump of something to his side, Tao having found him, the massive cat now settling against his side. A smile touched faintly at the corners of the hunters lips, and right hand weakly lifted to rest against the top of Tao’s head, before his eyes closed now, and he’d allow himself to sink into the depths of darkness, even as the world around him waged war and scream left restless sounds to fade from ears.

“My wolf…..” Eyes opened then, and he’d find himself standing in a bright white room, his form still wearing the blood splattered war torn armor, a sore sight for the room he was in, a sore thumb really. His eyes drifted slowly around him now, trying to find the source of the voice, a sensation of peace, of warmth overflowing within the confines of his heart.

The moment eyes settled on a bright edge in the room, and as he’d focus the edges shifted free, pulled long and created form, and there stood a beautiful willowy woman with snow white hair and eyes the color of the sky on a clear summer day. Dressed in robes of white that flowed freely around slender form, drifted around her and flowed as if there were a breeze, as if she were in water, however in this room of white there was no source.

Man then took a step forward, then another, before falling to his knees, and for the first time in a long, long time he’d feel tears fall from his eyes, though no sensation of this was felt, even as the liquid dropped to the floor. Woman smiled softly, mischievously in nature before she’d near float to him, each step placed delicately in her path to the hunter. Right hand lifted, and pale glowing fingers touched the man's cheek, brushed softly, near lovingly.

“ My Wolf…. You’re not ready for this time yet.” Hunter closed his eyes then, and head moved forward to rest forehead against her stomach, a sob wrecking his chest as he’d growl deeply. “ My Snowflake. My love. It wasn’t time for you to leave me…. I am… So lost without you.. I don’t know what to do…” He’d lift hands now, and like a drowning man he’d grasp to her slender form, cling to her as if he were a little boy and she were his mother - And in this moment, he might have very well been.

Soft echo of a chuckle found itself in his ears, and he’d feel her lips place a tender kiss to the top of his hooded head. “ Ah Mae’Thyn, you’ve been doing wonderful. I’m so proud of you… So proud of what you have accomplished. Just remember to live every day fully and to keep our children safe.” As he heard the last of her words fade off in his ears, that voice he craved like a drug, the solid form of his dead wife started to fade, his fingers now finding themselves starting to brush and dance with air. “ No… Please… Vexie… Please…. Snowflake… Don’t leave me.”

But his words were left to open air as her voice once more danced against the air, teasing his senses.

“ Wake up…. Hunter…. Wake up…”

Eyes of toxic green opened, and then he’d feel his breath drag hard into his lungs, feeling the touch of gentle fingers against his flesh. “ Ah! Hunter! You’re awake! Good. Just… Just take a moment.. You’re in Orgamar. You’ve been out for a day or so.. “ His half hued eyes shifted slowly to the voice, a gentle warmth around its edges as he’d see a younger elf smile to him, though her skin was a deep hue of purple. For a moment he’d almost jerk backwards from her touch, before growling in deep pain at the fire that tore over his back.

“O..Oh! No sir! Please don’t move. You are lucky to be alive! Someone saw your tiger trying to drag you to safety and picked you both up before the city fell to blight. You are very lucky indeed!” She’d smile then, and it clicked in the hunters head of the city Suramar.. Of a race trapped that is now free. Hunter slowly settled back into the bed as the slender woman now dotted gently over him. “ Speaking of, your tiger has not left your side, not one bit!” Mae would still stay silent, letting eyes shift across and down to the side of his bed, seeing Tao curled there, eyes of jade slipping upwards to greet the hunter.

A small nod was all he could muster, letting eyes slip back to the woman once more as she then stood there, hands folded over lap, smiling at him. “ You should rest ow hunter. The worst is over- For now. You are healing wonderfully. You were very lucky.”

For the first time in this interaction the hunter allowed voice to softly retort, gruff and webbed in fractured pain.

“Yea. Lucky.”

@handofcards as an honorable tag )

#Rp #Its kindah long #BfA #Fight for Undercity #Mae'thyn #Writing

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