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sunder-soul · 3 years

Note

1- Love your writing it’s *chefs kiss*

2- Can you write about how Tom is trying to get the attention of Hufflepuff reader by actually being nice like buying them flowers,telling them they look nice, always offering to help them. But he does it in a grouchy way and at the end it’s just fluffy. 👉🏽👈🏽

Holy shit this is just the most. Yes. Yes yes yes.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

An Easy Mistake

Summary: Tom keeps trying to be nice to Hufflepuff Reader, but somehow it always seems to go wrong...

Wordcount: 1.6k

Content warning: none

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Is that Riddle?” Sebastian asks in sceptical disbelief.

Your whole group look around at once to see that yes, indeed it is Riddle coming towards you where you’re set up at a large table in the corner of the library, chatting more than you’re studying.

“What in Merlin’s name does he want?” Cecil mutters, shaking his head incredulously, the golden frames of his glasses gleaming against his dark skin.

“Maybe he’s going to tell us off for talking in the library,” Ethel giggles, blushing nearly as red as her hair as she glances Riddle’s way again.

“He’s quite pretty, isn’t he,” you say under your breath, giving Sebastian a cheeky look, “shame his face is hidden by a book half the time –”

“ – and kissing Slughorn’s arse the rest of it,” Seb interjects.

You both descend into giggles and Cecil pointedly thumps your shoulder right as Riddle arrives before you.

“Hello,” you say loudly, ignoring Cecil completely as you grin widely at Riddle.

Riddle blinks once at the odd display, looking supremely unimpressed. “Hello,” he says smoothly as he stands tidily beside your table.

Sebastian kicks you under the table and you kick him back so hard that he chokes on a laugh. Riddle shoots him a sharp look and Seb attempts to school his expression into something composed (with very modest success) as you continue to grin blandly at Riddle.

“Might I have a word?” Riddle says coolly, his gaze swivelling back to you. He looks like he’s already regretting approaching you.

The other three immediately duck their head to hide their snickers as you gawp at Riddle, utterly bemused. “I suppose...” you say as you slowly stand.

He nods and walks off down a nearby aisle. You follow, giving your friends a baffled look over your shoulder – they shrug back theatrically, and then you turn the corner to find Riddle pulling something out of his bag.

“Here,” he says smoothly, handing out a small stack of parchments.

You take them automatically, scanning the first one. “Notes? On Delphi’s Brew?” you ask slowly, raising a questioning brow as you glance up at him.

“Yes,” Riddle says, sliding the clasp of his bag back into a place with a sharp click, “my notes. I heard that you’re attending Slughorn this weekend whilst he makes it.”

You stare at him a moment, unable to fathom how he knew about your extra credit assignment. “And… and why exactly are you giving me these…?” you ask, confused.

“To make sure that you do so correctly,” he says curtly, looking irritated.

You narrow your eyes and hold his notes back out to him. “Thanks,” you say coolly, “but I think I’ll manage.”

Riddle stares at you blankly. You hold them out a bit more and raise your brows. Something hard falls across Riddle’s face and he snatches them back. “Is there a particular reason you’re refusing my guidance?” he snaps.

“Very bold of you to assume I need guidance, Riddle,” you say sharply. “Is this because I’m a Hufflepuff?”

“No, it’s because Delphi’s Brew is an incredibly complex potion that only the most proficient Potioneers attempt,” Riddle says, just as sharp.

“Is that so?” you say, crossing your arms, “And why exactly did you assume that I’d need extra assistance rather than just raising your estimation of my Potions skills?”

“I was trying to help,” Riddle hisses.

“Perhaps you should offer Slughorn your notes then,” you say loudly, “considering I’m the one making it and Slughorn’s attending me.”

You wheel around and stalk back to your friends, sitting down angrily.

“What did he want?” Ethel asks quickly.

“To condescendingly insult my intelligence,” you grumble, returning to your work. “Merlin, some of those Slytherin boys really think they’re a cut above the rest of us, don’t they?”

“Ignore him,” Sebastian declares loudly.

“Shame he’s so pretty if he’s rude,” Cecil says casually. “What a waste.”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” Seb smirks. “You can just admire him from afar, like Ethel.”

“He’s much better from afar than up close,” you mutter.

“Like a Monet painting,” Ethel sighs dreamily.

“Or a Flesh-Eating Slug,” Cecil deadpans.

You all descends into giggles again.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“You’re joking,” you say disbelievingly.

A bouquet of flowers has just appeared in front of your breakfast plate, a huge bouquet of flowers. The garish, impractically large blooms are packed together and tied with a lavish green velvet ribbon, all wrapped in what looks like silk – it even has a few fairies clinging to the stems. It would have cost a fortune.

“Who sent that?” Seb laughs, picking them up. “Merlin’s beard, it’s hideous –”

“Is someone trying to buy your affection?” Ethel giggles.

You eye the bouquet disapprovingly. “I sure hope not, they must not know me at all.”

“This is hilarious,” Cecil says dryly, taking the bouquet from Sebastian and running his fingers across the ribbon. “To think, they could literally walk outside, pick a single weed and hand it to you, and you’d like it more than this.”

“That’s because that would take effort and time,” you say exasperatedly, “this is just...”

“Showing off?” Sebastian smirks. “Bet it’s from a pureblood whose whole personality is their family name…”

“Can I have the ribbon?” Ethel asks quickly, leaning forward. “It’ll look nice in my hair.”

By the end of breakfast you’ve given nearly everyone at the Hufflepuff table a flower from the horribly exorbitant bouquet – though the fairies linger around your head for a few hours before floating off out the door during Herbology.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

That Saturday, you step into the Potions classroom for your advanced assignment and just about turn around and leave again – Riddle is sitting at Slughorn’s desk, his eyes flashing to yours when you enter.

There’s a tense silence.

“Riddle,” you say evenly, stepping forward and letting the door shut behind you, “how… unexpected.”

