Vilkas awoke slowly, something niggling it's way into his dreams. The tiniest click of a door, a whisper of a step. Nothing more. In the blackness, he rolled over, arm automatically reaching for his wife, before he remembered she was in Solitude. He tried snuggling into the pillow, imagining it was his lithe, pointy-eared mate, but the pillow lacked a certain substance, and certainly wasn't curvy enough.
Jorrvaskr creaked and shifted about him, while he tossed fitfully in his bed for a bit. Eventually, he threw off the furs and stuffed his bare legs into a pair of breeches. Aimless, he stood, scratching his calloused hand over his chest absently while he ruffled his hair with the other.
Two years ago, he might have said his beast blood was making him antsy, but Farkas, Vilkas and his Bosmer wife had cured themselves of their lycanthropy quite some time ago. Thirsty, he reached for his water pitcher and found it empty. Damn, I forgot to have Tilma refill it after I washed my face. Pitcher in hand he made for the door.
It was as he was shuffling quietly to the main hall downstairs, that he noticed a faint hint of light coming from the shadows in the Harbinger's room. His wife's room. When he stayed in Whiterun--while she was out doing “Dragonborn stuff'”-- Vilkas preferred to stay in his old room in the ancient meadhall, where his twin, other shield-siblings and all the memories of childhood still resided. When she was in the city, they typically stayed in Breezehome, although they did use the Harbinger's personal quarters when too tired or inebriated to make it to their house. The privacy afforded by the modest home down in the Plains district was appealing when they were trying to have a little intimate time together. Not that his wife was in any way shy when it came to their lovemaking. She didn't give a skeevers ass end who heard or even saw them.
Silently edging closer, he saw the inner doors were open a crack, spilling out a tiny blue-white ray of light. She would come wake me first, she always does-so who is in her room? He heard a muffled curse and a soft thump, the furtive shuffling of paper.
Vilkas slid closer to the door, keeping to the shadows, certain a thief was rifling through his mate's belongings. A very stupid, unlucky thief. More to the point, his wife wasn't here to pull strings with the jarl to spring said ruffian free when she found out he had arrested one. This time. This time, she wouldn't be around to persuade the authorities to look the other way. Justice would be meted out.
He listened at the door, heard another thump, what sounded like a whole trunk being emptied onto the floor. Vilkas risked a glance into the room, and saw in the strangely colored-magical!- light, and a hunched figure in strange black armor, pawing through papers.
The thief had his or her back turned and in the light, all Vilkas could really make out was a short black cloak, pooling on the floor behind the intruder, a matching hood pulled up over the head. The heels of black leather boots made no sound as the person rummaging through his wife's belongs shifted slightly.
The big Nord slid forward carefully, making no whisper of sound, until he was right behind the lawbreaker on the floor before him.
Apparently having no luck finding what was sought, the intruder picked the very moment Vilkas was reaching out his hand to spin this insolent fool about, to utter a very familiar curse.
“Fuck me sideways, where is it?”
Vilkas hand froze in the air, a fingers breadth from his wife's shoulder. He had a number of options. The most appealing one was turn around and sneak back to bed. He could climb back in, warm the furs back up and wait for her to climb into bed with him; make love to her and pretend he hadn't seen any of this. Or he could surprise the hell out of her.
Re: F!DB! Bosmer/Vilkas "So I married a thief"
Jorrvaskr creaked and shifted about him, while he tossed fitfully in his bed for a bit. Eventually, he threw off the furs and stuffed his bare legs into a pair of breeches. Aimless, he stood, scratching his calloused hand over his chest absently while he ruffled his hair with the other.
Two years ago, he might have said his beast blood was making him antsy, but Farkas, Vilkas and his Bosmer wife had cured themselves of their lycanthropy quite some time ago. Thirsty, he reached for his water pitcher and found it empty. Damn, I forgot to have Tilma refill it after I washed my face. Pitcher in hand he made for the door.
It was as he was shuffling quietly to the main hall downstairs, that he noticed a faint hint of light coming from the shadows in the Harbinger's room. His wife's room. When he stayed in Whiterun--while she was out doing “Dragonborn stuff'”-- Vilkas preferred to stay in his old room in the ancient meadhall, where his twin, other shield-siblings and all the memories of childhood still resided. When she was in the city, they typically stayed in Breezehome, although they did use the Harbinger's personal quarters when too tired or inebriated to make it to their house. The privacy afforded by the modest home down in the Plains district was appealing when they were trying to have a little intimate time together. Not that his wife was in any way shy when it came to their lovemaking. She didn't give a skeevers ass end who heard or even saw them.
Silently edging closer, he saw the inner doors were open a crack, spilling out a tiny blue-white ray of light. She would come wake me first, she always does-so who is in her room? He heard a muffled curse and a soft thump, the furtive shuffling of paper.
Vilkas slid closer to the door, keeping to the shadows, certain a thief was rifling through his mate's belongings. A very stupid, unlucky thief. More to the point, his wife wasn't here to pull strings with the jarl to spring said ruffian free when she found out he had arrested one. This time. This time, she wouldn't be around to persuade the authorities to look the other way. Justice would be meted out.
He listened at the door, heard another thump, what sounded like a whole trunk being emptied onto the floor. Vilkas risked a glance into the room, and saw in the strangely colored-magical!- light, and a hunched figure in strange black armor, pawing through papers.
The thief had his or her back turned and in the light, all Vilkas could really make out was a short black cloak, pooling on the floor behind the intruder, a matching hood pulled up over the head. The heels of black leather boots made no sound as the person rummaging through his wife's belongs shifted slightly.
The big Nord slid forward carefully, making no whisper of sound, until he was right behind the lawbreaker on the floor before him.
Apparently having no luck finding what was sought, the intruder picked the very moment Vilkas was reaching out his hand to spin this insolent fool about, to utter a very familiar curse.
“Fuck me sideways, where is it?”
Vilkas hand froze in the air, a fingers breadth from his wife's shoulder. He had a number of options. The most appealing one was turn around and sneak back to bed. He could climb back in, warm the furs back up and wait for her to climb into bed with him; make love to her and pretend he hadn't seen any of this. Or he could surprise the hell out of her.
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