Work Text:
The first time you gifted Elliott with a duck feather, he was overjoyed. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but then you laughed as he excitedly pulled you into his cabin and showed you how he transformed it into a quill.
Even to this day, you love bringing them in from the coop as you discover them. Enjoy sitting down next to him at your kitchen table as he shaves off some of the feathering and sands the shaft smooth before creating the nib with steady hands and a small pocket knife.
He has a collection kept in a jar on his desk in the office. A mix of turkey feathers for their size, goose feathers for their durability, and even the occasional crow feather when he needs a tip to produce finer lines. Yet they all pale in comparison to his beloved duck quills.
There’s just something about the shimmer of an iridescent green mallard feather that makes you think of how the emerald of his eyes lights up at them. That reminds you of how he brushes the soft plume of it absentmindedly along his lower lip, the tips of fingers stained in ink as he searches for the perfect word.
It’s not until you’re married and settled that you find another use for the feathers once they’re no long appropriate for writing.
It’s a random evening in winter, and there’s not much to do, save snuggle by the fire and read while Elliott writes. So, of course you notice when he sets the quill down with a sigh, stretching his hands above his head. You can hear the soft pop of his spine, the low moan of a body that has been locked in one position for far too long.
“Do you think the ducks would be obliged to part with another quill for me any time soon?”
It’s something he often says, always in jest. He knows patience must be practised while waiting for avian gifts.
With a sigh, he fishes through the jar of quills. “I suppose I can always go back to goose while I wait. Though I am writing romance… and goose does not inspire.”
You chuckle, knowing that if you don’t pull him from his writing during this brief reverie, you’ll lose Elliott to his next creative burst for the entire night by the time he selects his next quill.
Marking your place in your book, you set it down, slipping out from under the throw blanket and padding with bare feet over to your husband. You slide your arms around his neck in a hug, kissing that spot just behind his ear that he likes, before absentmindedly reaching for the discarded quill on the side of the desk.
Elliott melts into you. Posture relaxing in increments as his head tilts back against your shoulder. Gifted with a delightful view of the Adam’s apple bobbing against his neck and the soft, even way his chest rises and falls, you get an idea.
The feather tuft of the quill traces along the lines of his neck. First, over the bobbing in his throat as he sighs and swallows, face turning ever so slightly into you, before it trails down along his collarbones playfully.
“My muse,” he murmurs as you find his lips. One hand working the feather, while the other loosens the buttons down the collar of his shirt.
When you come up for air, it’s only so you can nudge your nose playfully against his with a whispered question.
“Bed?”
New quill forgotten, he stands, scooping you up in one fluid motion and carrying you to the bedroom.
The afternoon is spent worshipping his body. Tracing a path first with feather, then with lips and tongue and teeth as he gasps softly beneath your touch. You make note of the sensitive places that the quill elicits the strongest response from; places that were hidden from the both of you, just needing the correct kind of touch to discover.
And if you leave a few marks and love bites behind, well, who could really fault you for that? Not when you want to see your handiwork on the blissed out, completely relaxed man before you. His mermaid’s pendant resting as languidly against his sternum as he is against the mattress.
Later on, when you’re tucked up against his body like you’ve always belonged there. When he’s resting peacefully, lulling in and out of that space between dreams and waking, where he’s all soft sighs and even softer smiles, you find he can’t seem to stop touching you.
Long fingers trace the lines of your hips, up and down your arms and back as his lips find your temple, your eyelids, the crown of your head again and again.
“As much as I love producing quills from the duck feathers you bring me, I do believe you have just unlocked my new favourite thing to do with them,” he chuckles.
Humming in agreement, you snuggle closer. “Couldn’t agree more, my bard.”
Because quite suddenly, the excitement you will now feel at the thought of a quill reaching the end of its lifespan has given you a brand new appreciation for them as well.