“Slughorn was called away on business,” he says, calmly shutting the book he’d been reading and setting it on the desk. “I offered to attend you instead.”

“How generous of you,” you mutter, dropping your bag by the desk and collecting your cauldron from the cupboard before returning to set up.

“You look…”

You slowly look up, barely able to believe the words you’ve just heard come out of Riddle’s mouth. He’s looking at you with a supremely frustrated expression on his face, his eyes fixed heatedly on yours. “Yes?” you prompt disbelievingly.

“Different,” he finishes flatly.

You arch a brow. “I’m not in my uniform, Riddle, could that possibly be the difference?”

“No,” he snaps, “I meant…” he waves at you, his lips a tight line. “You look nice.”

You round on him fully. “And that’s a notable difference, is it?”

“Have I offended you somehow?” Riddle snaps, leaning back in his seat. “It seems that no matter what I do, you’re displeased.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I offer to help you with this potion and you act as if I’ve snapped your wand in half,” he says angrily, “I give you flowers and you pull them apart and give them away –”

“That was you?” you ask, dumbfounded.

Riddle’s eyes flash and he stands swiftly. “This is pointless,” he breathes, seizing his book off the desk. “I’m leaving. I trust you can handle this by yourself.”

He strides away and you watch him go in shock. The door slams a little too hard behind him.

You look back at the cauldron on the desk, your mind picking over your last few interactions with Riddle – and a horrible realisation dawns on you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper to your cauldron, mortified. “He was trying to be nice.”

Your head whips around and you dash across the room as fast as you can, wrenching the door open and skidding into the corridor as you frantically look around. You only just see a sliver of him disappearing around the corner and you sprint after him full speed.

You round the corner precariously, heart lurching at the sight of him about half-way down the corridor in front of you –

“Tom!” you shout, hurrying forward.

He stops at once, and slowly turns back to you as you slide to a halt in front of him, panting. “You – you were trying to be nice,” you gasp, leaning your hands on your knees.

Tom arches a brow. “Yes,” he says caustically.

“I didn’t realise,” you say, squinting up at him. “I thought you were being a condescending prick – you may want to examine why that was an easy mistake to make –”

Tom’s jaw tenses and he looks away. “Did you want something?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“Go to Hogsmeade with me,” you blurt out.

Tom’s eyes flash to yours, his tension melting into surprise at once. “What?”

“Hogsmeade. Go with me,” you repeat, standing up. “On a date.”

He stares at you. To your equally strong surprise and delight, you can see the faintest pink on his cheeks. “Alright,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” you say breathlessly, before giving him a cheeky smile, “just – no more ridiculously expensive bouquets, alright? Not really my style.”

He nods wordlessly, still staring at you.

You look back down the corridor behind you. “Listen,” you say slowly, turning back to him, “I… could use a hand with this potion… if you still want to.”

Tom blinks, and there’s a long moment before he replies. “I did bring my notes,” he says smoothly, a very small smirk building on his lips as he turns fully towards you. “In case you changed your mind.”

You snort. “I’m sure you did,” you say wryly, shaking your head.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x you #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fic #tom riddle fluff #fluff #anon #prompt #minific #FIL #An easy mistake #hufflepuff reader #soft tom #gn reader

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loadyron · 3 years

Text

Promise

Chapter I

Taric sank deeper into the basin, enjoying the warm water trickling on his toned body. As he lathered his arms, a fresh, citrusy smell filled the bath. By the sunlight bursting through the open window, illuminating his bedchamber, he contemplated his place.

The blue drapes accentuated the trim of the carvings on the canopy bed, contrasting with the white petricite walls. Sweet and sharp fragrances floated from flasks of essential oils, soaps, and herbs sitting on a shelf near the bed. The crystals embellished the chandelier above his head, highlighting greatly the delicacy of the well-crafted floral shapes.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Enter.” Taric washed the bubbles away.

A young man with a ponytail and dressed in silver armour stepped in, pushing a wooden cart loaded with Taric’s armour and weapons. “Excuse me, Sir.” He said. “Your father is waiting in the living room. It would be good of your part to not make him wait even more.” He carefully placed the equipment nearby.

Getting up from the basin, Taric grabbed a towel to dry his body. The squire’s aggrieved tone sounded strange on his ears, since the lad never spoke like this before. He used to greet him with a chatty and vibrant tone, but now seemed like someone had sucked all his life on his voice.

Realising such change on his squire, concerned, Taric asked, “Did my father said something to upset you?”

“No sir,” the squire shook his head. “Everything is alright.” He held Taric’s leather clothes.

Taric raised his arms as the squire helped him put on his shirt. His hands shivered, struggling to find the right spot to dressed the chainmail. Taric observed how determined his squire tried to hold the breastplate, but he found it quite difficult to lay it correctly against his chest. Admiring his effort, the Knight pushed up the lad’s hands in a friendly way. With his chest covered, the squire took the blue cap. Adjusting it, the lad covered Taric’s shoulders with his pauldrons.

“You can count on me in case something happened to you.” Taric spoke in a smooth tone, as he raised his leg to his squire wear his greaves.

The squire said nothing, as he limited himself to put the greaves on Taric’s legs. His silent was unusual as well. The squire used to start a conversation about his day, and the excitement of his knowledge about the silverwing raptors. But since that day he had been awfully quiet, as if someone had cut out his tongue.

After he finished, he looked at his lord helmet. His hands shivered by the cold touch on the shinning helmet. The squire took a deep breath, facing his lord. “Yes, I know.” As he extended his hand to give the helmet to Taric, slippery his hands left the armour fall on the ground. “My apologises, Sir!” He kneed. “If there’s any scratch—”

Taric kneed. “Easy,” he patted the squire head. “It’s clear you aren’t in best conditions to do your task properly. Leave it for now.”

