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@destinationtrekk
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last updated: october 24, 2024
requests: closed
all my writing is gender neutral unless otherwise specified. i'm human and bad grammar/mistakes happen. if you don't like, don't read!
all of my oneshots are posted to ao3!
ஜ albert wesker x reader
oneshots
☛ i notice (when you're not around) : 2.3k, mature, ao3 link
▸ He promised to always answer when you needed him, no matter what. Or, 5 times he answers your call, and one time you answer his.
☛ not there yet : 1.3k, teen, ao3 link
▸Wesker doesn't realize he's in a love story until he's nearly too late.
☛ daybreak : 1.1k, teen, ao3 link
▸Even a hardened Captain needs a break sometimes.
☛ nightfall : 2.2k, teen, ao3 link
▸ Your Captain returns the favor. Sequel to daybreak
☛ arcadia: 1.9k, teen, ao3 link
▸ This is only a dream, and you will never hear that laugh again.
ficlets (long asks)
☛ getting a hug when you're sick : fluff
☛ wesker and pregnant!reader : afab!reader
☛ wesker trauma comfort
☛ young!wesker at a party
☛ inexperienced oral : nsfw
☛ wesker showing you off to your ex : nsfw
☛ CNC with wesker : nsfw, read trigger warnings first!
☛ Albert Wesker NSFW Alphabet : nsfw
☛ domestic wesker : nsfw, afab!reader
☛ domestic wesker : nsfw, amab!reader
☛ aftercare with wesker : nsfw
☛ wesker and vampire!reader
☛ uroboros!wesker's psyche
headcanons and asks
tags to follow
☛ 2024 trekk'o'ween
☛ amab!reader tag
☛ platonic!wesker
☛ tattoo artist!wesker
☛ cat!wesker tag
☛ b.o.w.!reader tag
☛ sub!wesker tag : nsfw
spotify playlists + audios
☛ re5 wesker : dark and sexy
☛ s.t.a.r.s. wesker : angsty
☛ post-uroboros wesker : bittersweet and loving
☛ wesker elevenlabs audios
if i dont respond to a message from you i can basically guarantee its not because i dislike you. im just getting attacked by imps and shit all the time genuinely.
#RESIDENTEVIL Zeno - miuoiaのイラスト - pixiv
viruses can wait he has fashion weeks to go to
started a new Skyrim playthrough with the gates of sovngarde modpack… mercer what the fuck
God your tags on that one post about how Brynjolf (and Cicero) don’t know what the amulet of mara means is so fucking funny to me. Like imagine wearing it only around him, going so far as to practically shove it in his face, but every time he’s just like “that’s some pretty jewelry” and you’re tearing your hair out in frustration. One day some other guild member finally takes pitty on you and tells Bryn what it means and his eyes so wide and he’s like I’VE BEEN A FOOL
it’s the only reasonable explanation. the other option is that bethesda made these interesting characters but won’t let me marry them.
“Nice jewelry, lass.” He commented on the first day. You’d waltzed up to him, summoning every bit of courage you could find before planting yourself in his way. Brynjolf barely paused to compliment the amulet before moving on.
You keep trying. You make sure that the amulet of Mara is resting in place over your armor whenever you speak to Brynjolf just waiting for him to acknowledge it. You even cornered Maramal in the Bee and Barb to make sure you hadn’t misunderstood his explanation.
“You steal that from someone important?” Brynjolf teased the next time you drew his attention to the amulet. He had to be joking. How could he not know? You’re sure that you’re following the traditions. You help the person you are courting with something they need to win favor and wear the amulet of Mara to show your intent to marry them. Salvaging the Guild and killing Mercer seemed like enough to win his favor.
It’s disheartening. You lounged behind the Guild Master’s desk and yanked the amulet from around your neck. Staring at the gleaming gems you could feel the dread in your stomach, the one explanation that you won’t let yourself think about. It would hurt too much to consider.
“Has he figured it out yet?” Cynric interrupted the downward spiral of your thoughts. You tucked the amulet into your pocket to push the thoughts away.
“I’m starting to think he’s just not interested.”
“Yeah right.” He snorted before walking away again. You didn’t put the amulet of Mara back on that day.
You still wore it, ignoring the comments from others about your eligibility. You tried to approach the topic with Brynjolf but he never seemed to fully grasp what you were trying to stay. The doubt was still digging into your mind - maybe he just didn’t want anything more serious. You’d had fun flirting and the times he’d shared your bed had left you wanting so much more of him. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way.
“You still haven’t told me where you got the necklace.” He commented once in the Flagon and you felt yourself tense. You could just tell him exactly what it meant to you. You could tell him that you wanted so much more of him, that you were in love with him. But the memory of him brushing off the meaning of the amulet halted your words.
“The temple of Mara.”
“Is it valuable? You could probably get a good price from Tonilia for it.”
“Yeah, probably.”
-
Brynjolf watched you walk away confused by how quiet you’d been. He wasn’t sure what it was but you weren’t acting like yourself. You seemed reserved, almost embarrassed. He wondered if he should stop bringing up the necklace. Maybe it had some personal meaning you weren’t ready to talk about.
“You could just tell her no.” Karliah’s voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts. “If you aren’t interested you shouldn’t keep stringing her along.”
“What?”
“The amulet, Brynjolf.” She had him pinned in her glare across the table. The amulet? The necklace you’d seemed to proud of?
“Yeah I’ve complimented it like five times. What else do you want me to do?”
“Oh my god I want you to remember the lessons about the aedra and the daedra.”
“What do the aedra have to do with anything?” Brynjolf couldn’t work his way through whatever riddle Karliah had given him. “We already returned the Skeleton Key. Did we earn some new curse when she took the amulet?”
“What is Mara’s domain?” She spoke slowly as if he should already know where she was headed with this conversation.
“Love.”
“Correct. Love. And the temple upstairs, the temple of Mara, what happens there?”
“A lot of praying. Sermons.” Was she trying to insinuate that the Guild Master had become religious?
“Marriages, Brynjolf.” Karliah rolled her eyes at him before continuing. “So, if someone were to purchase an amulet of Mara from the temple of Mara, that would mean they wanted what?”
“Oh fuck.”
Brynjolf rushed into the Cistern after you. He spotted you behind the Guild Master’s desk, feet propped up while you flipped the amulet over in your hands. You were glaring at it and he mentally kicked himself. He approached slowly on shaking legs, too many half formed apologies and explanations trying to spill out at once.
“I’m so sorry.” He kneeled beside you, hating the silence he was met with. Your eyebrows raised at his words but you wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t blame you for hating me. I’m so sorry lass, I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine.” You tossed the amulet onto the desk and he felt his heart sink. “It’s not your fault. Just forget the whole thing.”
“No.” He grabbed your hands, begging you to look at him. “Please give me one more chance.”
“Brynjolf it’s fine. I get it if you don’t want anything more.”
“One more try, lass.” His heart was in his throat when he seized the amulet from the desk, tugging it over his head. You finally met his gaze and he saw the nervousness there, unsure how he could have been clueless for so long. “I’m in love with you. I’m sorry that I’ve been a fool.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to do this.” He grabbed your hands again, scrambling for something more to say. “Please say you still want to marry me.”
“On one condition.”
“Anything, lass.”
“You have to wear the amulet as long as I did.”
Your post about Brynjolf being head over heels for TLD fem!recruit and now I can't stop giggling at that exact situation but it's fucking Mercer. MERCER. FUCKING GRUMP MASTER HIMSELF. WARMING UP TO THE NEW BLOOD.
The family start making bets and drinking games and Brynjolf keeps a personal counter of all the signs as his second-in-command.
TLD is completely oblivious. 👍
"Five septims."
"You're crazy."
"Make it ten septims."
Delvin pauses at that. Brynjolf watches eagerly as the old man rolls the wager over in his mind, a coin flipping between his thumb and forefinger. It's perfect - Delvin loves to gamble and Brynjolf hates to lose.
"Fine." Delvin snarks before finishing off his ale. "You're on, Bryn. Hope you're ready to lose some money."
