Summary: The Dragonborn has a little too much fun enjoying herself with her Guildmates and soon finds herself in the company of not necessarily the safest company.
A/N: This kind of... wrote itself, so I really hope it was at least resembling what you were after, OP~
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The Ragged Flagon was once again filled with the usual rabble of thieves, cracking jokes, boasting, and telling stories which, coming from a group of consummate liars, should never be mistaken for the truth. Ever since Brynjolf's newest recruit had managed to convince herself that a lack of solidarity was the cause of the Guild's misfortunes, the Flagon effectively became their centre for bi-weekly drinking sessions and, much to Mercer's displeasure, more a social club than an organisation. Truly, it couldn't be helped. A set of proficient, sour, and intimidating thieves, versus a tiny, soft-spoken Bosmer, whose only real talent was removing people of their belongings without their knowledge; clearly the only way to endear herself to these people would be over time, and with copious amounts of alcohol. Anrel herself was not much of a drinker, mainly due to her small stature, but fortunately she found that by their fifth, maybe sixth round of drinks, her own single, unfinished tankard of mead went largely unnoticed.
Tonight, however. she found herself breaking said habit, accepting Vex' challenge with enthusiasm she didn't even know she had. It may have had something to do with the Guildmaster, joining them in the Flagon for the first time. Granted, he still looked as disgruntled as ever and remained silent during the bulk of the revelry, but the Dragonborn couldn't help but feel hopeful that the prickly Breton was finally coming around. The man practically radiated presence, and she found her thoughts lingering on him much more often than she would care to admit. Perhaps that, too, was a driving factor for why she proceeded to down consecutive shots of Vekel's strongest spirits, because really, what was the worst that could happen?
Half an hour later, it was as if a switch had clicked into place. The top layer of her Guild leathers lay discarded and forgotten, and everything seemed infinitely more exciting; the world whooshing past every time she turned her head. She was talking; enjoying herself like the rest of them, the usually critical voice in her head silent and forgotten. Sharing tales, sparking raucous laughter, her alcohol-addled self was very much enjoying the change, as was the rest of her roguish company.
Everyone, that is, except for the Guildmaster.
Her eyes would settle on him after every anecdote, every joke, in search of some sign of his favour, only to receive absolutely nothing. It was infuriating, and her normally placid internal monologue grew obnoxious and insistent. Do whatever you like, it said, who even cares what he thinks.
"Cynric, have I ever mentioned that I find hoods incredibly attractive?"
"Your hands, Brynjolf; they're huge."
"You practically run this place, Delvin; it must be stressful."
The only Guild member spared from the 'compliments' was, intentionally or otherwise, Mercer Frey. Whether or not he cared, or even noticed, for that matter, was not something she cared to dwell on. The subsequent hours were a blur, but by the time the thieves were turning in for the night, she had completely forgotten about the prickly head of the Guild. The only thing that mattered was that she enjoyed herself and spent her time with people who actually appreciated the company. All in all, the evening counted as a win.
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timeasmymeasure
Intemperance (Mercer Frey/F!Dragonborn) -- 1/?
Date: 2013-01-28 02:34 pm (UTC)Summary: The Dragonborn has a little too much fun enjoying herself with her Guildmates and soon finds herself in the company of not necessarily the safest company.
Tags: prompt:filled, char:mercer_frey, char:f!pc, race:breton, race:bosmer, relationship:het, kink:dom, kink:dub_con, kink:biting, kink:dirty_talk, kink:fingering, kink:intoxication
A/N: This kind of... wrote itself, so I really hope it was at least resembling what you were after, OP~
------------
The Ragged Flagon was once again filled with the usual rabble of thieves, cracking jokes, boasting, and telling stories which, coming from a group of consummate liars, should never be mistaken for the truth. Ever since Brynjolf's newest recruit had managed to convince herself that a lack of solidarity was the cause of the Guild's misfortunes, the Flagon effectively became their centre for bi-weekly drinking sessions and, much to Mercer's displeasure, more a social club than an organisation. Truly, it couldn't be helped. A set of proficient, sour, and intimidating thieves, versus a tiny, soft-spoken Bosmer, whose only real talent was removing people of their belongings without their knowledge; clearly the only way to endear herself to these people would be over time, and with copious amounts of alcohol. Anrel herself was not much of a drinker, mainly due to her small stature, but fortunately she found that by their fifth, maybe sixth round of drinks, her own single, unfinished tankard of mead went largely unnoticed.
Tonight, however. she found herself breaking said habit, accepting Vex' challenge with enthusiasm she didn't even know she had. It may have had something to do with the Guildmaster, joining them in the Flagon for the first time. Granted, he still looked as disgruntled as ever and remained silent during the bulk of the revelry, but the Dragonborn couldn't help but feel hopeful that the prickly Breton was finally coming around. The man practically radiated presence, and she found her thoughts lingering on him much more often than she would care to admit. Perhaps that, too, was a driving factor for why she proceeded to down consecutive shots of Vekel's strongest spirits, because really, what was the worst that could happen?
Half an hour later, it was as if a switch had clicked into place. The top layer of her Guild leathers lay discarded and forgotten, and everything seemed infinitely more exciting; the world whooshing past every time she turned her head. She was talking; enjoying herself like the rest of them, the usually critical voice in her head silent and forgotten. Sharing tales, sparking raucous laughter, her alcohol-addled self was very much enjoying the change, as was the rest of her roguish company.
Everyone, that is, except for the Guildmaster.
Her eyes would settle on him after every anecdote, every joke, in search of some sign of his favour, only to receive absolutely nothing. It was infuriating, and her normally placid internal monologue grew obnoxious and insistent. Do whatever you like, it said, who even cares what he thinks.
"Cynric, have I ever mentioned that I find hoods incredibly attractive?"
"Your hands, Brynjolf; they're huge."
"You practically run this place, Delvin; it must be stressful."
The only Guild member spared from the 'compliments' was, intentionally or otherwise, Mercer Frey. Whether or not he cared, or even noticed, for that matter, was not something she cared to dwell on. The subsequent hours were a blur, but by the time the thieves were turning in for the night, she had completely forgotten about the prickly head of the Guild. The only thing that mattered was that she enjoyed herself and spent her time with people who actually appreciated the company. All in all, the evening counted as a win.