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apharine · 4 years

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Blizzard in the Reach

Pairing: Reader/Argis the Bulwark

Fandom: Skyrim/The Elder Scrolls

Rating: Explicit

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Summary: The Druadach Mountains of the Reach are known to be dangerous for travelers - not only for the presence of the Forsworn, bandits, and monsters, but also for vicious blizzards that have killed many a traveler. You had hoped to get through the mountain passes as quickly as possible, especially with a snowstorm coming in, but now it looks like you and Argis might be in store for a night spent together on the mountains.

Notes: This started as part of a series of one-shots with Argis the Bulwark several years ago, back when I was writing for the kink meme still. Some of the one-shots have been lost to the Internet and to now-dead computers, some are still with me and in desperate need of re-working, but this one was always my favorite. I found it on an external hard drive recently, and thought I'd share it with the world - there's really not enough Argis content. I know he doesn't have a lot of dialogue, but he's always been my favorite Housecarl and follower, and I always marry him in-game. If anyone would want to see any of the other Argis one-shots, let me know, and I can see what I can dig up and re-work! I've certainly got a little more time on my hands with this coronavirus thing. Hope everyone is staying healthy and happy, and most importantly, stay at home <3

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“We need to make camp for the night, my Thane.”

You turn to face your Housecarl, Argis the Bulwark, and you immediately see obstinacy in the way his arms are folded across his broad chest, his feet spread in a wide stance. This obstinacy has served you well time and again, especially in the stubborn way he never gives up on you. He's rushed back into battle after receiving grievous injuries, his only care in all of Tamriel protecting you. He's sat up all night with you, waiting for you to explain what in Oblivion is bothering you. He's carried you, as you lay dying in his arms, to whatever nearby town was available, on the slim chance he could find a healer skilled enough or a potion strong enough for you. Yes, you're grateful for all that this man has done for you.

But that doesn't mean he's any less stubborn than he was on day one.

“We can still make it back to Markarth, and be home in Vlindrel Hall by morn,” you retort over your shoulder, anxious to keep moving. The Reach is howling with a snowstorm, and visibility on this face of the mountains is becoming terribly low. The accumulating snow and the slick rocks will only make traveling all the harder - you need to press on, not have a debate with one another.

“My Thane,” he warns, his deep voice dark. You continue marching ahead. If that stubborn man would just cooperate - “My Thane,” he repeats, more firmly, and you stop in your tracks, irritated. He knows you long ago disregarded any illusions of rank between the two of you, and that, as equals, you don’t believe in issuing him orders. He also knows that his obstinacy is driving you insane at the moment, as it so often does, and that he’s only calling you by your title of Thane to hammer home his point. Moreover, the snowstorm is already picking up more speed, threatening a full blizzard, and he knows he's right about it. All of it.

“Maybe they should have called you Argis the Bull-headed, not Bulwark,” you quip as you trudge through a snowdrift back to the man. For an instant, you think you see his scarred lips quirk up in a smile, but visibility is terribly low.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he responds evenly, his face the epitome of calm.

“Anything?” You tease him drily as you continue your trudge, tilting your head back to affix the tall Nord with what you hope is a stony gaze.

“Aye, anything,” he agrees, his lips again twitching at the edges as he watches you - an unmistakable gesture, at this close proximity. “As long as you’re alive to say it and not frozen to death, like you will be if you try to keep on in this.”

“You are insufferable sometimes,” you sigh, coming to a stop, and Argis quirks a single eyebrow at you, as if to say you’re the one who’s being insufferable. But he doesn’t say it out loud, instead commenting,

“There was that deserted camp we passed by not more than a quarter of an hour ago.”

“There was a good lean-to there,” you agree, nodding slowly. “As long as it really is deserted.” You shudder at the thought of being snuck up on at night by bandits or Forsworn, but a moment later you shudder even harder as a blast of wind roars down from the mountain peaks, so cold as to be ungodly, and with as much ferocity as the worst frost breath of any dragon you’ve fought against. You turn away from it, drawing the hood of your cloak closer about you, but even so, your eyes water from the chill and a few loose strands of hair flutter about your face, whipping your cheeks with the condensation that quickly freezes on them.

You feel a solid form at your back, two great armored hands steadying you by your shoulders, and though the roaring of the wind hasn’t died down any, some of the worst of it is blocked from you now.

“Deserted or not, we have to get you out of the cold,” Argis says from behind you, his deep voice just loud enough to cut through the roar of the wind.

“I just hope there isn’t a fight waiting for us,” you admit, but Argis gives your shoulders a reassuring squeeze, as if to say I know, but I’ll be there. The next moment, the great hands are gone, and you start backtracking through the treacherous mountain trails, the Bulwark right behind you.

The camp is much as you had last seen it about a half hour ago, with no new tracks in the snow around it and no signs of any items disturbed. An encouraging sign, you think, but not an absolute certainty that you will be safe.

You follow Argis’ lead as he slips behind a large rocky outcrop jutting out from the Druadach mountains, peering around it to get a glimpse of the camp every couple minutes. It’s a bit harder for you to get a glimpse of the place, as Argis is largely shielding you with his body, ever protective. But when you do manage to peer around him, you realize that the camp looks decidedly made by a group other than the Forsworn. You’re relieved; you’ve discovered enough abominations at Forsworn camps to hope not to be forced into one right now. There’s also a better chance that, if the camp was made by non-Reachmen bandits, they were either traveling through or moving from site to site, instead of inhabiting the place continuously. On your second time glancing around the outcropping, you notice there is one lean-to in particular that catches your eye, the way it caught it on your first pass through - it’s reinforced with multiple furs, and looks like it might actually be made out of wood underneath versus just stretched leathers. The overhang it sits under seems to provide some degree of protection, as well, and a rather enormous firepit is positioned close to it.

You open your mouth and turn to Argis, but he gives you a sharp nod, already on the same page.

“I’m going in to scout it out,” the Bulwark says, shrugging off his heavy pack, stuffed with supplies and topped with a bedroll, leaving it by your side. You do the same with your pack, which is also stuffed full but smaller than his, aware that you won’t want to be encumbered by it in the next few minutes. “Back me up if I need it,” Argis adds, drawing his bow and knocking an arrow to it in a movement you can’t help but feel is graceful, especially for a man as massive as he is.