He isn't bothered by the dry laugh or taunting words. Brynjolf knows he'll be a few coins richer soon enough. Delvin and Vex may not see it but he does - the way Mercer's glare softens and his words become less harsh around her.
From the moment he recruited her, Brynjolf felt he'd done something monumental. He'd thought it was merely new blood to refresh the Guild's initiative. To get the old thieves competitive and back on their game. He had no clue the trouble he'd caused until she stood before the Guild Master, finger pressed to his chest and he watched Mercer Frey fold.
He'd witnessed the way Mercer had stuttered through his explanation until she was satisfied. This new recruit had turned on her heel, excitedly grinning at Brynjolf and brandishing her first payoff while Mercer sunk into his desk. With his head in his hands Mercer's face turned bright red and Brynjolf feared for his recruit's life.
It didn't click until he saw them at the Flagon. The recruit had been perched at the bar and Brynjolf took his usual seat near the others. Vekel had said something that made her laugh and Mercer, barely across the threshold, had frozen.
Mercer glared at Vekel in a way that usually ended in violence. Confused, Brynjolf had tuned out Rune's story to inspect the situation. Mercer righted himself, hands flexing at his sides as he continued walking. His expression flattened into something normal before he joined the recruit at the bar, shoulder just barely brushing hers.
He likes her.
Everything after that made too much sense. Brynjolf is surprised he's the only one to notice - the thieves are a gossipy bunch. Surely they'd love to dissect their Guild Master having a crush on the new girl. They're too busy moaning about the lack of jobs and coin to notice, it seems.
It's become a mild entertainment for Brynjolf. Watching the two dance around each other seemingly oblivious to their own feelings. The recruit growing into a skilled thief and Mercer watching from the sidelines with an uncharacteristic softness. He isn't kind - Brynjolf's fairly certain Mercer isn't capable of kindness. But when she's around his voice is less harsh and his glare lessens. Like somewhere under all that bite and vitriol he doesn't want to scare her off.
Rune is the first to join Brynjolf's side. The two are gathered around the Cistern after an uneventful day when the recruit calls Mercer's name. His head snaps up and Bryn feels Rune tense at his side.
"She's about to learn the hard way." Rune chuckles under his breath but Brynjolf doesn't bother responding. Mercer doesn't snap back at her, doesn't berate her or shoo her away from his desk. He lets her lean closer, a necklace glittering between them.
Mercer doesn't complain about her messing up the stack of contracts he'd been sorting through. He doesn't scold her for stealing something without a contract or client lined up to buy it. He smiles up at her, fingers dancing over the jewels so close to hers and murmurs something the pair spectating them can't hear.
"Well fuck me." Rune mutters and Brynjolf knows he's about to become ten septims richer. "Guess you were right."
It takes time but the others all come around. Ten septims turns into twenty, thirty, forty until he's collected on every bet against him. It almost gets boring to watch the pair awkwardly sidestep their emotions once there's no money to be made.
"Drink every time you think they're gonna kiss." Cynric's suggestion has everyone locked back in. It's a bit sad how long they've both gone without realizing how the other seems to feel - hell, Brynjolf's fairly certain Mercer doesn't even recognize his own feelings.
Eventually, Brynjolf's sure he can't take it anymore. They have to be willfully ignoring the tension. It's so obvious - months of nervous eye contact and hand brushes. Brynjolf's never been drunk this frequently but the two refuse to acknowledge whatever's between them.
"You think they'll ever figure it out?"
"We should tell 'em."
"No! That's cheating!"
"You lot have been awfully chummy lately."
Everyone freezes at Mercer's voice. It's the icy, unkind tone they're used to. Brynjolf turns to their Guild Master and plasters on a nonchalant look, hoping Mercer doesn't notice the fat coin purse at his side.
"Isn't that good?" Mercer's glare cuts straight to him. "Camaraderie and all that?"
"What're you up to?"
"Nothin'." Brynjolf lies, failing to ignore the way Mercer's eyes flick to the girl waiting for him at the bar. Thank god for that distraction. "Don't let us keep you, someone's waitin'."
Maybe he said too much. Delvin kicks his ankle under the table as soon as Mercer stalks away. Brynjolf takes another deep drink when Mercer spins the girl's stool, eliciting a little laugh as her knee knocks into his hip. She offers him a drink of whatever she ordered and Vekel's eyes nearly roll out of his head.
"They'll get there someday." Brynjolf mumbles to the crowd of thieves all drinking around him. "Maybe."
"Hope so. If I keep drinkin' like this I'll keel over." Delvin laughs as their Guild Master accepts her drink, a hand resting on her thigh. Brynjolf just files the memory away for later - someday down the road when things are settled Brynjolf will have to poke fun at them for this. For now he's content watching from the sidelines.
Brynjolf wonders if having fun at their expense has earned him some bad karma. They're both horrible to be around while the other is away. Mercer's biting the head off anyone who dares to breathe too loudly or walk in his general direction while she's gone. His favorite little thief merely sulks at the bar, her good natured attitude seemingly drained by the absence of their cranky Guild Master.
"If you don't shut the fuck up I'll ship you off to the Brotherhood." Mercer snaps because Brynjolf has the gall to set a dagger down.
Her return to the Cistern makes all the annoyance worth it. Brynjolf and his cadre watch eagerly as she bounds into the Flagon, failing miserably at hiding the way she searches for Mercer.
"Welcome back, lass." She gives him a little wave, opening her mouth as if she'll say something before she pauses. Brynjolf feels the moment Mercer enters the Flagon - her expression grows into a genuine smile and she hustles forward a few steps.
"Mercer." She says his name like it's a greeting. Vex tries to cover her snort of laughter with a bite of dinner but Brynjolf doesn't get their disgust at the ordeal. It's nice to see the old man soften once in a while, even if they do have to withstand the awkward sight of those two staring at each other.
It takes far too long. Everyone's grown bored and moved on to other silly games by the time Mercer breezes into the Flagon and kisses her. They hardly pay any attention - it's like there's a string tied between them. Every time one's in the Cistern the other is never far away.
She makes a surprised sound and Mercer mutters a half apology, ignoring the collective gasp around the Flagon. Brynjolf can't contain his grin when his Guild Master ignores them, choosing instead to stare at the girl he's clearly in love with.
"I didn't know you felt that way." She laughs, nervously grabbing the front of his armor.
"Don't worry, lass." Brynjolf interrupts, earning laughs from his fellow thieves. "We all knew for ya."
“spins the girl's stool, eliciting a little laugh as her knee knocks into his hip” RAHHHHHH im gonna frow up (affectionate)
It is done!!
Wedding Night - Vinsmoke Sanji
Germa!Sanji / Princess!Reader Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Fem!Reader [No use of y/n] Summary: Your husband brings you to his home and you prepare yourself to perform the duties of a wife. CW: Forced / Arranged Marriage, Angst, Word Count: 2.7k
CH 4 <<<<PREV CH NEXT CH>>>> One Piece Masterlist Sanji Masterlist
➽──────────────❥
Cold. Empty. Desolate. Not even the stars touch the silent sea as Sanji sails you to Germa. The small boat cuts through the water, coasting through the ink as he rounds his island. Even in the dark, the shadows of the island rise up against the midnight- great silhouettes of stone fortresses far more inhospitable than the sea surrounding. The nomadic nation of Germa is an engine of war traveling from one kingdom to the next, leaving ruin in its wake. As it has your kingdom, as it has others- as it has the entire North Blue only a few generations ago.
It hadn’t taken you nearly as long to arrive as you had hoped. Finding a gap in the fortress, Sanji steers towards a stone dock before effortlessly mooring the boat. Still and quiet, only the waves gently lapping at the sides, barely rocking the vessel- you feel his presence standing at your back. Feel the heat seep down your spine under the intensity of his gaze. Yet, you are frozen where you are.
Until a heavy hand rests upon your shoulder, thawing you out. “Come,” he urges gently, keeping his hands respectfully at your elbows as you rise. Sanji helps you move to the edge of the boat, and your heart near bursts when his hands to go your waist- lifting you onto the dock- before quickly pulling away and offering his arm.