The touch of his lord on his head made the squire moving his shoulders slowly down. His hands stopped shivering and grabbed the helmet as if it was a manner of urgency.

Calmly Taric held his hand on the squire’s shoulder. “If not my father, it was me?”

“No… I mean… not really.” The squire glanced his lord’s hands on his shoulders. Then he looked down like guilt child.

“But it is related to me?” Taric asked as the squire nodded fast. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Sir, forgive to be impudent,” the squire took a deep breath, as if what he had in mind would be difficult to pronounce. “But right now, there’s no time to enjoy any conversation.”

“You are not being impudent, my dear squire.” Taric said. “I always appreciated your honesty. So, feel free to tell me what comes to your mind, deal?” he smiled.

For a second the lad pushed his upper lips to show a shy smile, however as he gazed at his lord’s helmet, he pressed tidily his lips like they would devour his flesh. He faced Taric. “Your helmet, sir.” He tried to hand over Taric’s helmet.

“No need today. Thank you.” Taric walked to his desk.

The small yet quiet place was Taric’s peaceful moments when he indulged himself with romances and poems. He loved to imagine and feel the beautiful work of others. And he would always have other ways to explore and understand other topics such as history, art and philosophy. Approaching, Taric grabbed a comb near the window.

“Are you sure? Because—" the squire laid his helmet on the bed.

Taric pushed his hair back smoothly. “It’s alright.” He combed it while walking to a large ornamented mirror of leaves in whirling shapes.

Taric smiled as he admired his shiny armour. His cape floated as he turned to closely watch his dark brown hair being combed. Winking to the mirror, he held his chin, turning his face to check his teeth. Perfect. Satisfied, he laid the comb back on the desk.

The squire shook his head. “Your father—" he began, watching the Knight approach the shelf near the bed. Grabbing a flask with a yellowish liquid, Taric dabbed some on his fingers, pressing them on his neck and back.

“My father wishes to speak with me again. Doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Right now, sir.”

“Very well,” said Taric as the squire placed the hammer in his leather scabbard. “Would you please be so kind as to tell him I will be down soon?” The young man finished adjusting the shield on the Knight’s back.

The squire opened the door. “Of course, sir,” he said, leaving Taric’s bedroom.

Leaving his room, Taric made his way downstairs. He noticed the bright light from the window against the Demacian banners almost blinding his eyes. The shelve with blue and golden books closer to the fireplace would be a cosy spot to sit and rest.

Reaching the end of the stairs, Taric observed the painting above the fireplace. A woman adorned in white light armour gently held a baby. At her side, a soldier in bulky white armour proudly laid his hands on her shoulder. Father spoke very highly of you. I wish you could still be here.

The squire approached the large table in the middle of the room, where Daniel sat writing. A strong smell of coffee wafted from the seated City Guard’s mug as he read over a scroll.

A massive deep scar crossed Daniel’s left eye, twisting his face, crossing deep down on his throat. The skin seemed as if it had been sewed. Half of his lip had no flesh, looking like a wild beast had eaten it.

“He is here.” The squire announced as he stood to attention.

“Give this to the king,” Daniel said as he rolled up the scroll and sealed it.

“Right away, sir.” The squire saluted and then departed.

“Good morning, father.” Taric greeted.

As the door shut, Daniel turned his face. His small dark eyes contrasted with the heavy shadows on his face, wrinkles denoting his lack of sleep. He didn't open his lips, as if waiting for the right moment to speak.

“By Targon's Peak! You look exhausted, father!” Taric observed as he approached the table. “You should rest today.”

“It's admirable, your concern for me, son.” Daniel laid a feather in an inkwell. “But as a Demacian, this is my duty and responsibility.” He looked at his son. “And speaking of it— sit, we have to talk about this,” he addressed, pointing to a chair.

“As you wish, father.” Taric nodded as he sat.

Daniel rubbed his face. With a mechanical motion, he lifted a letter off the table. “Please read this,” he said, giving it to his son.

Taric recognised the sigil on the wax seal, a sword with wings, as the royal Lightshield family that had been ruling the country for three generations.

Taric knew what was inside. This situation had repeated itself for so long. Daniel was prepared to give the same sermon Taric was used to hearing. “Greetings from The King of Demacia, Jarvan III, to my dearest friend and City Guard, Daniel.” Taric glanced at his father.

“Continue please.”

“Although you have served our country with great honour for many years, it is with great disappointment this letter reaches you. Your son, Taric, the Dauntless Vanguard Knight, didn't arrive at the line inspection yesterday.” Taric paused to look at his father.

Daniel's strong hands gripped his soft grey beard. Daniel took an exhausted deep breath, shaking his head; seeming as if he had no available solution at hand to settle the situation. However, Taric knew that his father would never give up.

Then Taric continued reading the letter. “Your son is a formidably gifted man. The last thing we need is another Demacian defying our country’s authority.” Taric tapped his finger on the table. “We have been aware of his absence. Because of that, to restore his honour, he must come today. The Lightshields are counting on your family to do what is just and right. As the ruler of Demacia, I expect results. However, if your son doesn't collaborate, do not hesitate to contact me in private. Best regards, Jarvan III Lightshield.” After reading, Taric laid the letter on the table.

“Do you understand what you must do?” Daniel asked, picking up the letter to seal it back.

Taric leaned forward to his father. “Father, you are looking for a problem that doesn’t exist.” He patted Daniel’s shoulders. “We discussed this many times before, why do you keep insisting?”

“Why? Because clearly your king is angered at your attitude.” Daniel said, narrowing his eyes. “And yes, there is a problem. Have you read the letter with proper attention?”

“Crystal clear.” Taric caressed the letter. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Not to worry?” Daniel’s lips twisted as his voice became aggravated. “Do you expect me to stay still while others question your honour-nay, the Family’s honour?”

Taric pushed his chair closer. “Father, listen to me—"

“No! Now you listen to me, my son.” Daniel faced his son, fuming. “This is your career. Your future! All these years, you have worked so hard to be where you are. Do not disappoint your king.”