“Aye,” you agree solemnly. Suddenly, struck by impulse, you reach up to him before he slips off, your hand brushing against his armored elbow. He starts at the contact, turning to you, and you realize you’ve surprised him on his blind side, where he can only make out faint shapes based on contrast in the light. “Be safe,” you say, just loud enough to be heard over the storm. He eases the tension on his bow, transferring both bow and arrow back into one hand with practiced ease. The next moment, he reaches out with his other hand, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers, lingering just a moment. Never one for unnecessary words, he silently turns back to the camp, letting his fingers fall from your face and knocking the arrow to his bow again.

You’re a little dumbstruck for a moment as he sets off, keeping his blind side close to the mountain walls. Affection from Argis is not terribly uncommon - he’s a man’s man by all accounts, but you know well enough how fond he is of you. But the look on his face - the tenderness - had nearly been enough to set your heart to aching.

You recollect yourself, peering back around the outcropping, barely able to follow the Bulwark’s receding figure through the whiteout. If you’re going to have his back, you realize, you had better follow him. The trails he has broken in the accumulating snow make it easy enough for you, and you summon some fire to your hands. Not only is it nice to have the heat on your frozen fingers, but a quick blast of flames from a near-invisible location will disrupt any plans of potential marauders and buy you some extra time to help the Bulwark.

But you and Argis circle the whole camp, with no signs of any life visible in the entire place. Upon nearly coming back to the outcropping you had started at, Argis sets his bow back to its place on his back and returns his arrow to his quiver, instead unsheathing his sword. He walks boldly into the center of the camp, roaring a battle cry at the top of his lungs.

“Is there none here who would defend this place from me?” He bellows. “Show yourself!”

But he receives no reply except the whistling of the wind.

To be safe, he approaches each lean-to, beating the furs with the flat side of the sword and prying open the front flaps. You follow him again as he goes, still not wanting to lose sight of him.

“Coward! Craven! Fight me for what is yours!” He challenges at each shelter, but there is nothing and nobody. Satisfied, he doubles back to you and sheathes his sword. He doesn’t have far to travel; at this point, you can’t be much more than 20 feet away from him, or you’ll lose him in the ever thickening whiteout.

“We’ll be safe here,” Argis shouts over the wind as he comes to stand beside you. You nod your agreeance, not sure you would be able to say anything the Bulwark could hear over the increasing storm. “Let’s get you in the shelter.” One great hand rests on your waist, gently turning you around to backtrack through the path you had cut through the snow earlier. With a degree of alarm, you realize that the snow has begun to come down so fiercely that even this path has begun to fill in. Argis walks beside you, cutting a new path as he guides you along back to the big lean-to. You’re relieved when you see the place, and even more grateful to see that the overhang is keeping some of the snow from accumulating around it, as you had suspected it might.

“I’ll go get our packs,” Argis shouts again. Fear clamps around your heart, though, and you grab him quickly by the shoulder, pulling him down towards you so he can hear you.

“How will you find your way back here?” You shout, immediately frustrated that your voice doesn’t carry the same way he does. He hears you, though, and smiles.

“I grew up in the Reach,” he reminds you. “I had to learn how to navigate in storms like this. How to count my steps and my turns. But if it makes you feel better, make a big fire for me to find, and I’ll be back faster.” You glance at the firepit adjacent to the lean-to - yes, that’ll work, you think. By the time you’ve turned back to Argis, though, he is already trudging away through the deepening snow.

You set to work immediately, casting the brightest magical flames you can conjure, stoking the flames higher and higher. There’s enough of a woodpile left in the fire pit to burn brightly, the magical fire making short work of any wetness that had soaked into the lumber. You only stop when the heat becomes so searing that you’re not sure you can stand near it any more; the snow in a wide radius all around it has begun to melt away, as well, which you figure is good for keeping your camp from getting buried.

It feels like an eternity that you’re waiting by the fire you’ve conjured, watching the bright colors dance back and forth, hoping they can cut through the whiteout enough to help Argis. You remind yourself of what he said - he’d grown up here. He knew about how to navigate in a blizzard, how to see the tiniest remnant of a path, how to count his steps and how far he’d turned without getting confused. No Reachman who wasn’t well-versed in these things would last long outside the city gates of Markarth. But all the same, you feel an immense amount of relief when he appears again, shouldering his bigger pack and your smaller one. He’s moving at a plodding pace through the deep snow, nearly hip-deep in places, obviously fatigued. When he is close enough, you move to help him with the load he carries, and he gratefully swings your pack down to your waiting arms. You follow him into the lean-to, immediately impressed by the thing’s construction. There is wood under all the heavy furs, as you had suspected, and virtually none of the wind makes its way into the structure.

“By the Nine, it’s brutal out there,” Argis pants, unceremoniously dropping his heavy pack on the ground and plopping himself down, knees bent in to his chest, next to it. You drop your pack and move to his side.

“Are you okay?” You ask, glad to be able to talk at a normal volume instead of shouting over the wind.

“Yeah,” Argis grunts. “Just tired.” You reach out to touch his immense, armored shoulder, and let a little bit of a healing spell flow into him - not enough to tire you, but enough to help him recover his energy. He closes his eyes and drops his head back, exposing his thickly muscled throat, the large Adam’s apple, the beard stubble under his chin where the beard ends -

“That feels good,” he murmurs appreciatively. You let your magic infuse him for a few moments longer, and pull both your hand and your eyes away when he opens his eyes and smiles at you. You summon up the courage to look back at him and smile back, knowing that to be thanks enough between the two of you.

“Let’s get the bed rolls set out,” Argis suggests, raking one hand through his thick golden hair, now matted down with the melting of the snowflakes that had accumulated on him.

“Aye,” you agree, moving to open your bedroll, but he gently shoos you away from the entrance of the lean-to and towards the back of the structure with a gentle pressure of his hand on the small of your back.

“I sleep by the opening,” he reminds you. Despite his fatigue, a light comes to his good eye as he teases, “I swore an oath to protect you. We’ve been through this before.”

“I thought it wouldn’t matter if the place was empty,” you quip at him with a smile, pleased to see that he wasn’t so exhausted as to lose his sense of humor.

“Can never be too safe,” he answers, and though he tries to sound light-hearted, you know for him it’s the most serious matter in the world. You hum in response, pulling your bedroll out of its tightly-rolled Horker skin covering, pleased to find it dry, but chilly, underneath. You spread it out on the ground; beside you, Argis is doing the same with his.