Taking it, you try to calm your breath. Pulling Sanji’s jacket tighter around your shoulders, you stave off the chill racing across the water as your heels click over the stones. When you take the first step on solid ground- on the ground of the country that must now be your home after stealing you away from yours- a piece of your heart tumbles from your chest and rolls off the bank to drop like a secret treasure to the sea.
Passing through the stone gate, you look up the slope of a hill and your breath stutters at the winding stairs rising before you. Hand clutching the flow of your wedding gown, your body already aches from the thought of the climb. However, before you can take another step, you’re swept from the ground and the whole world tips a little as your husband takes his bride into his arms.
Sanji spares you neither look nor word as he begins the ascent. Weightless in his hold, his arms are sturdy and warm and there’s no struggle or hesitation to his steps at all despite the burden of you. Despite the circumstances, the act- and the casual way he performs it- flusters you. This is the first time in your life you’ve been unchaperoned with a man, and he’s already thoughtlessly touching you like it’s second nature. Grateful for the night to hide the blush at your cheeks, you keep statue still in Sanji’s hold. As to not make the climb more cumbersome and also in attempt not to rile him- be it to anger or otherwise- while you’re vulnerable in his grasp.
At the summit, you pass through a more ornate gate and the world comes alive with embers of starlight. Warm lights strung through tended trees, gentle firelight lining the cobble pathway with soft ribboning flames of gold. A sweet, comforting fragrance fills the air as Sanji carries you past blooming bushes.
Certainly bigger than a cottage, but not nearly so big as a castle, a villa looms with candlelit windows that cast an orange glow across the warm brick. This path approaches from the back, it seems. Moonlight glints off the glass dome of a conservatory, a small swimming pool snaking around it’s outer curve. Shutters open to gauzy curtains that soften the light within, lanterns swaying beneath the overhang casting dancing shadows, a balcony along the second story with delicate curls of moonflower through its balustrade.
As you quietly admire the sight, it takes a moment to register that Sanji has stopped moving. When your eyes slide to his, you find him looking at you so intently, you have to quickly avert your gaze- though, you still feel his own hot on your cheeks. “Do you like it?”
Your pulse picks up as you realize this must be his home. Or, one of them- at least. The one he’d deigned to show you on the eve of your marriage. The one he’d chosen to bring his bride to for his first wedded night. Meaning, it was likely important to him. “Yes,” you tell him, “it’s lovely.” Measured and polite, but genuine, you give your answer. It is a lovely home, despite how you fret over what might be done inside.
Seemingly satisfied with your answer, Sanji pushes forward and your heart beats harder with every step he takes. As if by magic, the front door gently swings open as he approaches. There’s a pleasant aroma of citrus and cinnamon curling out from within, inviting light spilling across the stones- deepening the gold of Sanji’s hard eyes as he passes into it.
At the door, he looks down at you- patient until you hold his gaze again. Only once you do, does he cross the threshold with his bride in his arms. Softly, the door closes behind him and heartbeats sync between you before he gently places you upon the floor.
For the first time today the whole world is quiet. Sanji shifts where he stands, but his face remains impassive. Worry clenches around your heart that he’s becoming impatient. Yet, despite no betrayal of emotion, you can’t help but feel there’s a taut string of uncertainty between you.
“Are you hungry?”
“Hungry…?” your eyes snap to his.
“You didn’t eat much,” he says like he’s trying to reason out what should be happening next, despite knowing it’s entirely to his discretion.
“Oh,” you shake your head, “I’m not, but thank you.” Nervously, your hands press together before you as you try to maintain your manners, even as your heart threatens to leap from your chest.
“I’ll make you something,” he says quickly, already moving as if he didn’t even register your response. Unsure what to do, you simply follow through the hall and pass through a carved archway into an open kitchen.
Warm and inviting, wood accents the brick- well tended, but antique and time worn. Spices dry on their stems from racks bolted to the wall, gleaming copper coated pots and pans thoughtfully arranged. It’s artful, but it’s habituated- someone uses this space. Frequently, judging by the scuffs in the stone, the half-full bottles of colorful liquids and oils, the finger-worn outlines on the cabinet doors.
Quietly, you take a seat at the smaller table, catching your own reflection in the wide windows that look out towards the garden. Distorted, eyes barely visible as the wash of your gown haunts your ghostly figure, so far from the reflection of the woman you glanced before walking down the aisle. You can’t help but wonder if something more than your name was irrecoverably altered upon that dais.
A gentle aroma pulls you from your thoughts and you look to see Sanji standing diligently at the stove, hands moving in steady rhythm as he pours and blends something together. His focus is so intense and his motions are ceaselessly fluid, not slowing even to measure out the mixture.
It’s a soft scent- floral, but not overly sweet. Herbal, but not too earthy. It’s pleasant. So pleasant that your body calms as you continue to take deep breathes just to bring it into yourself. Eyes lingering on your husbands concentrated profile, the ease of his movements and the relaxing aroma lull you into a comfortable sort of silence- barely registering anything of your circumstance until he comes to stand before you, placing a cup at your fingertips.
Slowly, he sits across from you, hands clasped atop the table- just waiting. Little curls of steam wisp softly from the cup and it’s warm against your palms, but not scalding. Bringing it up, you let it rest atop your chest, seeping in the warmth and thawing out the lingering chill. Sanji leans forward a bit, transfixed as he watches and you take a sip just to try and escape the intensity he bears upon you.
Foreign flavors dance across your tongue and savor down like honey when you swallow, flowing and filling the colder cracks within. It’s warm and delicious and overwhelmingly comforting. With a sigh, your eyes flutter as you take a second long sip before bringing it back down to the the table, but not releasing it from your grasp. “Thank you,” you offer him a quiet courtesy, “it’s good.”
Sanji visibly relaxes. Though, his face remains impassive, his body eases back in his chair and droops with the exhale of a breath he’d been holding for too long. Slowly, you take another sip before staring down into your cup- suddenly torn between drinking it all or forcing it to last. “You can have more, if you want,” he assures you.
But, your mind is torn between something else. Between stretching these minutes on long and pushing off the inevitable- or forcing them short to get it on and over with. ‘Will it hurt?’ your own voice echoes out to you from a few hours in the past and you take another long drink before you can hear the ghost answer.
Finishing off the drink, you place the empty cup onto the table- tongue darting out for a the lingering taste at your lips. Dragging this out will only prolong your torment. Hands sliding back, you clasp them in your lap and straighten your posture.
Sanji shifts in his own seat, the tension coiling back up his body. His voice is thick when he asks, “would you… like to see the rest of the house?”
“No,” your hair loosens a little more as you shake your head. “I’m…” heart pounding, throat tightening, you force the words to come. “I’m ready,” your eyes flit to your sallow reflection before you force them away, “for bed.” The words stumble on your tongue and land hot across your face, eyes downcast and tracing the woodgrain. “I’m ready,” you repeat again- for yourself, more than him.
The silence between you is viscous and taut, the rush of your blood roiling through your body as your pulse pounds. Seconds span agonizingly infinite before the scrape of his chair drags across your raw nerves as he stands. “Alright,” he acquiesces, rounding the table to pull out your chair. Your grip on him is tighter than you intend it to be as you rise on shaking legs, the world momentarily tilting.
Shoulders back, head high- and no slouching- you ease your arm in Sanji’s like a proper lady and allow him to escort you out of the kitchen. Wordlessly, he leads you through the halls you’ve yet to map in memory and up a staircase to the second floor. Steps cushioned over rich carpets, he brings you to a wood carved door- hand pausing on the ornate knob. “This is your room,” he offers, turning the handle and gesturing for you to go in before him.
Untwining from Sanji, you step into the large bedroom. A low fire crackles in the small fireplace. Colorful rugs cover the stones, plush chairs and heavy furniture artfully arranged. Large windows from the floor to the tall ceiling, layered with drapes. Glass doors partially opened to the balcony, gentle breeze just barely fluttering the gossamer inner curtains.
