Alright, this is at least a start. Sorry for taking ages with this, OP. Prompt: Sub!F!DB/Dom!Mercer Frey Summary: Nice guys just don't do it for the Dragonborn. Mercer Frey is not a nice guy.
So far, Laverna thought as her fingers worked oil into the leather of her water-damaged guild armor, Skyrim had been a series of disasters big and small. It had started with nearly having her head chopped off because she'd chosen the wrong place to cross the border from Cyrodiil, then continued with a dragon attacking, and narrowly escaping entanglement with some sort of civil war business; and that had been only the first day.
Swallowing bucketfuls of Lake Honrich while swimming for her life from the Goldenglow estate had been smaller on the scale of disasters, but unpleasant nonetheless.
To think that she'd had such high hopes for the harsh, rugged province.
The men here, for one thing, hadn't been as harsh and rugged as she'd secretly hoped. That young Nord from Riverwood, Sven something – did he even have a last name? – had been kind and eager in the manner of a clumsy puppy. He had also been inordinately distressed when none of his techniques seemed to bring results, and then afterwards, had burst into tears because he really loved Camilla the shopkeeper's sister and he didn't know what had come over him, and would Laverna please forgive him and never speak of this again? Especially to Camilla?
She had agreed, as the quickest way to get him out of her hair. Then she had sworn off men for the umpteenth time, because they were all made of the same soft stuff in the end.
”Laverna?” Brynjolf's voice interrupted her musings. ”Mercer wants to talk to you. Right now.”
Mercer. The name was a hot dagger stab in her belly, and in its wake came a flush she could feel rising on her face. Now that man was more a saber cat than a puppy. She'd only stood in front of him once, he'd done nothing but speak, and yet... His existence had been a constant, underlying, nagging ache inside her ever since, non-stop for the two days it took her to make her plans, do her groundwork and get in and out of Goldenglow.
The rational part of her mind kept whispering her she was being a fool. The other parts, mental and especially physical, kept shouting it down. The fact of the matter was that her love life so far had been much like Skyrim – a series of disasters – and her only satisfying bedmates had been her own hands and fever-hot fantasies of dark, snarling, rough men throwing her down and fucking her raw.
From the moment her eyes had met the guildmaster's, she'd been fearing and hoping and dreading and praying to Dibella that he would be such a man.
”You better hurry, lass.” Brynjolf's brow had furrowed. ”Maven Black-Briar was here earlier, and whatever she said didn't make Mercer any happier.”
”I completed the job, didn't I?” She attempted a shrug, as if it had been all the same to her. ”Alright, alright. The armor can wait.”
Maybe she'd put a bit too much effort into the nonchalant act. Brynjolf raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. She could feel his gaze following her as she corked the oil bottle, wiped her hands and felt at her cheeks, quickly, hoping they weren't still blazing.
If Dibella, or whichever darker power governed lusts like hers, had heard her prayers, what then?
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timeasmymeasure
Simple Instructions, 1/?
Date: 2012-08-19 09:30 pm (UTC)Prompt: Sub!F!DB/Dom!Mercer Frey
Summary: Nice guys just don't do it for the Dragonborn. Mercer Frey is not a nice guy.
So far, Laverna thought as her fingers worked oil into the leather of her water-damaged guild armor, Skyrim had been a series of disasters big and small. It had started with nearly having her head chopped off because she'd chosen the wrong place to cross the border from Cyrodiil, then continued with a dragon attacking, and narrowly escaping entanglement with some sort of civil war business; and that had been only the first day.
Swallowing bucketfuls of Lake Honrich while swimming for her life from the Goldenglow estate had been smaller on the scale of disasters, but unpleasant nonetheless.
To think that she'd had such high hopes for the harsh, rugged province.
The men here, for one thing, hadn't been as harsh and rugged as she'd secretly hoped. That young Nord from Riverwood, Sven something – did he even have a last name? – had been kind and eager in the manner of a clumsy puppy. He had also been inordinately distressed when none of his techniques seemed to bring results, and then afterwards, had burst into tears because he really loved Camilla the shopkeeper's sister and he didn't know what had come over him, and would Laverna please forgive him and never speak of this again? Especially to Camilla?
She had agreed, as the quickest way to get him out of her hair. Then she had sworn off men for the umpteenth time, because they were all made of the same soft stuff in the end.
”Laverna?” Brynjolf's voice interrupted her musings. ”Mercer wants to talk to you. Right now.”
Mercer. The name was a hot dagger stab in her belly, and in its wake came a flush she could feel rising on her face. Now that man was more a saber cat than a puppy. She'd only stood in front of him once, he'd done nothing but speak, and yet... His existence had been a constant, underlying, nagging ache inside her ever since, non-stop for the two days it took her to make her plans, do her groundwork and get in and out of Goldenglow.
The rational part of her mind kept whispering her she was being a fool. The other parts, mental and especially physical, kept shouting it down. The fact of the matter was that her love life so far had been much like Skyrim – a series of disasters – and her only satisfying bedmates had been her own hands and fever-hot fantasies of dark, snarling, rough men throwing her down and fucking her raw.
From the moment her eyes had met the guildmaster's, she'd been fearing and hoping and dreading and praying to Dibella that he would be such a man.
”You better hurry, lass.” Brynjolf's brow had furrowed. ”Maven Black-Briar was here earlier, and whatever she said didn't make Mercer any happier.”
”I completed the job, didn't I?” She attempted a shrug, as if it had been all the same to her. ”Alright, alright. The armor can wait.”
Maybe she'd put a bit too much effort into the nonchalant act. Brynjolf raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. She could feel his gaze following her as she corked the oil bottle, wiped her hands and felt at her cheeks, quickly, hoping they weren't still blazing.
If Dibella, or whichever darker power governed lusts like hers, had heard her prayers, what then?