“Argis?” You call to the man.

“Aye?” He answers quickly, raising his head from his work.

“You were right, earlier. When you kept me from trying to push on in this to make it home. I’m sorry for being foolish about it,” you finish.

“Lass,” he murmurs, a soft expression upon his face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. If we were in Whiterun Hold, or anywhere in the South of Skyrim, you would’ve been right to push on. The blizzards here in the Reach are different.”

“I’ve never seen a storm as bad as this,” you agree. “The snow must be coming down a couple feet an hour, at least, never mind the drifts that are growing, and I could barely see you at twenty paces.”

“Aye, Reach blizzards build quickly and are unrelenting. They take many travelers unaware,” Argis agrees, finishing spreading out his bedroll.

“Well, thank you for knowing these lands better, and for making sure to keep us safe. The Divines blessed me the day we met, Argis,” you say honestly, finishing with your bedroll, pulling your rucksack to you, and beginning to rummage through it.

“Not as much as they blessed me,” he murmurs, and when you look up at him, the expression on his face is unreadable. You give him a small smile and return to your rucksack, triumphantly pulling out a slab of very frozen venison packed in enchanted paper, some root vegetables in a small burlap sack, and a little bit of cheese and bread. “Looks like a pretty good spread for tonight,” Argis notes, procuring a small pan from his rucksack and gathering your ingredients up.

“Aye,” you agree, continuing to root around in your bag.

“We probably don’t need much else,” the Bulwark offers, but you’ve already found what you wanted buried at the bottom of the sack.

“Here - we - are,” you grunt, pulling it out laboriously until it sits before you - prize of all prizes - an oversized bottle of beautiful, golden Honningbrew mead.

“I can’t believe you packed that,” Argis laughs, shaking his head at you in disbelief.

“But I’m sure you’re glad to see it, all the same,” you laugh back. The big Nord lets out a deep belly laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, before admitting,

“Aye, I can’t argue with that.”

As you finish your dinner, you can’t help but think to yourself that you and Argis together are formidable - not just on the battlefield, but also in the kitchen. Or around the firepit, as the case had been tonight. In fact, you were hard-pressed to find a time on the road when the two of you hadn’t managed to take whatever scraps were in your bags and conjure up something delicious out of them.

“That was good,” Argis shouts, echoing your thoughts. His voice manages to carry over the wind, which, against all odds, has again managed to pick up even further. You’ve had to set up a ward to keep the worst of it from freezing the both of you, but even the ward can’t keep all of the chill away. You smile and nod at the Bulwark, picking up the large bottle of Honningbrew mead you’d stuffed in what little snow was left by the fire. Uncorking it, you take a swig; the alcohol burns on its way down, and a warmth settles in your belly. After one more swig, you nudge Argis' arm with the bottle. Honningbrew isn't his favorite, you know. He likes that darker Black-Briar stuff. But you're a fan of the sweeter taste, and Argis has never been one to protest, especially when you’re willing to carry a surprise bottle in your rucksack and share it with him. Mead is mead is mead to him.

He takes the bottle from you, his fingers brushing yours again before closing over the neck of the bottle. His touch is surprisingly gentle for such a big man; you can’t be sure, since the fire already has your face heated up so much, but you think you might be blushing. You resist the urge to duck your head, instead reaching up to Argis’ shoulder and pulling him down so you can talk closer to his ear and be heard. There is no way you can shout over this storm now.

“You don’t happen to have any more of those sweetrolls from the other day, do you?” You ask. Argis turns towards you, his face apologetic as he shakes his head no.

“Just the meat and mead for us tonight,” he murmurs into your ear. Pulling away, he takes another deep swig of the Honningbrew mead before handing it back to you. You share the rest of the bottle in a companionable silence, listening to the howling of the wind and tasting each other’s lips on the bottle.

By the time you're crawling back into your bed rolls, you’re both quite drunk and very relaxed. Sleeping tonight should really be no problem, you muse. Still, for a little more peace of mind, you cast a couple quick lightning runes outside the tent - just far enough away to alert you if anyone were to approach. You take down the ward you’d left by the fire, setting up another one outside your shelter for the night.

Back inside the lean-to, the wind is blessedly absent, though the air is still bitingly cold.

“Do you mind if I conjure a little smokeless fire in here?” You ask Argis. The Bulwark, in the middle of unclasping the greaves that cover his shins, frowns, pursing his lips.

“Go ahead,” he says, a trace reluctantly. You know his Nord upbringing has made him naturally mistrusting of all magic, and that mistrust is still not entirely gone, despite his fondness for you and admiration for what you could accomplish with it on the battlefield. “But…please make sure it’s the smokeless kind. I don’t want to suffocate.”

“And I don’t want to freeze,” you laugh, waving your hand. A soft, blue flame sputters to life in mid-air between the two of you and, though it veritably produces no smoke, its heat still permeates the tent. You mentally thank Farengar Secret-Fire for creating this nifty little spell and for deigning to teach it to you; his work was honestly that of pure ingenuity. A condescending little snot though he may be, you admit to yourself.

Argis moves onto the cuisses that cover his mighty thighs, beginning a small pile of armor on the far side of the lean-to next to the rucksacks. You pull off your vambraces first, throwing them in the accumulating pile and starting in on your greaves next.

“Could you help me with these, when you get a chance?” Argis asks, and you turn your attention from your armor back to him. He’s pointing to the large pauldrons that sit on his shoulders, and you move closer to him obligingly.

“Of course,” you agree, your fingers setting to work fiddling with the straps and clasps that hold his heavy armor in place. You’ve done this many a night, by now, and you make short work of them, sliding both pauldrons off the Bulwark’s broad shoulders and moving to put them both in his armor pile. You help him with his cuirass next, until Argis is finally free of all armor, covered only by the light linen pants and shirt he wears underneath. You shift back to your bedroll, starting in on the cuisses over your thigh, eager to be free of the restrictive coverings as well.

“My turn to help you,” a gentle murmur comes from behind you, and a light brush of fingers at your neck lets you know that Argis is gathering your hair, moving it over your shoulder so it won’t get in the way and pulled.

“Thank you,” you reply, throwing your first cuisse into your pile.