Then, the bed. Bigger than the one you’ve always slept in and certainly big enough for two. Posts at each corner rise up towards the ceiling, bound together with sweeping drapes- heavy at the top, sheer and delicate down the sides, tied back with satin ropes. Lush and inviting, a luxurious bed of silk and down your tired body longs to sink into it.
But, this bed is not for sleeping. At least, not right now.
With a steadying breath, you move to perch at it’s edge, hands smoothing over the soft duvet. Bringing them into your lap, you look up towards your husband- standing rigidly still in the middle of the room. “I am ready to perform my marital duty.”
For the first time today, something subtle breaks across his face- though he turns from you before you can decipher what it is. Sanji crosses the room to the fireplace, both hands on the mantel as he leans to stare into the flames. His voice rolls through the coals as he asks, “have you done this before?”
“Of course not, my Prince,” the heat simmers nervously in your gut.
“I won’t be mad,” though his knuckles whiten under his grip, “just tell me truly.”
Did he think you deceived him? “No, my Prince, I swear it.” What might he do to you if he thinks he’s been cheated? “Your father can attest to-”
“My father?” Sanji whirls on you, his voice rising.
Your pulse rises with it. “King Vinsmoke,” you correct quickly, with a bow of your head- remembering how he didn’t appreciate Marcella using improper titles at the banquet.
Sanji’s voice dips back down, tone low and hands fisting at his sides, “did he touch you?”
Heat rises, the air thickening and hot as you try to assure him, “no, my Prince. He merely supervised. He said… he said he was satisfied…” Sanji rakes his hand down his face and braces back onto the mantel, staring again towards the flames- and you swear they burn a little higher now. “I have never been with a man unchaperoned before tonight, my Prince.” Heat stings your eyes as you try to defend your virtue, shame sticking sickly in your gut and fear coiling at your spine. “My first kiss was on our alter…”
“I believe you,” he says quickly. He looks as if he wants to say more, but simply closes his mouth and sighs.
“I won’t fight you,” you promise and Sanji winces, pushing off the fireplace. Heart pounding with each of his steps, he approaches you slowly. “Whatever you ask of me,” your voice thins, “I will follow your demands.”
Sanji’s hand is hot as it comes to cup your cheek, tilting your head up to look at him. Shadows linger at his face, but the gold is molten around his eyes as he looks down at you. Gently, his thumb brushes against your rosy silken skin and your breath shudders against his wrist.
Bowing, the blue of his eyes sharpen as he comes to your height. Eyes fluttering closed as he moves in, you brace for whatever unfamiliar way he’s about to touch you.
His lips press gently to your forehead.
Then, he pulls away, capturing your gaze in his. “Goodnight, Princess.”
And he’s gone.
By the time you register his absence, he’s already slipping through the door and clicking it closed behind him. The room is quieter, darker- colder- with him gone. Sitting in shock, you brace for him to return- too afraid to rouse his temper should he come back and find you unprepared for him.
But as the long night stretches on and the fire dims, you’re quite certain he’s not coming back. Relief and terror twist together inside as you reconcile his reaction. Is he not satisfied with you? You suppose that shouldn’t be terribly surprising. Of all your sisters, you would be a Prince’s least coveted. Will he try to annul the marriage? Will he send you back?
Or simply toss you into the sea and claim another bride…?
The thought washes through you cold and fearful and you think the right thing to do would be to go after him. Insist to please him- prove that you can.
But, you simply can’t bring yourself to move. Like a snake, your mind curls around its venomous thoughts: a failure of a princess, a failure of a bride.
Tears flowing and soft sobs breaking apart on your lips, you pull your husband’s jacket tight around your body and curl up in your wedding gown atop your marital bed.
Alone.
In every way a person can be.
Braced back against the door, nothing but the dim glow of an ember lights through the darkness as the Prince fills his hollow heart with smoke, exhaling with a breath that breaks on your every sob.
➽──────────────❥ CH 4 <<<<PREV CH NEXT CH>>>>
Do you have any snippets of WIP’s you’d be willing to share? I love your writing sm. I check your blog all the time
most of my WIPs aren't skyrim so sorry to disappoint lol. i'll share a few little things i work on in my free time below. some of them contain explicit sexual content so minors should not read or engage with this post in any way. and thank you for liking my writing!! it means a lot to me that people enjoy it enough to check my blog. thanks for giving me ur time :)
Miraak, Mercer Frey, and a little Simon Riley bc I've been rotating him in my brain.
Miraak Regency AU
"My lady."
She whirled, gulping at the sight of Miraak. A cool breeze swept through the parlor as she took an unthinking step closer to him. His hands remained clasped so properly at his back and those dark eyes devoured each move she made.
"My lord." She breathed, terrified to speak his name. Miraak made no move closer to her, simply staring. "Is there something you need of me?"
"My need for you is endless." His breathless admission sent her foolish heart galloping. Miraak's voice broke and finally he relented, taking a step toward her. "Could I convince you to waste a moment of your time on me?"
"It is no waste." Her voice held little sternness, fingers itching to drag him closer. She cringed at a laugh echoing from the main hall and Miraak stopped short. Terrified that another chance with him would be ruined she fumbled for a solution.
"This is no place for a private conversation."
"Oh, I agree." Despite the casual nature of his words there was a heat to them, an undercurrent she prayed wasn't imagined. Miraak's eyes bored into hers when she summoned enough courage to speak again.
"Perhaps your study would be more appropriate?"
"Lead the way."
She had no idea what would happen, but the excitement buzzing just under her skin kept her from collapsing. Miraak walked a few paces behind - he must worry over them being seeing alone, far from the watchful eyes of her parents. She couldn't quite hear his footfalls on the plush carpeting but knew he was there. The unmistakeable heat of his gaze alerted her to his presence.
Luckily she remembered the correct door and entered the very room that had haunted many dreams since her last visit. Memories rushed back when she paused in the doorway - Miraak's desk as put together as always, the leather chair he'd sat in to remove his mask, the coat rack she'd stolen a cloak from. A warm hand pressed to the small of her back and she melted into him.
"My lord." She practically moaned the title when Miraak's touch guided her deeper, door shutting behind them both. Finally she could breathe, indulging in the scent of his cologne she'd been craving so deeply.
"My lady." He sounded cross but his body pressed to hers, gloved fingers dragging the strap of her dress down. "I am not a lord to you."
"What are you?" Spurred on by a dry chuckle she grasped for his arm, making damn sure he stayed close.
"Whatever you'd like me to be."
It felt terribly natural to be touched by him once more. Miraak's hands were everywhere, mapping over her body without removing the gown. He'd raised the mask just enough for his lips to trail over her shoulder, delicate kisses left in his wake but the hunger remained. Where had his hunger gone? What had happened to the man desperate for her? Once Miraak had needed her, had left marks lasting for days after his last touch.
"If this is not to your liking tell me to stop." He murmured into her throat, a gentle kiss placed under her ear. "I will do as you please."
"You must stop restraining yourself." She panted, finally turning to face him. Miraak's mouth was visible, mask tugged up to hide his eyes from view. Those perfect lips were parted just enough to see sharp teeth and dark stubble. With quivering hands she unstrapped the back of that damned mask, readying herself for a wrath that never came.
Modern AU Mercer
There he is again, that man. He wrenches at the tie around his neck as if it's offended him. His brows are always so tight. You wonder what he does for work that leaves him so tense.
Once or twice you've thought about asking him but you've never officially spoken. He's held the elevator a few times but you don't even know his name. All you know is that he grunts instead of speaking and seems to ingest nothing but cigarettes and cheap coffee.
There's something intriguing about his expression - the dark crescents under his eyes that never fade and the grim set of his jaw. Grey streaks through his hair and the stubble along his jaw. His hands bear scars that certainly didn't come from whatever office job he's got now.
At first, there are long stretches without seeing him - though, never quite long enough to forget. You wonder if he's avoiding you or if it's just circumstance. Without bothering to ask his name you've lost him, this attractive man who sometimes takes the same route to work. There's always movement in those higher suites, he probably got reassigned some other boring position.