Taric always admired his father's strong discipline. As a child he used to listen to his father talking about great stories immortalising Demacia’s glories of the kingdom forever, but in the end, they were still only mere words.

Suddenly the vegetation, flowers and creatures from the forest invaded his thoughts. If he closed his eyes, he would feel the grass on his fingers, smooth on touch and fresh on smell. That joyful moment brought him bliss. Instead of answering to his father, Taric remained silent to keep admiring the beautiful image in his head.

Daniel, already fuming, observed his son’s silent, peaceful expression on his face. His blood boiled, rising to his cheeks as his face twisted in fury. “Taric!”

Taric’s delightful memory was interrupted by his father’s bitter tone. “Yes, father?”

Daniel pressed his lips tight as his eyes narrowed, staring at his son. “You are a lucky man. Do you know why?” He continued, “Because many families wish their children could work with the Dauntless Vanguard. And because they didn’t work hard enough, they are on the most shameless position in the kingdom, city guards.”

Taric glanced at the window as an animal of orange and brown feathers laid on the window’s stool, reminding him of the birds of the forest. “A shame we can’t hear them singing, the window is closed.”

“What nonsense is this? Do as your king commands!” Daniel bellowed.

“Their singing can brighten our spirits.” Taric said as he kept his attention on the window, watching the bird flying away to the sky.

Daniel’s hand reached his face, continually rubbing as a way to wash the shame away. “Protector help me please,” Taric's father murmured impatiently. “Son, you are a Dauntless Vanguard Knight, a prestigious position in the kingdom, given to you for your modest raise. And with that attitude is how you repay them?”

Then it occurred to Taric after he would take his breakfast, he could investigate the forest to find the animal he almost spotted yesterday climbing on the tree. “They must be such beautiful creatures. I wonder if they are diurnal or nocturnal beasts.” Taric observed thoughtfully.

Daniel slowly stared at Taric. His pupils had a fierce heat inside that had exploded. “You know what makes me and your mother proud?” Approaching with heavy steps, Daniel grabbed his son’s face. “Watching our son fighting bravely for our kingdom. But instead like any intelligent Demacian that would grab a sword and fight for their king and country, you on other hand grab what?” He snorted. “A flower? Is this your true best?”

But Taric remained silent on his thoughts. Just the idea of visiting the forest again excited him. He had to gather more clues so he could appreciate something so fragile and worthy of his attention.

When his son didn’t respond, Daniel forced Taric to face him. “Your mother fought beside her comrades, and like you, she raised her position.” He paused for a brief moment and then continued. “And you will do the same. You will carry your title and duty with pride not in the next year, not tomorrow.” Daniel stared intensely at his son. “Now!”

Determined to search the forest without interruption, Taric stood up from his chair, grabbing his father’s hands and laying them gently on the table. Smiling, he kissed his father’s forehead. “Don’t wait for me tonight, I may have dinner somewhere else. See you later.” Then he made his move to the door.

“And one more thing,” Daniel glanced at Taric, who had opened the door and got ready to leave. “In your training remember they need a Knight not a gardener. Do you hear me?”

As Taric left the house, sounds of men and women came from the training yard.

Everyone, including his father, was wrong about him. Why couldn’t they see Taric didn’t need all this? The king knew his skills with weapons were formidable. Demacia's code of honour was ingrained in his mind. Taric had knowledge of his duties and responsibilities of his position in the kingdom. So then, why does everyone insist on him to be something he never felt to be right? But it was alright. Taric knew his true purpose as a Knight, since his king, and his superiors had blinded him from so many years.

He could keep watching the recruits training, but instead Taric walked through an arched passageway, where the children were chasing a cat on the streets. Taric admired the simple elegance of the house’s structures and designs. The same ones he volunteered to help damaged buildings from floods. Sprawling, symmetrical, stucco facades caught the eye with white petricite walls. Arched windows and doorways contrasted greatly with a strong fragrance coming from the flowers, forming beautiful gardens in the vast courtyards and masonry. Getting closer to the marketplace, Taric reached a tavern of the name The King’s Crown.

Opening the door, a joyful rhythm came from a bard’s lute playing in harmony with flutes, tambourines and tabors. Delighted with the ambience inside, Taric tapped his fingers to beat.

A fireplace in the middle of the tavern invited the guests to feel at home. Pictures of landscapes and farms were exhibited on the walls. A scent of roasted vegetables and potatoes wafted from a tray as a waitress shimmied by. At the tables, soldiers and merchants were enjoying their King’s Gambit game while coins were placed next to them. Closer to the musicians, a group of folks drank cheerfully in unison with the music.

“Good morning!” a redheaded young lady cheerfully said, holding a tray of mugs. “Welcome back.”

Taric smiled. “Good morning, what a lovely day darling!” Looking to the bard he said, “I see your artists have new companions.”

The redheaded waitress nodded. “They came yesterday,” she said, as another waitress passed by and served customers. “Shame you weren’t here. The boss liked their music.”

At a table closer at the entrance of the tavern, a group of adventurers and workers were eating their breakfast. One of them, looking at the main door, stood up.

“Lads! Sir Taric is here!” An old man cried out, with a joyful smile on his face.

The rest of the tavern in the place looked at Taric’s direction. “Ask him to join us,” one of the men said, waving to the table.

Taric looked at the table that was crying his name. The old man moved his right leg slowly as if he was trying to not step on a bear trap laid upon the ground, while he was grabbing the edges of the table. The Knight noticed the old man trying his best to not shake, as Taric knew the old man’s left leg was amputated at the knee.

As the old man reached for the corner of the table, his fingers shook desperately as he tried to walk to the table. Passing by some waitresses, as he pulled them away, Taric rushed to aid the old man.