A warm “mm,” is the only answer you get, and you smile to yourself; Argis is probably really rather drunk, having finished the majority of the oversized bottle quite quickly. The way he gets when he is drunk and tired is surprisingly adorable, you think; more like a teddy bear than the Bulwark you know him to be. You’re certain that relatively few people have ever seen him in this state.

Argis, too, knows how to make short work of your armor, and it’s not long before you’re freed of your pauldrons and cuirass, as well as the second cuisse you take off your own thigh. You sigh and stretch out, raising your arms overhead and arching your back. It feels great to be in just linens again, even if you are chillier in the slowly-warming air of the lean-to than you were with your armor on. Feeling bold, you lean back far enough in your stretch that you rest your head on the Bulwark’s shoulder behind you, smiling lazily up at him.

Argis is smiling back at you warmly - not an uncommon response to any of your antics. But, to your surprise, you feel his strong hands slide over your waist in a way that feels almost sensuous. He pulls you into his lap with ease, and you let out a quiet gasp. He pauses, his hands loosening their grip on you, his smile fading somewhat and concern that he had overstepped emerging in his eyes.

“I’m sorry -” he begins, but you cut him off, turning in the loose hold of his hands to face more towards him and hooking one arm over his shoulder. You slide your other hand up his chest, letting it rest on the large swell of his pectorals.

“You’re so warm,” you sigh, leaning into the Bulwark, a heady feeling stronger than the mead itself building in your brain.

“And by the Divines, you are cold,” he murmurs, that warm and soft smile spreading back across his face as his hands hold your waist more firmly once again. “How can you be so chilly with a fire right above you?”

“Only a Nord could ask how someone could be cold in the middle of a blizzard,” you tease back with a laugh, resting your head against his powerful shoulder and gazing up at him flirtatiously.

“Aye, very well,” Argis concedes, pulling you still closer to him, so that your breasts are pressing into his broad chest. When he speaks again, his deep voice is murmuring in your ear, the heat of his breath fluttering against your skin. “Then join me in my bedroll, and let this Nord keep you warm tonight.”

“Gladly,” you answer breathlessly. Argis lets out a quiet, low groan, one arm winding all the way around your waist now while the other reaches back for his bedroll, unfurling the covers. With ease, his powerful frame carries you close to him as he shifts back into the sheets. He lays down with you resting atop his broad frame, chest to chest, one arm still wound around your waist. With the other hand, he pulls the blankets of his bedroll over the top of the both of you, and moves beneath you, tucking them in on one side. You reach one hand up to his thick blond locks, threading your fingers through his hair and braids. Argis finishes tucking the sheets in on both sides and turns his attention back to you with another of those heart-achingly tender smiles. Gently, his thick fingers find their way into your hair, playing with the locks there. At the same time, the hand around your waist slides down, slow inch by inch, until it is resting on the outside of your hip. Still moving tortuously slowly, he slides his hand away from your hip, moving across your ass.

Hand still in his hair, you pull him in for a deep kiss. His lips are surprisingly soft and full, and you can feel the ridges of the scars that run over them as he kisses you. He’s yielding at first, moving his mouth gently against yours, the fine, trimmed hairs of his beard tickling your skin. Your head is buzzing and your whole body feels like every nerve is lit up. You’d always imagined a kiss with Argis to be rough, dominating - but this kiss, his soft lips, his hands in your hair, it’s romantic and sweet and just a little hungry, and it’s so much better than you could have ever hoped for.

“Oh, Argis,” you breathe against his lips. He lets out a deep moan; you can feel the rumble of it in his chest. After a long moment, he licks at your lips, asking entrance. You grant it to him, and he starts slow, exploring your mouth. But it’s not long before he’s battling your tongue, then winning, and he ravages your mouth in deep, hungry, passionate kisses.

The hand on your ass gives it a firm squeeze mid-kiss, and you feel a jolt of pleasure - of need - start in your core. You moan into Argis’ mouth, and he continues the hungry kiss for a long moment, pulling away slowly.

“Oh, little lady,” he growls against your lips. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How badly I’ve wanted you.”

“How long?” You breathe against his lips. You let your hand leave his hair, reaching instead for his beard and toying with the blond hairs on his chin.

“Truthfully?” He asks, and you nod. He lets out a bark of laughter, a wry smile spreading across his lips. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

“Really?” You ask, a little surprised - he had hidden it well, always professional towards you in the early days, and warm and kind towards you as your companionship blossomed.

“Aye,” he confirms, unabashed. Then, watching you carefully, the smile fading from his face, he adds, “And you?”

This time, it’s your turn to let a wry smile cross your lips, as you remember how handsome - how gorgeous, really - you’d thought the big Nord was when you first met him.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, too, big man,” you admit. The smile he gives you this time is no longer wry - he seems relieved to hear you speak those words, perhaps even genuinely happy. He pulls you back into another hungry kiss; you meet his lips with yours enthusiastically, and as he again ravages your mouth, you grab at the enormous swell of his biceps, almost as if to steady yourself. You run your fingers over the thick, bulging muscle, marveling at the size of it, how your hand doesn’t cover even half of the swell of it, how the portion you can feel ripples under your hand with power. As you explore his body, Argis squeezes your ass again, and yet again, you feel that primal jolt of pleasure. You let out a sound in response to his ministrations - a sound that is, to your ears, surprisingly needy and submissive.

This seems to trigger something in Argis, as he grabs you and maneuvers you off his broad chest, rolling so that his powerful frame now hovers above you, supported on his elbows and knees. You rest one hand on his broad shoulders, and let the hand that had been exploring his biceps move under his shirt to his chest. You run your fingers through the thick blond curls that cover his pectorals, then grope at the enormous muscles themselves, unable to keep from thinking how many times these muscles of his had saved your life. Tenderly, Argis presses another gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then works his way down your jawline and to your neck. You move your head to grant him more access, loving the way his full lips and bristly beard feel against your skin.

“Oh, little lady,” he moans, lips ghosting over your collarbone. Slowly, he lowers his hips down to rest partially atop you, some of his frame shifted to the side to keep from hurting you with his weight. As his hips come to rest atop yours, you feel the hard length of his manhood pressing into you, and you can’t help but note that your earlier name for him had been correct - he is a big man, both thick and long. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, and asks, “Is this okay for you?”