But he pops up again. Only when you've begun to forget about him a scarred hand will hold open an elevator or he'll breeze past you in the hallway. The same obnoxious expression is always plastered on his face - something between a grimace and a sneer. You're almost impressed with how blatantly he wears his distaste for whatever job he's working.
In the shuffle of boring, corporate work you don't realize when you stop thinking about him. You no longer spend time wondering where his scars came from or what the tattoos hidden under his sleeves are. No longer are you searching crowds for him, itching for a chance to spill all the little questions he's left in his wake. You don't ponder why he always looked so tired or where in the monstrous building he works. You have a life and job of your own, it's easy to forget about him.
Weeks melt into months and before you realize it, you've spent a year of your life toiling away. Emails, memos, touching base, circling back, all the meaningless bullshit that earns you a paycheck has taken over. The Sun set hours ago by the time you exit the building, ripping your hair free and wishing you could just get a fucking break.
You just need to relax. Stomping down toward the parking lot you're stopped dead by a figure slumped against a thickly stickered telephone pole. His sleeves are rolled up and his eyes flutter closed as the cigarette hits his lips.
"Got a fuckin' problem?"
Of course that's what he sounds like. It's annoying how nice his voice is. Tired eyes slide over to you and you think about apologizing - you were staring, after all. But you settle into similar posture, arms crossed and glaring back at him.
Ex husband Simon Riley
“There we go, princess.” Simon’s voice cooed and fuck, your back arched as if your body ached for more of him. “Right where I’m s’posed to be.”
Despite the soft tone of his voice, his pace was relentless. Two scarred fingers pumped deep into your cunt and each breath left his muscular chest brushing against yours. You could hardly think with Simon this close - kisses trailed from temple to jaw and arousal sparking under your skin each time he brushed that delicious spot with embarrassing ease.
“Si.” You gasped the name, nails digging into his back when he kept you teetering just on the edge of orgasm. Your thighs shook and all rational thought was banished by the bone deep need for this man. Your man.
“Yes, love?” He murmured, one biting kiss on your throat. Gods, he was so familiar. He knew everywhere to touch until you're completely undone. Almost like you'd spent years learning every little detail of one another. Simon’s breath ghosted down your throat and your hips bucked into his hand, a knowing chuckle huffed over your skin.
“Please.” You whined so shamelessly and Simon’s cock throbbed at the sound. Just as you knew it would. You weren't even sure what it was you were pleading for, vaguely aware that you needed more of him. More kisses, more of his touch, his smell, his fingers fucking you until you couldn't quite think. More of this man who gazes up at you like he's still lovesick after all the shit you've put each other through.
Mercer my grumpy evil mean bf <3
person (non-practicing)
Gone From the Garden - Vinsmoke Sanji
Germa!Sanji / Princess!Reader Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Fem!Reader [No use of y/n] Summary: You endure the small banquet beneath the rising moon. Processions of the court offer their congratulations on your union- though they speak to the Kings rather than you or your husband. Despite the unsuspecting kindness he shows you, when the moon reaches its crown, the Prince still steals you away into the night- and no one stops him. CW: Arranged / Forced Marriage, Angst, Protective Sanji, Stoic Sanji Word Count: 2.6k
CH 3 <<<<PREV CH NEXT CH>>>> One Piece Masterlist Sanji Masterlist
➽──────────────❥
Twilight in the garden is lovely. Twinkling lights in the canopy and decorative torches lining the perimeter. Globes of crystal housing newly roused fireflies that cast soft dancing light through the shadows. All the white flowers that made up your bouquet begin to faintly glow under the approaching moon. Red blooms shade violet and violet blooms beckon midnight.
It’s these small beautiful details you force yourself to focus on as you sit by your husband’s right hand at the head of the garden. Close enough that you feel the heat of his body, but not so close as to touch. Sanji sits with the poise of a Prince and the posture of his reputation. So impassive and still, every move he makes causes you to flinch- subtly enough that you hope he doesn’t notice.
Though, it’s quite a small gathering compared to what this sort of ceremony would typically see, there is still a procession of the court come to give their obliged congratulations on your union. None addressed to you personally, however. Vinsmoke Judge sits center of the table- Sanji at his right hand and your father at his left- the two kings taking most of the commendations as if they’d been the ones wedded at the alter.
Politically speaking, you suppose that’s true. Your union is really nothing but a proxy for their own. Chancing a glance up at your husband, you find it difficult to tell if he feels as much a pawn as you do. When the nervous guests pay him their respects, he gives brief, curt, responses that don’t invite conversation.
Hands wringing nervously under the table, you bring them up and grab a fork just keep from rubbing raw. There’s a gorgeous spread of food before you and an untouched plate artfully arranged with a meal that- under any other circumstances- you’d have found appropriately appetizing. Fork in hand, you try to summon any desire to eat, but the sinking feeling of your inner body roils at the very idea of consumption.
Feeling heat at the back of your neck, you glance up- to see Sanji’s eyes quickly dart away from you. Movements deliberately slow he picks up his fork and takes the first bite of his own meal. Though you’re not quite fond of it- his action seems to signal permission for your own body to follow suit and some of the tension eases as you have a taste of your dinner. It’s quite good and instead of settling heavy, it smothers some of the anxiety lingering in your empty stomach. Slowly, you have one small bite after another. Though you can’t handle much before you put down the fork, your hands fold more still in your lap and you do feel slightly- marginally- better.
Until a shrill voice sounds from above and your whole body locks up. “Sister,” it lilts, “congratulations on your nuptials- what a beautiful wedding! Oh, I just teared right up.”
Throat tight, you respond without looking, “thank you, Marcella.”
“You know, I never thought I’d see the day. But, what a blushing bride you make. Such a fine match. There really is no one more deserving, sister.” She looks down on you with a sweet, practiced, smile painted on her lips. To anyone else, it’s the doting chatter of an elder sister. But, you recognize the words for what they are. You’re all too familiar with the cruel twinge of her smile and the wicked crease that hides in the corners of her eyes. “Vinsmoke is just so appropriate for you.”
“Princess Vinsmoke.” Chills crawl down your spine at your husband’s cold voice and Marcella’s expression wavers beneath his hard eyes. “When you speak to my wife, you will address her properly.”
She clings to her courteous facade, “of course, I understand, Prince Vinsmoke. I spoke with too much familiarity,” she tips her head politely, “please forgive me.”
“I will not.” Marcella pales and you forget to breathe.
Sanji stares her down and she begins to unravel before him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend-”
“Yet, you insult my bride.” Conversation dies. Though, you can’t tell if that’s because everyone has ceased talking or your pounding heart is drowning out the sound.
“I…” she stutters with rising panic, “I only meant to congratulate my sister.”
Sanji’s voice drops deathly low, “and now you insult me.” The weight of every eye lands upon you and the air stills with the death of music and thickens with the reminder of who is sitting at this table.
Never in your life have you seen Marcella afraid. And though there is nothing resembling love between you, in this moment- you’re afraid for her. “I’m very sorry, Prince Vinsmoke,” she bows deeply, eyes downcast and voice trembling.
Heat rises off your husband, “apologize,” he commands, “to my wife.”
“Princess Vinsmoke,” she addresses quickly, bowing to you, “I apologize for insulting you," Her voice trembles, "I am so deeply sorry, Princess Vinsmoke.”
Silence stretches through every agonizing second and you look up at Sanji- to find him looking back at you. Waiting.
With a shuddering breath, your turn towards your trembling, bowing sister, “I forgive you, Marcella.”
“Thank you, Princess Vinsmoke,” her voice is laced with genuine relief, but the lingering terror keeps her folded in place.
“Leave our sight. You’re not welcome here,” Sanji dismisses her and returns to his dinner like he can’t be bothered to entertain the ordeal any longer. Taking his cue, the music slowly begins again- but the guests are still finding their breath.
Marcella rises with wide eyes and looks to your father to defend her as he always has. “Leave, Marcella.” But, not tonight. Not to these men. “You shame yourself. Take your husband home and attend him.” With silent tears and silent lips, she quickly excuses herself from the banquet.