The old man stepped carefully as a waitress gave him space, but that wasn’t enough to greet Taric. As the old man took another step, he slipped and began to fall towards the ground. With a deft motion, Taric took the old man in his arms and steadied him.

“Careful.” Taric spoke as he grasped the old man’s waist with care. “What were you trying to do, my friend? Did you compete at dawn for a marathon?”

“Those bones back in my days used to run like an athlete. A trouble maker I was.” The old man said. “But right now? The only thing to do is walk as much as my legs can.”

Taric smiled. “You have to tell me one of your adventures. It sounds as if there is much I could learn.”

“Oh lad. This old man has plenty of stories to tell you, all day,” the old man said.

“However, next time ask for my help.” Taric addressed. “Those bones are not young anymore.”

“Ah Sir Taric, let me walk as much as these old bones want,” the old man protested. “Let us enjoy your company, leave my leg to The Veiled Lady.”

Grabbing the old man’s hand under his shoulder, Taric walked with the man towards the table. As they approached it, the others received him warmly. Even people from other tables got closer to see him.

The soldiers, on the other hand, weren’t enjoying the attention given to the Knight. They glared at Taric, some muttering among themselves.

From the musicians, a small creature with fur and big ears, began playing the flute, clapping his little feet. At the same time, tabors and more pipes played along. Everyone inside lifted their mugs.

The redheaded waitress approached the table in the middle of the confusion. “Your friend wasn’t here today.”

“Garen hasn't been here at all?” Taric asked, as another waitress stopped at the table to serve a young guard that raised his hand. He blushed as the waitress blew him a flirtatious kiss.

“No hon.” The waitress pushed aside some children trying to grab her skirt. “The usual?”

“Please.” Taric nodded.

She winked. “Straight away.”

The redheaded waitress ran to a table to wait for Taric’s food. Sitting among the people, Taric was delighted by their attention. He knew the people inside out; their dreams, desires, problems, fears and paths they wanted for the future. He felt his heart swell happiness as he talked with them. He laughed at a quick-witted joke, feasted on the delectable meal with them, and offered what advice he could when it was needed.

And so, Taric enjoyed his breakfast thinking of the joy he would have of discovering the creature in the forest. Then after he finished his meal, he mounted on his horse and departed for the forest.

Riding through the vast vegetation, the tall, ancient trees glowed with the sun's radiance. It was a place where wildflowers grew, with a soft pear and grape scent, fresh and sweet as if a perfume had been spread, capable of making a gardener jealous.

Turning off onto a separate path, something suddenly fell on the grass. The horse, agitated, raised its front hooves. “Easy,” Taric patted the animal’s face gently. “No need to be afraid.”

From the corner of his eye, Taric saw something climbing down from a tree. It was a small monkey-like creature, jumping down to grab a fruit. As Taric rode in the dense vegetation, a loud metallic sound echoed nearby.

“Step by step, slowly,” Taric whispered to the horse.

Taric looked around. As the horse trotted on the grass, a little agitated, a squeal from an animal echoed through the glade. He scanned the ground, hoping to find the creature. Following the voice he spotted something at the distance.

A hooded stranger held a strange metallic cage as the pitchy squeal persisted but louder. Whatever the stranger kept doing to the creature didn’t have the best intentions. Taric couldn’t allow another delicate life to perish.

“Stop!” Taric shouted, approaching closer. “What do you think you are doing? Can’t you see the creature is suffering?”

Looking over his shoulder, the stranger laid the cage on the ground and ran far away from the place. Taric could chase and find the man responsible for hurting the animal, yet he found it more important to free the creature from the torture upon him.

Getting closer to the tiny voice, he finally saw it.

It was a squirrel, stuck in a trap. Blood covered its tiny fingers, the creature licking at them in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. Dismounting, Taric opened the trap with care. The animal tried to fly to the tree; however, he fell on Taric’s hands.

“Careful.” Taric observed the squirrel looking at the tree. “You aren’t in the best condition to climb, little one.”

The animal’s beady little eyes stared at Taric in protest. Stubborn like a spoiled child, the animal cocked his back, ready for a second attempt. He jumped forward yet again, his sharp nails slid down the tree.

“Don’t be scared.” Taric caught the animal. “It’s true you are not with an Illuminator's priest, but let me help you with what I have.”

Taric laid down his shield and hammer. Resting on the grass, his fingers touched the delicacy of the crystal shaped creamy flowers.

Taking off his cape, Taric cradled the squirrel on his chest. Searching through inside of his belt bag for bandages, he grabbed leaves nearby. Holding the animal’s tiny hands gently, Taric wrapped them with bandages.

“There.” Taric petted it with tenderness. “I will bring you later to the temple. They know what to do.”

Taric’s eyes shined to see such a rare, beautiful creature. The animal’s large ears twitched, as it climbed blissfully over his shoulders. Taric felt his heart full of joy as he touched its soft reddish fur. Scurrying down to his legs, the animal closed its eyes, moving its tail to cover itself like a blanket.

As the animal fell asleep, the Knight noticed movement in nearby bushes. Taric stared at the bushes covering the wounded animal with his cape, maybe the hooded man came back to finish when he started? If so, Taric had to protect the creature and teach the young hunter the delicate life of the squirrel. If the hooded hunter could chance his heart, they wouldn’t need to fight.

Soft steps could be heard nearby. With no apparent concern of being noticed. A shadow shouted. “Huh… excuse me.”

“Greetings!” Taric kept his stare on the shadow. “Are you the hooded hunter? If so, we can discuss this through. We don’t need blood in our hands. Let me show you how beautiful this animal is.”

The shadow finally revealed itself. “You are confusing me with someone else.” A young man pulled off his goggles. “Do you know where I can find a cave with a golden map? I know there's one somewhere around here."

“Cave with a golden map?” Taric asked, bewildered.

“The one rumoured to have—” the young man yawned as he covered his mouth. His hands rubbed on his half-opened eyes like something was twitching inside.