“More than okay,” you answer, grinding your hips up into his cock. He drops his head down into the crook of your neck again with a groan.

“I’m going to finally make you all mine tonight,” he rumbles, his lips against your skin.

“Please,” you breathe, grabbing at his heavily-muscled shoulders as he nips and sucks at your neck with renewed vigor. You slide your hand down from his pectorals, through his chest and body hair, to the ridges of his abdominal muscles, not yet daring to go too low - you want to enjoy feeling his body for a little longer first. You do, however, grind upwards into his manhood again, and feel him stiffen further against you. Argis grinds back down into you in response this time, and you moan to encourage him.

“And you want me to take you, don’t you, little lady?” He growls, continuing to grind into you. “You want your Housecarl to have his way with you.”

“I do,” you agree, sliding your hands just a little lower on his stomach.

"Then let’s get these clothes out of the way,” he suggests, grabbing the bottom hem of your linen shirt and starting to slide it up. You help him get yourself out of the garment, and while your hands make short work of your breast bindings underneath, Argis pulls his linen shirt off his frame. “By the Nine,” he groans when he sees your breasts laid bare before him, though you could say the same about his sculpted torso. He wastes no time, though, lowering his head to one breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple while one hand gropes and kneads at your other breast. You arch into his touch, desperate for more, but he pins you back down on the ground firmly. The hand that isn’t busy with your breast quickly gathers both your wrists up, pinning them above your head in a firm grip.

“Oh, Argis,” you moan, trying in vain to squirm against him for more pressure.

“You like the way I make you feel?” He asks, before doubling down on his assault on your nipple, flicking back and forth over it fast with his tongue.

“I do,” you agree.

“Good,” he murmurs, then pauses his ministrations to look up at you. “Because I’m going to fulfill your every desire tonight, lass. And when I’m done, you’ll know that no man can ever take care of you, as both your protector and lover, the way I can.” He moves to your other breast, first swirling it with his tongue, then flicking at it quickly.

“Argis,” you moan, halfheartedly wishing your hands were free so you could move his head down south a little- so he could put that tongue to use somewhere else.

“Promise me something,” he rumbles, this time without looking up at you.

“Anything,” you agree, all reservations gone. You’d give him just about anything right now.

“Promise me you’ll moan my name like that when you’re stuffed full with my cock,” he growls, pulling away from your nipple with a sharp scrape of his teeth.

Well. For someone who usually didn’t say anything that didn’t need to be said, he could certainly be a dirty talker in bed, you think to yourself.

The hand at your wrist releases you, and he moves to your waistband, pulling the linen pants and your undergarments down. You lift your hips obligingly, and soon, you lay completely bare before the Bulwark.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, letting his hands trail down your waist, over your hips, and over the tops of your thighs. The look he gives you is another of those heartbreakingly tender looks, and it occurs to you that Argis might not just want you - he might really love you, too.

The thought is gone a moment later as Argis maneuvers his own linen pants off himself, allowing his manhood to spring free. His cock bobs before you for a moment before flattening up against his belly.

“You’re huge,” you blurt, and it’s true - he’s so thick, you wonder if your hand would even be able to close around his base. Looking at him, the size difference between you, a Breton, and Argis, the largest Nord you’ve ever met, becomes more apparent than ever, and you wonder for a moment if he can even fit in you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, reading the concern you struggle to conceal in your expression, leaning back over you. His thumb brushes your cheek gently. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for me. I promise I won’t hurt you. And if it does hurt, we’ll stop.” You reach up for Argis, your hand caressing his cheek in return. You have no doubt that he means what he says, and again, the thought that he might love you enters your mind. Staring up at him, the man who has served as your protector, who has carried you to safety, risked his life for you, and given you his unyielding friendship, you know you can trust him with everything and anything - including this.

“Okay,” you agree, and Argis smiles, pulling you in for another deep kiss. You reach up to his enormous body above you, feeling the thick cords of muscle rippling over his chest, once again running your hands through the soft blond curls of hair that cover his chest and belly.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” you manage to tell him between open-mouthed kisses. He smiles against your lips.

“Oh. Thank you,” he mumbles, and you’re certain he almost sounds embarrassed, but still pleased. A moment later, his larger hand reaches for yours, and gently guides you just a little lower down his belly, until you are brushing against the tip of his manhood. He lets out a quiet hiss at the contact, and though he lets go of your hand, you know what it is he wants. You oblige, grabbing him at the base of his length - as you had suspected, your fingers don’t meet around him at his thickest part - and give a long pump up his shaft. When you slide back down his shaft, you take a moment to reach down to caress his balls, which are heavy and large in your palm.

You quickly return to pumping Argis up and down, and when you look away from his manhood, you see his eyes, heavily-lidded, watching you carefully. His hands are kneading your thighs, working further up them, until one hand reaches your core. He gently parts your folds, finding your clit and swirling his thumb around it. You moan and squirm under him, and he takes his other hand and pins you down at your hip, holding you in place. Continuing with the quick circles, he delves in between your folds with his fingers.

“Little lady,” he groans, “you’re so wet for me.”

“Of course,” you answer, your voice husky. “I want you so badly, Argis.”

“You’re going to have me,” the blond replies, slowly pressing one finger into you. Even his fingers are thick and long, and he takes a long moment, letting you adjust to the digit within you. Rather than begin to pump it in or out, however, he plays with the angle of it for a long moment, pressing against your front wall. It’s not long before he finds what he wants, and gently begins crooking his finger against the spot. Within moments, you’re seeing stars, the pleasure within you absolutely explosive.

“Oh, by the Nine, Argis,” you gasp, feeling the pressure against your hip intensify as the Bulwark has to work harder to hold you in place. “I - oh, Argis, that feels amazing.”

You get no response besides a low growl as Argis presses another finger into you, joining the first in its motion as his thumb keeps working away at your clit. The second finger begins to stretch you, and you try to grind into the feeling of fullness, forgetting about pumping Argis’ manhood for the moment. It’s not long before a third finger joins the first two; the sensation is almost painful, but you quickly adapt to it, spreading your legs just a bit more to accommodate Argis’ ministrations.