“Children require a firm hand,” you hear Judge tell your father. “I have taught mine the value of discipline. You’d do well to teach yours the same.”
“Of course, you’re right,” he concedes. “Marcella has always been troubled, despite my guidance,” he excuses, despite the fact that Marcella has never done any wrong in his eyes- even when you’d come to him little and weeping from her torment. “That one, though,” your face heats as he gestures towards you, “is my most obedient child of all- always has been.” While you’ve always craved any scrap of praise from your father- you do not feel good about it now. “There will be no trouble with her, I assure you.”
Judge shrugs, “if there is, my son will sort it out,” he says simply. “It’s a husband’s duty to succeed where the father fails.” Without response, Sanji continues to eat his dinner as if he can’t even hear his father speak of him. Noting the vacant look in his eye, you wonder if perhaps he doesn’t.
As the moon creeps higher, so does your anxiety. Any moment now, the banquet will end and you’ll be taken away from the only home you’ve ever known, bound to the whims of a man you don’t. Sipping the water and wishing for wine, you try to subdue your nerves about what’s to come.
“Before we depart,” you jump when Sanji suddenly speaks to you, despite his quiet tone, “is there anything you wish to do?”
Taken by surprise, you find it difficult to hold his gaze as you consider the question. While it seems considerate, you won’t risk inconveniencing him, “no, my Prince.”
But, he doesn’t take his eyes off you- searching your face, “speak truthfully.” The command is soft- but unmistakable.
“I have already said my goodbyes,” you tell him. There’s only one other thing you’d care to do, but you don’t know how to ask for it here. Especially with your father so near.
“State your desire,” Sanji insists firmly, seeing the yearning for what you haven’t spoken.
Quietly, you stare down at your hands, “my father won’t allow it.”
“I will allow it,” he says and your eyes snap up to his.
“There’s… there’s somewhere I’d like to go,” you confess nervously.
Sanji simply stands, “then I will escort you,” pulling out your chair and offering his arm. Hesitantly, you accept it- gathering your dress in the other hand to keep from tripping. No one stops you as you leave- not even your father- or his.
When you’ve stepped out of the crowded garden and onto the quiet path, his voice finds you softly, “guide the way, Princess.”
On the other side of the castle grounds- just beyond the wall- you sit quietly beneath the weeping willow, watching the moon reflect off the still mirror of the lake. Granting you privacy, Sanji waits at the outer gate- so distant you can just make out his form in the torchlight. Utterly still and patient, waiting for your return. It’s a surprising kindness from the Vinsmoke Prince- perhaps a concession as a gift for his new bride. You try not to let it give you any false expectations.
Kneeling in the soft grass, your white dress glows ghostly in the moonlight. “I came to say goodbye,” you whisper to the night- the breeze whispering back. “I’ve been married to a Prince and I’m going to live with him now… I don’t think I’ll be back.” The willow rustles with a weeping hush. “But, I don’t want you to be worried about me. Because I’ll be brave- just like I promised.” The moon ripples over the water and the wind runs gentle fingers through your hair- loosening the coils.
Clouds part above and one by one, little gems are dropped onto the lake- and you hear your mother’s voice over your shoulder.
‘Be brave, Starlight.’
“I thought she might try to come here.”
Sanji waves his hands to signal his soldiers hidden in the shadows to stand down, “were you waiting for her?” He doesn’t take his eyes from your distant figure, even as the woman comes to stand at his side.
“I just wanted to see her- one last time,” she says, hands folded- shoulders back- seemingly unperturbed, even in the presence of a Vinsmoke.
“Do you want to speak to her?” Sanji offers.
“I have said all I needed to.” He feels her gaze slide to him, but he doesn’t return it. “Why did you bring her here?”
“She asked to come.”
She’s quiet for a moment, boldly staring at him. “I love that girl like my own daughter.”
At that, Sanji turns to look at her, “you care for her- you know her?”
“Every day since she was three years old.”
“Will you do something for her?” He asks.
With no hesitation she responds, “I’d do anything for her.”
Sanji nods, snapping his fingers and a soldier appears at the ready. “Take four men,” he orders, “and gather my wife’s things- take them to the villa. Be quick about it, I want everything put away before we get back. The Madam will tell you what to bring.”
“Yes, Master Sanji,” he salutes.
“Whatever you think she’ll want to keep. Anything she’d like to have,” he tells the woman.
She nods, a stern expression taking hold as she prepares herself for the job. “Yes,” she agrees, “I can do that.”
To the soldier, “you will do- and take- whatever the Madam tells you. Don’t kill any castle guards, but do not let them stop you.” Sanji commands. “If you leave anything behind,” he warns, “if my wife cries because something was forgotten, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“I understand, Master Sanji,” he confirms. “We will gather all the Princess’s things. We will leave nothing behind.”
“Let’s go then, I won’t waste time and I won’t tolerate slackers,” before Sanji can say anything else, the woman moves with purpose- dismissing herself and not bothering to bow. The guard raises his hand and signals in the air- four other men quickly falling in step behind him.
The moon has moved considerably by the time you rise. Feeling you’ve had your moment, you don’t want to keep your husband waiting any longer. He’s been patient so far, but you have no desire to test his limits. Only when you step through the curtain of the willow- back towards the castle- does his silhouette move.
Meeting you halfway, Sanji silently offers his arm once more and escorts you back through the gates. The wind follows, chilling with an early breath of winter. Wordlessly, he untangles himself and nimble fingers deftly undo the golden buttons of his jacket. Sanji drapes the velvet comfortably around your shoulders. So broad it practically feels an embrace- your face heating beneath an unfamiliar warmth of intimacy.
Despite the chill in the air and the thin white shirt he wears now, Sanji doesn’t at all seem bothered by the cold. Taking his arm once more, your hand holds your groom’s jacket closed atop your wedding gown- other hand keeping the dress from dragging too much across the ground.
The two of you simply, silently, walk the grounds. Wander through the pathways both inside and out of the gates. Any direction that drew your eye, Sanji steered towards it. Quietly, you indulge the small sights- the crack in the stone at the base of the fountain, vines crawling up the castle, loose cobbles from the weight of wagons rolling through on festive days. The small things- the neglected things- that make a place a home for those who know them. These things, you take care to commit to memory.
Slowly, the sounds of the garden find you once more. Gentle music offers a tender touch before your body tenses with the rise of voices, every step feeling heavier than the last. “Ah, there they are,” Sanji’s father, the loudest of them all. “Off getting to know your bride?” There’s a twist to his smile that mirrors in your stomach as his eyes skim Sanji's jacket still draped over your shoulders. Your husband simply stares at him until the smile tips towards displeasure. “Well, there’s plenty of time for that,” his focus falls upon you and your grip on Sanji’s arm tightens. Sturdy and unyielding, he doesn’t pull away- just lets you anchor yourself against him as your heart threatens to sink. “Take her.” You’re grateful he does, otherwise you may have collapsed right there in the grass.
Spirit sinking- splitting- from your mind, you’re lost in the fog of a dream. The world seems so unreal and you barely feel the movements of your own body as it carries you down the path towards the small dock. There is no music, no sound, no song- only the somber march your husband drags you forward on without faltering a single step. Leading you down to the water, taking his lamb to slaughter. Witnesses flocking steps behind the kings at your back.
Eyes towards the horizon, not even the moon permeates the inky black of the abyssal waters. In the distance, the silhouette of the seafaring kingdom sits colossal and waiting. A leviathan shadow risen from the depths waiting to devour you whole.
Despite your promise, you flinch from the foreboding fate, tearing your arm away and turning on shaking steps. With a voice that calls from every fearful night of adolescence, you reach towards the one person you always prayed would save you from each of them. “Father…”
Swiping your hand away, he answers you with the same voice that responded you back to bed every time. “You are no longer my daughter.”
Nothing but the young woman forced to flower through stone, now nearly to be plucked, asks the one thing the child never could, “was I ever?”
Nothing but a weed in his garden, the King looks upon you with disdain and you have your answer.