Witnessing the young man in such a state, Taric got up from his position. The stranger must have travelled so far to come to Demacia to look for something precious. Such dedication and devotion made Taric not just curious but also empathetic to the stranger’s cause.

Approaching the young man, Taric gestured for him to come. “Please come, friend,” he invited the stranger, pointing to a tree next to his spot. “You must have travelled from far to come here. Sit. Have a rest.”

“Why not?” The young man shrugged.

The stranger sat on the soft grass. As birds flew overhead singing, he closed his eyes resting his body. “Not a big fan of the forest to be honest.” The stranger put his hands behind his head. “But not a bad place to laze around.”

Taric sat back on his spot. “You are not used to this at all? This peaceful and quiet moment?” He asked inquisitively, patting the squirrel under his cape.

“After a long day of adventure, sure.” The stranger took a deep breath. “However, the noise of the machines, the pressure of the day… All these things remind me of home.”

“Where are you from?” Taric moved closer to the stranger.

“Not Demacia, that’s for sure.” The young man winked. “Though… are you truly a Demacian?”

Observing the stranger, Taric noticed a lot of ocean-like fur encircling his neck from the lapel of his short leather coat. “Body and soul.” He pushed his hair back with vanity. “Why are you asking?”

“You two.” The stranger pointed to Taric and the sleepy squirrel. “Demacians by nature don’t pay attention to that stuff.” His hands rested on his chest. “I’m from the healthiest country of Runeterra. Not to mention our technology is the best.”

“Oh, you mean Piltover!”

“That’s the place.”

Taric’s eyes wandered to the stranger’s untamed blond hair. Those strange large glasses made of silver, attached with leather seemed uncomfortable at first sight. Resting on the stranger’s neck, Taric wondered, when put in the right place, if it wouldn't be uncomfortable. The size seemed small for the young man’s head. “Some Piltovens citizens are living here. However, my opportunities to visit your country have been non-existent.” He approached the young man.

“Eh, not surprised. We are everywhere.” Realising how close Taric got, the young man glided to the side. “Not to mention you are missing a lot. Piltover has a lot to visit. You will get lost to be honest.”

As Taric drew closer, he could see upside down triangles shine for just a second in the stranger's cheekbones, then disappear. That just now! Could it be? Taric observed thoughtfully. “Now I am intrigued. You have to tell me more— my apologies! Where are my manners?” He stuck out his hand. “Please call me Taric.”

The young man looked at his hand. He smiled. “My name's Jarro.” He shook Taric’s hand, nonchalant. “Jarro Lightfeather. Nice to meet you.”

Taric raised his eyebrows at Jarro. The young man was well-known in Demacia for the discovery of a treasure in the country, which remained an enigma. It involved the death of a famous actress who performed with a mask of a lamb. According to the tale, the actress died at the end of the play performing as a maiden.

Many wanted for answers from him. How did she die? What was the cause of death? What did the theatre company confide in him? Yet Jarro simply answered, “Even for myself, it’s a mystery.”

From the moment he learned of Jarro’s name, Taric had been curious to meet him in person. He never thought it would be under these circumstances.

Yet Jarro’s name sounded odd as he presented himself. Not because it was a strange name, but mainly because the young man was lying. If that was the case, he had been using this name for so long, and many including Taric had believed it all this time. Taric found it queer but decided to keep up appearances.

“Likewise.” Taric shook Jarro’s hand. “You mentioned a cave with a map.” He looked at Jarro’s right hand.

From his spot, his eyes hypnotised, stared at the large oval sapphires, covering half the stranger’s arm. As Taric kept admiring Jarro’s bronze gauntlet, atop engraved on an octagonal shape was a shiny sapphire.

“It’s about a map of stone covered in gold that is supposed to be around here.” Jarro didn’t look surprised at how Taric kept staring at his gauntlet.

“Are you a scholar?”

“Well… no, but I have a college degree,” Jarro said, adjusting the goggles atop his head with a smirk.

Taric studied Jarro’s clothing. Those strange glasses, his leather trousers and light shirt, his boots, the belts on his waist and legs. All these little details didn’t fit with someone that has a high education. But still, Taric was sceptical.

“An explorer?”

Jarro smiled. “For now, I’m just an adventurer. But in the future, everyone will know my name with that title.” He opened his bag.

As Jarro’s hand reached inside, he took out a small dark notebook. Taric looked at the fast handwriting upon the notebook’s cover, as he could read: Piltover's greatest, fully accredited explorer. Covering his mouth Taric laughed. Not yet an official adventurer and Jarro wanted to be recognised in the world. Despite the lies and all the sudden Jarro’s reappearance in Demacia, Taric found himself admiring the mystery behind it. The importance of the golden map on Jarro’s life and why the necessity to have a different name? All of these he considered beautiful.

“Ah! You are witnessing my life’s work.” Jarro looked at Taric who gazed, greatly interested, at his notebook. “One day this will be recognised.” Grabbing a pen, he began to write.

What was he writing about? The map? Records? About them? Moving behind the adventure’s back, Taric tried to look over Jarro’s shoulders.

“Jarro…”

“Yes, Taric?”

“Would you allow me to read your journal?”

#league of legends #league of legends taric #league of legends ezreal #chapter i #fanfiction

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lvllns · 4 years

Text

confectioners sugar (1/?)

welcome to the neighborhood | fenris x penelope hawke. modern au. 2.4k words.

additional notes: both hawke and fenris are demi, just throwing that out there right now. background relationships will be added to the tags as they become relevant. this is kind of a messy first chapter but it’s gotta start somewhere, yeah?

[read on ao3]

Meeting Fenris for the first time goes like this: Penelope isn’t paying attention to her surroundings and she opens a door right into his face.

It isn’t her fault, not entirely. Her phone is going off in her back pocket, a near constant stream of dings, and she is going to murder everyone when she sees them tomorrow night. The constant notifications paired with the fact that she’s juggling a ridiculous number of bags that are mostly filled with canned pumpkin means Penelope is only half paying attention when she kicks the door to her apartment complex open.