The pleasure is relentless, and you drop Argis’ manhood entirely to grasp at the pillow behind you with one hand and to grasp at Argis’ shoulders with the other. He watches you, seeing your pleasure build, and when you reach for the hand of his that rests on your hip, he obliges, taking your hand and holding it with a firm but gentle pressure. You hold to him tightly in return, grateful for the gentle point of connection between the two of you. Truthfully, you’re not sure if you’ve ever had sex good enough to make you cum like this, and you are feeling increasingly vulnerable before Argis, as he continues to stoke your pleasure relentlessly.

A stream of curses and cries of Argis’ name are falling from your lips, and the coil of pleasure is building ever more tightly within you. Finally, your orgasm breaks over you, slamming you in wave after wave of throbbing pleasure, and you tremble under Argis’ hands, crying his name one more time. He continues stroking you through it, eventually stilling his fingers within you, and slowly, the waves subside. In the end, you are left looking at the Bulwark, who is watching you like you’re the most gorgeous creature on Nirn.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“Oh, little lady,” he groans, pulling his fingers out of you and smearing the fluids on them across his cock. “You’re so perfect.” He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, the feeling of his beard scratching against your lips and his chest hair against your breasts electrifying. You pull him into you hungrily, and you feel him smirk against your lips. “Do you want more of me, lass?”

“Please,” you manage, feeling Argis lower himself so that his hips rest between your legs.

“I love the sound of you begging for me,” he growls, moving so that the tip of his manhood presses against your slick folds. “Begging for your Housecarl, your protector.”

“Please, Argis. Please take me,” you repeat, sliding one hand down his broad back to grasp at his firm ass and try to push him towards you. He obliges, one of his hands lowering to his manhood to guide himself as he presses into you. His tip slides in more easily than you would have expected, and he continues pressing into you, stretching you, with a low groan. He stills halfway in, waiting for you to accommodate him, but you’re already so wet, so desperate for him, that you want more. You move against him, trying to take him in further, and he chuckles, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ready for me, are you?” He sounds pleased as he eases himself the rest of the way in. You feel, for a moment, like he could split you in two, he’s so large. But then he starts moving in small, gentle thrusts, and the way he presses against all your walls, fills you and stretches you, is unrivaled. Slowly, he works up to larger thrusts, pulling back to watch you carefully for any signs of pain, but you’re already seeing stars, sensitive and excited from your last orgasm. “Doing okay?” He grunts.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Take me how you want. However hard you want.”

Argis wastes no time in obeying your order, his hips slamming into you suddenly. He sets a grueling rhythm, ravaging you with such force and power it’s all you can do to hold onto his shoulders through it. You wrap your legs around his muscular waist, offering him the opportunity to plow more deeply into you, and he takes it, never once breaking his rhythm.

A breathy moan comes out of you, followed by Argis’ name. Argis lets out a loud groan of your name in response - and then one of his enormous hands is at your neck, choking you with a gentle pressure as he continues to pound you. You feel even more pleasure coil within you at this, at your submission to the muscle-bound man fucking you without mercy.

Argis doesn’t change positions - he doesn’t need to. It’s not long before you’re coming undone on his cock, screaming his name to the heavens and clenching his manhood between your walls so tightly you feel that your orgasm may never end. He holds his pace through the waves of pleasure, but as you begin to wind down, you feel his movements becoming erratic, his hips stuttering in a desperate bid for more pleasure.

“Oh, love,” he gasps. “I’m close - I -”

Argis comes with a wordless roar, not unlike the ones you’ve heard him loose in battle, his cock shooting cum deep into you as he loses his pace entirely. Even as he rides through his orgasm, you feel the hot strands of his cum leaking down the insides of your thighs, threatening to spill onto the bedroll beneath you. Finally, he has spent himself, and he collapses above you, letting go of your throat to support some of his weight on his elbows, his face again buried in the crook of your neck.

You reach up from his shoulders to stroke his thick blond hair soothingly. Had he called you love, just then? Did he really mean it, you wonder, or was it just a figure of speech he’d used in the heat of the moment?

But when Argis raises his head from your shoulder to look at you, you see again that tenderness and adoration in his face, and you suspect that he really had meant to call you his love.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting off you and onto one shoulder, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his body.

“More than okay,” you answer earnestly. “That was amazing.” Argis chuckles in response.

“I’m glad it was as good for you as it was for me. Let me get you cleaned up.” He disappears from the bedroll for a moment, moving to his rucksack. You can’t help but watch his form as he moves - from his impossibly broad shoulders to his narrow hips and powerful thighs, you’re amazed by how gorgeous he really is. When Argis returns, it’s with a small piece of cloth, and he cleans you gently until you have no more of his hot cum leaking from within you. He wipes himself clean quicly, too, then throws the cloth to the side. You’re grateful when he returns to the bedroll, which has begun feeling chilly without him.

“The smokeless fire has gone out,” Argis mumbles into your hair as he draws you back into his chest, tucked beneath his chin. You nestle into him gratefully.

“Couldn’t keep enough focus through all of that,” you laugh. He laughs, too, but asks,

“Are you cold? Do you want to start it again?” You pull back in mock surprise, amazed that the Nord had volunteered to put up with your magical proclivities for once.

“Are you actually asking for me to use magic?” You tease with a smile, but flick your hand out from the bedsheets, starting the smokeless fire above you again.

“Only until you’re warm again,” he returns, pulling you back into the warmth of his chest again.

“Fair enough,” you laugh, one hand playing with the golden curls on his chest. “After all, I don’t know what Skyrim would do if the mighty Dovahkiin froze to death tonight.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Argis murmurs, his voice a deep rumble in his chest, reverberating throughout your body. His strong arms tighten around you, gently, protectively, and you feel the soft brush of his lips against your forehead.

“Nor I without you,” you murmur back, tipping your head up and managing to reach his lips for a return kiss. He kisses you back for a moment, then hums contentedly, deep in his throat, and tucks you back down under his chin.

“The Divines have blessed me,” Argis sighs. “This life is a hard one, at times, but by the Nine, am I blessed.” You wrap your arms around his chest, feeling the slow, soothing beating of his heart in his chest, and though you have a thousand – a million – questions for him, you don’t know how to ask any of them. Maybe they shouldn’t be asked, just yet.

“I’m blessed, too,” you whisper to Argis, and you know he hears you by the way he holds you just a little tighter. And not long after, the comfort of each other’s arms and the mead and the heat of the fire conspire to overtake you both and send you both to sleep.