“Come, Princess.” Voice soft and hands firm, the Vinsmoke Prince pulls you away and guides you down the dock. You do not fight him as he lifts you into the boat and casts off towards the sea.
More faces appear through the shadows and a song of mourning finds you faintly on the wind as you’re sold and sailed away into the night.
➽──────────────❥ CH 3 <<<<PREV CH NEXT CH>>>>
oh sweetheart sanji….
hey don't cry. blorbo coughing up blood
blorbo seeing reader cough up blood….. .. hm…
If I may: “you look good with my hands around your throat” with Brynjolf for the prompt list
didn't feel it was nsfwish enough for its own ao3 post but here we go. it's mean, fucked up brynjolf because why not?
(minors still should NOT read or interact.)
"Why are you skulking around in the shadows, lass?"
His voice was silky smooth but laced with danger. Her crouched position gave her the perfect view of him; hair tied back from his face, broad shoulders illuminated by the lone candle burning low, that leather armor still concealing his beautifully toned body. She didn't move a muscle - it could be a test. He couldn't know where she was with his back turned.
"Come on out." He sighed, dropping his quill onto the Guild Master's desk. "I know you're there."
"How?" She whispered, still not rising from their crouch. The muscles in her legs were beginning to shake but she fought to ignore it. Could Brynjolf truly be so skilled?
"You need new boots." He mused, seemingly speaking to himself as he scratched down a note. "I'm fairly sure half the Rift's mud is stuck to yours from all that adventuring."
"Oh, fuck you."
Brynjolf moved so fast she hardly saw him move. He didn't make a sound before her back slammed into the slimy stone wall. She gasped, struggling to regain her breath while the flash of anger subsided into the knowledge that she'd completely fucked up.
"You heard Mercer, lass." Gods, his voice was still so sultry, even as one large hand laid against the base of her throat in a silent threat. "When he's out on other business, who's in charge around here?"
"You are." She grumbled, trying to ignore the blast of arousal when Brynjolf's snarl turned into a smirk.
"That's right." His fingers were impossibly delicate when they climbed her throat. She swallowed the embarrassing groan it elicited but one look in his eyes - he knew. "Why were you trying to sneak around me, anyway?"
She sputtered and hurried to think up some excuse and losing all rational thought when Brynjolf's free hand tilted her chin up. His lips parted while his eyes took in every bit of her flushed, nervous face. The arousal pounding through every bit of her body must be written there for him to see.
"Trying to get a good look at me, were you?" He mused, clearly watching her mouth as she scrambled for some explanation.
"Have you ever considered that I wanted to get to the training room without having to speak to you?" She spat the words, glad to hear some of their intended venom. Brynjolf raised one brow and his smirk slipped just a bit - was she getting under his skin just as he did to her?
"You look so good with my hands around your throat, lass." He murmured, squeezing just enough to make her heart race. She hated how good it felt - Brynjolf's hands on her, his body pressed so close, the subtle threat behind each of his motions. It shouldn't be so hot. But when he tipped his head closer, a few strands of red hair tickling at her overheated face, she couldn't stop herself from gasping. "We should make this a regular occurrence."
Lavender: Part Two
Brynjolf x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: unprotected piv, oral sex, breeding undertones, mentions of pregnancy
Word Count: 2.6k
After accepting Brynjolf’s marriage proposal, the two of you receive some long-awaited alone time since binding yourselves together under Mara’s eye.
Part One
ao3 // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist
A strong breeze kicks up, rattling the side of the small cabin. A fire burns in the hearth, warm and strong, filling the space with light. The sun is all but gone. Your belly is full. And for once, you aren’t afraid. You are not stressed. There is no impending doom or subtle tension.
Tightening the wool blanket around your shoulders, you gaze into the fire, reflecting on the last few weeks. When you finally accepted Brynjolf’s proposal, he went to the Temple of Mara, and fetched a priestess like he said he would. The two of you bound yourselves together in matrimony.
Then it was done. Over. And your new life began.
The moment you sealed yourself to Brynjolf, the entire atmosphere changed within the Thieves Guild. They dropped their cold demeanors, greeting you with warm smiles and congratulations. The only member who didn’t seem to change at all was Vex, her icy exterior retaining a firm hold. At first, you believed she didn’t like you, but then you quickly realized that she’s sour with almost everyone.
You were not allowed to leave the cistern unless chaperoned, and while that bothered you at the time, you grew used to the routine. Brynjolf never waived in communicating how your mother and aunt fared in Solitude. He made sure to hand over any letters or pieces of communication, and whenever you longed to leave the cistern, Brynjolf would bring you with him to the market.
But all things end, and when Mercer Frey offered up a small retreat for you and Brynjolf to escape to for a bit, the two of you snatched it up without question. In Thieves Guild headquarters, there is nowhere private, and while you and Brynjolf tried to find a bit of quiet, it was ultimately difficult.
Every time you or Brynjolf tried to initiate anything, someone would appear as if sensing the intimacy.
Now, the two of you are alone. Truly alone.
Not simply as friends or lovers, but as husband and wife.
“Lass.”
Brynjolf’s hushed and husky voice drifts over to you. Turning away from the fire, you find him reclined on the bed. He is entirely bare except for a fur blanket covering his groin. The light from the fire casts a warm glow across his skin. Brynjolf bends one knee and lightly taps the bed beside him.
“Come to bed,” he croons, and your legs move without question. It is instinct to do so.
Approaching the side of the bed, your drop the blanket, revealing a thin shift. The chill air instantly pebbles your nipples and Brynjolf’s gaze drops to your breasts. It is a heated look, one that instantly pulls a slickness from your core.
Slowly, you lift your leg, planting one knee on the bed. Leaning forward, you place both hands on the soft bedding, and then lift your other leg. Brynjolf’s emerald eyes flash, his chest expanding and deflating quickly, nostrils flaring. With deliberate slowness, you slide over to him, keeping your gaze glued to his face. Brynjolf watches you the entire time. There is hunger lingering in the depths of his stare.
When you come to rest against his right side, Brynjolf reaches out, cupping your cheek with one hand. He doesn’t say anything. Simply touches. Caresses. Observers. The middle of his brow creases slightly and then softens. That kissable mouth of his turns upward, and there is so much love there it momentarily zaps your autonomy from you.
You would give Brynjolf anything in this moment.
“Do you remember the first time?” he asks.
“The first time?” you reply hesitantly, not sure you understand.
Brynjolf laughs softly. “You know.”
Your cheeks heat, sudden realization dawning. “Oh. Yes.”
Dropping his hand from your cheek, Brynjolf leans back into the bedding. “I was nervous. Excited.” He chuckles. “Couldn’t stay hard.”
“Or inside me,” you add with a smirk.
Brynjolf laughs, the sound of it sweet. “Aye. What a mess I was.”
“Are you telling me you’re nervous, husband?” you tease, placing one hand on his bare chest. He is warm beneath your palm, and you cannot help yourself. You stroke slowly, savoring his heat.
“Hardly,” he replies, his own hand grasping yours. Brynjolf brings your palm up to his lips to place a gentle kiss there. “I’ll be better.”
“Truly?”
Brynjolf’s amused grin widens as your teasing tone. One moment you’re reclining beside him and the next you’re on your back.
“Bryn!” you exclaim, but he has you pinned.
“If we married when he did,” he murmurs. “We’d have ourselves an army by now.”
You gasp and smack his chest. With how much space you have, the strike is weak, but it’s not meant to hurt.
“Don’t like the truth, lass?” he croons, head dipping slightly as if to kiss you.
“You’re terrible,” you reply, smiling.
Brynjolf grins. “You take that back.”
“Make me.”
The words leave your mouth and you cannot snatch them out of the air. You cannot shove them back down your throat.
Brynjolf’s grin grows wider, and you know in this moment that you’ve lost.
His mouth comes down on yours with a fierceness that steals all breath. It is suffocating. Intense. And so different from all the kisses you’ve ever received before, even from him. His large hands roam over the thin shift until your skin is buzzing, as if bees have made a home there. When he retreats it is agony, a staunch shattering that longs to be repaired.