There’s a muffled oof and she squeaks. Looks up and finds herself face-to-face with an elf who is gingerly touching his nose.

“Oh fuck,” she says. “Sorry, are you alright?”

He blinks at her and his eyes are very green. Muted green. Green like pines in the winter, when everything is a little bit foggy and desaturated and soft.

“I, yes, I am alright,” he wiggles his nose, eyes crossing as he looks down before he clears his throat and meets her gaze. “Are you alright?”

She was not expecting that voice from him. It’s deep, a little rough around the edges, and it seems to rumble from his chest when he speaks.

Penelope’s phone dings again. “Fine, fine, I’m just planning on how to best murder my friends,” she grins wide and his eyes drop to her mouth. More likely her teeth. The canines a little too sharp to be human, not sharp enough to be elven. Her smile dims a little and she shakes her head.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he takes a step back, holds the door so she can move by him and actually get into the building. “But the elevator is broken.”

“Of course it is,” she sets the bags down on the ground. Pinches the bridge of her nose and groans. “It was working when I left, damn it.”

He moves and she looks over. Watches as he kicks a leg up on the wall, folds his arms over his chest and cocks his head. He’s not much taller than she is, an inch or two maybe. Strands of chalk-white hair poke out from underneath a beanie, which sits above his ears. His skin is dark, freckles dust his cheeks like stars, and there are silvery lines on his chin that drip down his neck.

He rolls his shoulders. “What floor do you live on?”

“Six,” she groans, head tipping forward.

Hawke’s phone dings again.

He chuckles, a soft thing that hardly breaks the silence.

“Hand me a bag or two,” he reaches out a hand, palm down. There are bright lines along the back of it, twisting around tendons.

“I — What?”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “I will carry some of those ridiculous bags full of canned pumpkin, if you’d like the help.”

“Oh, I, are you sure?” He nods, one corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s just, I kind of kicked a door open into your face…”

He shrugs broad shoulders. “No harm done,” he pauses. Seems to consider something and his gaze cuts away from her to the wall at her back. “Ah, unless...I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Penelope folds her fingers up. Clenches her hands into fists until her nails prick at her palms. “You don’t, it’s fine, I just,” now it’s her turn to shrug. “Don’t want to impose, I guess.”

One dark brow quirks. “I did offer.”

“That you did,” she laughs. “Alright,” picks up a couple bags and offers them to him. His fingers touch hers, just for a moment, barely long enough to register that he is exceptionally cold, and then the sensation is gone. A gust of breath on the wind. She smiles. “I’m Hawke, by the way.”

He hums and places himself half a step behind her as they head up the stairs. “An interesting name,” he smiles, a small thing, and Penelope finds herself matching it. “I am Fenris.”

“Well Fenris, it’s lovely to meet you even if it’s because I almost broke your nose.”

He snorts. “You do kick hard Hawke.”

Penelope laughs and winks at him. “When did you move in?”

“Three days ago.”

They pass two more flights bouncing between casual conversation and companionable silence. It’s easier, carrying only two bags full of ingredients, and neither of them falter. Her phone dings four times in rapid succession and she snorts. Fenris glances at her, eyes curious. Penelope remembers she has a free hand now and reaches back to slip her phone from the pocket of her jeans.

“Group chat, although the last dozen texts seem to all be from Isabela,” she mutters and clicks her phone onto silent before tucking it away again.

“I assume that has something to do with all the pumpkin you bought?”

“Peripherally, kind of,” Hawke shrugs. “It’s...my brother is a firefighter and he finally has time off, him and his,” she cuts herself off. Looks at Fenris and then turns her eyes forward. “Him and his partner,” she watches out of the corner of her eye but Fenris just nods. A little bit of tension slithers from between her shoulder blades. “Anyway, they both love my pumpkin pie bars and so I’m going to make them a few huge trays to bring them tomorrow,” he hums. “It all connects because my brother, Carver, said he was looking forward to tomorrow night and now I guess Isabela has taken it upon herself to blow up the group chat.”

“Does she do that frequently?”

“Yes,” Hawke groans and shakes her head.

“And you do not have it set to do not disturb because…?”

Penelope gasps in mock offense. Stops walking so she can place a hand over her heart. “Fenris, are you sassing me?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I would never.”

They stand there, looking at each other for another minute before Hawke breaks into giggles. Fenris chuckles, the sound warm and welcome in the otherwise frigid stairwell.

“Come on, we still have three flights of stairs left,” she says, her voice thick with mirth.

He sighs and looks up. “I would hate to have you kick a door open into my nose after you climb all these stairs.”

Penelope laughs again, louder this time, and decides that she rather likes Fenris.

—

They reach the sixth floor and Fenris holds the door open for her. The hallway is only slightly warmer than the stairwell and he is glad for the beanie on his head. This Maker forsaken Marcher state is a far cry from the warmth of Tevinter and he doubts he will ever grow accustomed to it. Hawke, however, is in jeans, boots, and a light sweater like she was born for this weather.

She is...something. Fenris thinks that striking is the best word. Her face is all high cheekbones and a sharp jaw and a nose that has a bump in the middle of the bridge like it can’t quite decide if it wants to be elven or not. Her eyes are large and grey, almost silver, but there’s something under them, hidden behind layers, and he knows enough about loss and guilt to recognize it. Freckles cover the entirety of exposed skin, neck included. The rest of her is hidden by clothes but he thinks there is a solid, easy strength cloaked under the layers if the impact of the door to his face is anything to go by.

They get a few steps down the hall when Hawke freezes.

Fenris narrowly avoids crashing into her back by catching himself with a hand on her shoulder. He removes it as soon as he stops stumbling forward. “Hawke?”

“How are you with dogs?” She asks, head tilting.