#argis #argis the bulwark #argis skyrim #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #reader insert #the elder scrolls #blizzard in the reach #the elder scrolls fanfiction

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giraffles · 6 years

Text

Stay The Night

forgot to post this one here, whoops! some post-canon sweet taakitz for y’all, because I’m weak for these boys.

Stay The Night (Taako/Kravitz)

His solution, brilliantly, is to not sleep. Not until he falls over from exhaustion or passes out while cooking. He's even got everyone fooled that he's a-okay. At least he thinks he does. No one says otherwise, and that suits him just fine.

you can also read it on AO3 here!

The world doesn't end. And that's a good thing, because they didn't have a backup plan. There was no second chance, no desperate bid for freedom, no tedious reset. It was all or nothing. And they came out on top with all the sweet victory they could ever want. Against all odds, they won. They won, and it's a flood of joy and relief and tinged with a little disbelief. And it's absolutely exhausting. Taako isn't sure if it's physical or mental or just an ungodly combination of both. Maybe it's the weight of over one hundred years of memories finally catching up to him. It's a lot to have lived through, and then to have lived through again, much less cobble back together a coherent understanding of his place in the world. Like, holy fuck. That's a lot to wade through. Sometimes it gives him such a bad headache that it's easier not to think about it, and focus on the here and now. On rebuilding. On reconnecting with those he'd lost but some how found again against all odds. Lup has taken to finding new ways to scare the living hell out of everyone, from floating through the bureau at night to phasing through walls. She even startled him and wasted a whole pot of soup when she popped her lich head up through it. (He had chased her, for all the good it wouldn't do, while she cackled and made full use of her incorporeal form. It had been equal parts nostalgic and aggravating.) Magnus carves ducks in between rebuilding jobs, even though Fisher has long since departed their universe. Merle is trying, and mostly succeeding, to boost morale as they shift through the wreckage, finding what can be saved and mourning what cannot. Everyone is there. Everyone is safe. And yet there's this looming feeling of impending doom that just won't quit. It's as though that through the act remembering, Taako has forgotten what it's like to feel safe. Ignorance really was a sort of bliss, as much as the fuzzed out edges of his life had caused a constant turmoil, because now it's a struggle to stay on top of everything. So much is the same and yet so much can never be the same again. You can't go through something like the apocalypse and not be changed. Sure, at his core he's still Taako, from TV, a living brand name, a hero to be sung about down the ages; but now he's a different kind of Taako. Literally. It still takes a lot to convince himself he doesn't need the illusion spell every morning, and sometimes he does it anyway. Just a little. Nothing too noticeable, but enough to make him feel better, especially on the very likely chance that he hasn't slept much. Sleep is hard now. Meditation is straight out the fuckin' window. Nights and days get stretched together when he's plagued with either insomnia, or worse, the dreams. No, not dreams, because that would imply fantastical but harmless mind adventures. These are memories. Always back to the goddamn memories. The worst ones, the times they almost didn't make it, when he had to watch friends die or feel the cold sting of death himself. Or memories that his brain decided to make up new, more grim endings; his sister, turned to ash, his boy, bleeding out on the floor. Endless rounds of games in a horror carnival that leaves everyone he ever cared about in pieces. Things that leave him awake and gasping and on the edge of tears. Things like that. His solution, brilliantly, is to not sleep. Not until he falls over from exhaustion or passes out while cooking. He's even got everyone fooled that he's a-okay. At least he thinks he does. No one says otherwise, and that suits him just fine.

Date night rolls around. Taako has been looking forward to it all month, a distraction and an excuse to monopolize Death's free time. No business talk. No family. No not-actually-family-but-kinda-sorta-maybe-adopted family. Just the two of them, together, for a nice evening. And god, did he need a break. There's still so many loose ends to tie up, so many things that still need to be sorted out. Not to mention the new void of what the hell he was going to do with his life now. Kravitz stops when he sees him. He squints at Taako, and frowns. "Are you okay?" "Just fine, babe," as fine as he could be, really, "Why, didja forget how gross I looked now?" When all else fails, self-deprecating humor is where it's at. He can preen and put himself down at the same time. Win-win. Kravitz pauses, brows knitted and looking at him intently, seemingly gathering up the right words. "Taako," he begins carefully, "When was the last time you slept?" "Dunno. What's today?" The reaper sighs. He rubs his forehead. Taako drapes himself lovingly in his arms. He's dizzy on an endorphin high and ready for a night out on the town with his most beloved bae. Even if said bae keeps looking at him with such a sour face, and-- "You're going to bed. Right now." "Oh no--" Taako attempts to bolt, but has already made the fatal mistake of allowing Kravitz so close. He might not technically be alive, but he has all the strength of a man his size, and Kravitz has him in a vice grip. He struggles. Any other day of the week and he'd be admiring those guns, but today they're helping commit a great betrayal. Taako whines. "Babe! C'mon!" "No," Kravitz picks him up and starts carrying him inside, "You look like I should be collecting your soul soon, and frankly, that's a little alarming." Taako does his best to wriggle out of his grasp, but it's fruitless. Kravitz can be just as stubborn as he is. Taako resorts to flailing and complaining. However, neither of those slow down the reaper, who's drawing ever closer to his dormitory door. "I don't need sleep! It's for the weak!" "Yes, you do," Somehow Kravitz manages to keep a hold of him even as Taako flips himself upside down, which is both impressive and infuriating, "We can go out another time." Taako huffs and crosses his arms, braid swinging freely and dragging on the floor. This sucks. He can't even get one lousy night to not think about how overwhelming everything is. Kravitz is the worst and he hates him. (He doesn't, of course, he adores his hot boyfriend who's sometimes a skeleton, who's both a badass and a giant dork. He's just mad at him at the moment.) Taako gives him the silent treatment. It's harder to do than it looks, because he'd much rather be vocal about the injustice that's happening to him. Kravitz sighs again. "Taako--" "I'm not talking to you." "Love, please," the pet names have come out, and he resolves to not let it affect him, "You know I care, right?" "I guess," Taako pouts as he's gently set on a couch, "But I wanted to spend time with you." Kravitz looks conflicted. Taako sulks and makes a point to avoid eye contact. So maybe he's a little cranky for only sleeping three hours out of as many days. It's still not fair. "I could stay." Kravitz says. He blinks dumbly up at him. "Do what now?" "Stay with you. While you get some rest. That's a lot creepier out loud than it was in my head." "Do you even need to sleep?" "No," Kravitz admits, "But I wouldn't mind. I mean, if you wanted me to. I don't have to. But I could, I have the whole night off, not that I expected to... do anything. For the whole night. I should stop taking now? I'm stopping now. Sorry." He can't believe he's in love with such a ridiculous, stupid, wonderful, and kind person. Entity? The definition was kind of up in the air for that one. Taako doesn't have to look to know that Kravitz is blushing, probably all the way up to his ears, off-kilter and rambling. He's still wrapping his head around the idea that there are persons out there who, honest to gods, want to put Taako first. Taako doesn't even think Taako deserved that. Sure, that's not what he tells people-- because no one needs to know how bad the inner battle gets. In some ways remembering has made it easier. In others, it's that much harder now. He thinks, that maybe, it would be nice to have someone at his side. Someone who liked him before his life's story got broadcast through reality. Taako considers the proposal for a moment. "Okay." "Okay?" "Okay as in, you best be ready to get super snuggled. I'm clingy as hell." Kravitz gives him a shy smile. "I think I can handle that."

Kravitz has a bigger frame than he does-- nothing like Magnus or Killian who are built like brick shit houses, but he's not as slight as Taako is. Even as a flipwizard, there's not much he can do about genetics and non-athletic career choices. It takes him a minute to fish out some of his more drapey clothes that have half a chance of fitting Kravitz. As much as he enjoys the suit and cloak ensemble, it's not exactly practical sleepwear. And it would be a shame to excessively wrinkle it. Unless it was gonna be in a sexy way, but that should probably wait until another time, when he's fully present for all the fun. Taako's fanciest skirt goes flying across the room, landing on a bookshelf that has less books than colorful knick-knacks and choice pieces of junk. The first time Kravtiz had come over, in a panic he had tried to cover everything in sheets instead of cleaning up, but somehow managed to trip and pull them all down at once. It had been equal parts hysterical and mortifying. Kravitz said that his collection of garbage was 'charming'. Taako still isn't sure he believes that, but it's still sweet. What's also sweet is the way that Kravitz pointedly looks away, trying to be respectful or something-- as though they haven't fucked wildly on various flat (and not so flat) surfaces around his room. He's flustered and it's still as cute as the first time it happened. And nothing would top that first morning, that so called walk of shame where Merle gave them a knowing wink when they came down for breakfast, and Taako had 'accidentally' burned his pancakes in return. At least everyone else had a little more tact and kept their opinions and eyes to themselves. None of them also wanted burned pancakes. But he sets aside those more recent and pleasant memories for pajamas instead, wiggling into them and undoing his complicated orante braids as Kravitz dons his spare clothes. They're still a little tight on him. Taako is very okay with this. "Just sleeping." Kravitz says firmly, catching his gaze. He pouts back. "Not even a little smooching?" The reaper pauses and seems to think on it a moment, though he knows what the answer will probably be. Taako makes his eyes extra big and disarming anyway, having perfected the cute puppy look years ago. You could never be too sure. "Fine, a little smooching," Kravitz yields, "But you have to get some rest." Taako dramatically falls forward into those strong arms again, knowing he'll be easily caught and securely held. "Then take me to bed, big guy." He doesn't miss that breathless laugh, and revels in the way his heart lifts as he's easily swung up and onto his unmade bed. There's no illusions here that if Taako really wanted to he could have a dozen different spells incapacitating his lover, leaving escape for him wide open. Power acquired over decades of study and practice and mad dashes across planes has given him abilities previously only talked about in legends. And so maybe he is a legend, something that should be mysterious and untouchable, always sought but never found. Just like a light they'd once chased through realities. A story to be sung, a name to be called in hushed tones, an abstract ideal to be strived towards. So it's nice, he thinks, when Kravitz looks at him like a person. When Kravitz gets frustrated with him, exasperated, or even bemused. When he looks at Taako like he's the whole world and then kisses him like it's ending all over again. It's nice to have that grounding force to remind him that he's not entirely a fuck up and that he's also not just a product of good marketing. He never thought it would matter to him so much. But it does, and every action is an affirmation, from the way Kravitz smiles at him to the way he runs fingers so gently through his hair. It's wonderful and it hurts and it's so good. He's drunk on the feeling of being wanted. "It's... not too cold, is it?" Kravitz asks him nervously as he curls up on that broad chest, nestling into the crook between neck and shoulder. Yes, he's cool to the touch-- he's never been anything approaching warm since Taako met him. But he's gotten used to it, adapted even, because Kravitz doesn't feel icy and doesn't leave him with a chill. It's almost pleasant in weird way. "S' fine," he mumbles back sleepily, "Kinda nice, actually." Already something is different from all the other times he'd recently crawled into bed or dozed off in the foyer. Something shifts, puts a damper on the rolling anxiety and dread. It takes him another few long moments to realize it's an aura of safety that he's been missing. A bit of calm in a turbulent sea that's been threatening to sink him for weeks. There's no heartbeat beneath his ear, and he's sure the breathing part is either habit or for his own benefit, but it's a piece of normalcy that soothes beyond a doubt. It's something he hadn't realized he even needed. Something solid. Something real. He wraps his arm around Kravitz and holds tight. Taako hadn't been kidding about the clinging part, knowing full well from his days of youth he had a tendency to latch onto things (or someones) in his sleep. This is still different, a conscious effort not to let go of a tie keeping him close to home. Because petty fears and insecurities only seemed to grow as time went on, feeding on each other and plaguing every thought both conscious and not, bringing him to the vicious cycle he was now caught in. And while usually the words would flow so easily, he now found them strangled in his throat. They died before Taako can give them a voice. Kravitz must have felt the tension reverberating through his body, because a hand comes up to push circles into his back. Yes, they've banged countless times, but this is a different intimacy. A different context for something slow and sweet. And he suddenly feels bad for being so needy and high maintenance, but can't summon the energy to do anything about it. "I'm right here," Kravitz murmurs into the darkness, "I'm not going anywhere." And really, that's all he needs to know. That there's someone there. That it's safe to let go.

#the adventure zone #taz #taz fanfic #taakitz #fanfiction #ao3fic #they do the cuddle #I have so many taako feelings how do I hold them all #taz spoilers #giraffles

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