He scratches at his jaw and shrugs. “I do not mind them, though I am more of a cat person.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Me too,” a nod and then she is walking again. He follows. “I only ask because Theodore may still be here, I don’t know if Carver has picked him up yet.”

“Theodore is your brother’s dog?”

She flashes him a grin over her shoulder, those shining eyes of hers glittering. “Theodore is my brother’s purebred mabari,” Fenris cocks his head. “I watch him when Carver’s at the station and then he picks him up when he’s got days off. Sometimes Bethany will watch him if she’s out of school.”

They stop walking right outside her door and she sets her bags down to rummage around for her keys. The door clicks, unlocks, and there’s no noise. Everything remains silent until he chuckles.

“I assume the lack of noise and drool means Theodore is gone?”

“Yeah, we’d both be knocked down already otherwise.”

Fenris follows her into the small apartment and he is immediately overwhelmed with the smell of lavender and sugar.

There are bookshelves tucked away up against the walls and they’re overflowing with books and trinkets. Mostly crystals, from what Fenris can see, but a few glass birds catch his eye. Plants sit tidily along windowsills and on the coffee table and on an end table. Fenris realizes, rather suddenly, that it feels like a home. His own apartment is bare, both from not having unpacked entirely yet and just not having a lot to his name, but Hawke’s...it’s warm and inviting. His nerves settle a little, a soft sigh chases tension from his shoulders as he follows behind her.

Her kitchen is small, like his own, and when they lay out all the bags on the counter, there’s almost no space left. She pulls her hoodie off and throws it over the back of a chair. His eyes catch on her arms and the freckles that cover them almost completely. They’re strong arms, muscle under skin and fat, and they confirm the easy strength. Fenris wonders if she lifts or if it’s something else entirely. Archery or just genetics maybe.

“There are cookies in those jars,” she points and he jerks his eyes from her biceps to the counter. “Biggest one is chocolate chip because all my friends are godless heathens,” Fenris laughs. Hawke smiles wide enough to show her teeth. “Medium jar is, uh, double chocolate chunk. However, it may be empty since Carver was already here. Smallest jar is shortbread.”

Fenris heads straight for the littlest jar.

“Finally, someone with good fucking taste!” Hawke says as she begins removing cans of pumpkin from bags.

“You don’t care for chocolate?” He pops a cookie in his mouth, holds it between his teeth, and steps in to help.

“Dark chocolate is okay in moderation but that’s it,” she says. “Shortbread is the best, not as sweet.”

He nods and sets cans of pumpkin on the counter until all the bags are empty. He finds they settle into an easy enough rhythm, they bump on occasion but the contact does not dig thorns into his hands or spine. Something about Hawke settles whatever anxiety he had about offering to help her. There is a wariness in his bones that will most likely always stick with him, but it fades to a manageable level as he watches her move around her kitchen.

“Well,” she places her hands on her hips. Looks from the bowls to Fenris. “You’re welcome to stay but if I’m keeping you from anything…”

He shakes his head. “You are not, I had just arrived back when you kicked the door at me.”

Hawke groans and tips her head back to stare at the ceiling. “I’m never going to live that down.”

“You are not.”

“Maker’s balls,” she chuckles. “Right, if you’re gonna stay, hand me that measuring cup?”

Fenris obliges.

And promptly loses track of time.

Hawke puts on some classical music, something he can’t put a name to, and they talk. About simple things. He learns that she also has a sister, Bethany, who is Carver’s twin. That they’re from Ferelden and they’ve only been in Kirkwall for five years. She mentions a mother and an uncle and grandparents but no father. Fenris changes the subject when he hears her voice go a little bit distant.

He tells her that he is here for work. Which isn’t entirely a lie. It’s just that he can work from anywhere, Kirkwall just happens to be where he’s stopped for the time being. Somehow they end up on the subject of languages and when Hawke finds out he’s fluent in six, she goes bug eyed and makes him promise to teach her how to swear in at least four of them.

They start talking about books and authors and Genitivi’s works until there are three trays of pumpkin pie bars on the counter and Hawke is making yet another. Fenris can feel his energy flagging. This has been more socializing than he’s done in quite some time and, while the company is more than good, it’s beginning to chip away at him.

“This has been enjoyable, but I believe I will take my leave Hawke,” he says and he offers her a smile when she looks up at him from the dough she’s mixing.

“It was wonderful meeting you, even if it did take me kicking a door into your face,” she grins and he chuckles. “I — Fenris, if you aren’t busy tomorrow, drop by The Hanged Man. We’ll all be there around eight.”

He frowns, brows pulling together. “I would not want to impose on —“

She flicks flour at him, a spray of powder off her fingertips that makes him dance away. “You wouldn’t be. We’re all gathering to eat and play cards and probably listen to Varric whine about the next bit of the campaign, but look,” she turns to face him, gaze going serious. “It’s all friends and I’m inviting you because, well, I’d say we’re friends now.”

She makes it sound so simple and maybe it is but Fenris has only had two years to shake off a past that clings to him like spiderwebs between branches.

“You hardly know me,” is what he says instead of the acceptance of her offer that scrapes at the back of his tongue.

“That’s rather the point of inviting you to game night. To get to know you more,” her face falls a little. “I really don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you to do anything but, the invitation stands.”

If he had any doubts that she was not genuine in her desire to simply befriend him for the sake of friendship, they vanish as she speaks. So simple, so easy. No chilled creek of water under inches of frozen ice. No, nothing sinister or double edged at all.

“I will consider it,” he smiles, a little wider this time, and says his goodbyes and leaves Hawke’s apartment feeling lighter than he has in months.

#dragon age #fenhawke #fenris x hawke #fenris x f!hawke #what the FUCK are the tags #caiti.txt #writing tag #work: confectioners sugar #au: thedas but make it modern #welcome to the modern au where i write fenris as soft as fucking possible enjoy your stay

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