“We have years to catch up on,” he murmurs against your lips, tongue darting out to tease.
“Then we best get started,” you reply, just as softly.
Brynjolf groans and comes back for more. It is sweet like an apple tart with extra sugar. Brynjolf will rot your teeth at this rate, but you’d hardly care even if he did.
His hands slip under the thin shift, bunching the fabric around your hips. The fur blanket that covers his cock is gone and his nakedness is apparent. It presses on your lower abdomen and you flex your hips up to bring him level with your entrance.
Brynjolf’s fingers dig into your thighs as his cock slides through your sex. “Not yet.”
Brynjolf releases your thighs and places both hands on the bed, pushing up to a seated position. His cock stands at attention, nearly meeting his belly button. Every muscle of his is on display, and you long to taste and lick each one.
Years. It’s been years, and your body still craves him like it did before.
“Off,” he says, and it is a command. His red hair lightly brushes over his shoulders as he shifts slightly on his knees.
Your fingers find the neckline but hesitate. It’s not because you’re scared or frightened of him, but because this makes it all the more real. The two of you are bound together under Mara’s blessing.
Brynjolf’s gaze softens. “Want my help, lass?”
Heat rises to your cheeks as you ease the neckline over one shoulder and then the other. It falls to your waist, revealing your breasts. Brynjolf is right there, reaching to help ease the shift down your legs.
When you are bare to him, Brynjolf groans. His hands return to your thighs and you part them, wanting him closer. Brynjolf briefly straightens, drawing back slightly, the tips of his fingers grazing over your inner thighs.
At first, you think he’s pulling away from you, but he only wants to admire, to gaze on your body for a bit.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Those emerald eyes of his darken. “Wife,” he whispers, as if he’s testing it out.
“Wife,” you repeat back to him.
His chest heaves. “Finally.”
Brynjolf surges forward. One hand presses into the bed by your head while his other grasps your hip. Your mouths connect, and the liquid fire returns, roaring through blood and bone until you’re drowning. All these years you’ve waited and resisted, believing that loving him would only ruin him. How wrong you were. This man is enthralled. It’s clear from every touch and kiss.
Brynjolf breaks away only to return his mouth to your skin. He kisses your jaw and the curve of your neck. He moves down to your collarbone and then between your breasts. Brynjolf descends further over your stomach and stops just above your sex.
You are still spread completely, legs forced apart by his expansive shoulders, entirely open for his view. Brynjolf’s gaze is locked on your sex. He is fixated, and when he finally glances up, his pupils are blown.
“May I taste my wife?” he asks, voice rough with lust. Brynjolf slides back a bit, forcing your legs over each of his broad shoulders. His mouth hovers just above your pussy.
“You may,” you reply, voice soft, almost inaudible.
The corner of Brynjolf’s mouth quirks into a smile. His head dips, breath hot against your slickness. It draws forth a shiver, one that has him groaning against your inner thigh. Brynjolf’s lips hover there, pressing lightly on your soft skin.
“No squirming,” he says before gently biting.
It’s not painful, more of a surprise that has you seeking refuge away from his mouth.
“Oh shove it, Bryn,” you mutter.
He laughs, and then his tongue is on you.
It is not tentative. Not hesitant. It’s not like the first time when the two of you stumbled through the motions. This is completely different. Completely other. Brynjolf is sure of himself, as if he’s known your body all his life, and he knows exactly what you need.
His tongue traces, moving from entrance to clit with deliberate slowness. Your back arches, but Brynjolf’s hold is firm. His large hands firmly grasp your outer thighs, keeping you parted. When his tongue makes another pass, a gasp escapes you. It is strangled. Nearly choked.
Brynjolf repeats the motion, and this time you whimper.
“So sweet,” he purrs. “And all mine.”
His words are liquid sin, dipped in Dibella’s teachings. When Brynjolf puts his mouth on you again, he tastes and tastes and tastes until everything in you clenches. That tension coils up like a serpent under the leaves, waiting to strike. There is no escape. No chase. You are completely open and raw, unable to contain the venomous bite inside you. The serpent shows its fangs, and you are a willing victim.
Brynjolf sucks your clit into his mouth and that cracks your control, shattering it like poorly forged steel. Your fingers slide through his red locks, tugging until he growls. Your hips flex, pushing your cunt against his mouth.
Those large, strong hands of his hold tight, keeping your hips still. But Brynjolf doesn’t guide you away. Instead, he keeps you pressed against his mouth, the flat of his tongue tearing your resolve into shreds.
“Stop. Bryn. I’ll suffocate you,” you gasp, trying in vain to create distance.
“Then I’ll die happy,” he replies casually before diving in for more.
Between your legs, you watch as Brynjolf adjusts his position. He freely offers you a clear view of the tip of his tongue as it circles and teases your clit. You are unable to look away. The sight of him worshiping your body like this sends your body buzzing, and that coiled tension returns, blooming fast.
Your gaze is fixed on that one point, of how his pink tongue plays with you. Brynjolf doesn’t need to use his fingers. By the Nine, if he did, you’d likely explode, shatter like hammer against ice.
You melt like the snows in summer. You do not stifle or attempt to restrain the moans that leave your lips. They are wild. Untamed. And all for him.
Who would hear you but him?
By the time you begin to come down, Brynjolf is already bringing your thighs together, angling them back toward your chest. You don’t care. Don’t event mind. Everything inside of you is light, as if you float amongst the clouds, soaring like a hawk.
“My wife,” he says softly, drawing your gaze back to him. Your lashes flutter, and a contented smile spreads across your face. Brynjolf’s mouth and chin are shiny with your juices.
He makes no move to clean himself.
“Husband,” you reply.
With a suddenness that surprises, Brynjolf’s hand grasps the nape of your neck. He doesn’t squeeze, only holds. He tugs, drawing you upward but not entirely into a seated position. Your fingers dig at the bedding beneath you, all the muscles in your body that were once languid are now tight with strain.
In this position, Brynjolf’s cock slides through your slickness in a back-and-forth motion until all you can hear is your own pleasure.
“Brynjolf,” you gasp, reaching for him.
He murmurs your name as the head of his cock bumps against your clit. Your only response is a strangled groan, one he answers by rocking his hips back enough to hold himself at your entrance.
On an exhale, Brynjolf begins to ease in. This is not like before. Not at all. You are stuffed. Filled.
“You’re doing so well, lass.” Brynjolf retreats slightly before pushing forward again. “You can take it.” He gives you more with each roll of his hips.
“By the Nine,” you say as he bottoms out.
“Don’t go praising the gods now, lass,” chides Brynjolf. “They don’t deserve your sweet words.”
You’d laugh, maybe even tease back, but Brynjolf is hungry, and he gives you no respite.
There is no subtle softness. No slowness. Brynjolf drives forward, each thrust concentrated strength. The hold on your neck disappears, and you slump back to the bed, but that doesn’t matter. In this position, you are pinned beneath him, unable to do anything but take. But you gladly accept it, each steady stroke a delicious bite.
You never want to leave this place. Never want to leave him.
Brynjolf adjusts your legs, spreading them out and up, pushing them toward your chest. It forces your hips up a bit but it only creates a deeper angle. Leaning forward, he plants one hand above your head and the other near your shoulder.
He grunts above you, beads of sweat rolling down his neck. Reaching up, you slide your hands up his chest and then over his shoulders, keeping him close. Taking the hint, Brynjolf relaxes a bit, draping himself over you as he thrusts.
Like this, you can reach him.
Flexing the muscles in your neck and shoulders, you arch up to kiss him. You only manage to graze his jaw but it’s enough. Brynjolf tips his head downward, and then he’s meeting you, each kiss desperate.
What were once steady thrusts become needy, quick bursts that signal his end. While you cannot move your legs much, you do manage to hook your heels over the backs of his thighs. This changes something within him because Brynjolf nearly crushes you as he groans out his releases.
You cling to him, holding tight as his hips stutter, the last few thrusts of his shallow and weak. Brynjolf’s lips brush against your jaw, then your cheekbone before falling against the curve of your ear.
“Did you want that army?” he asks.
“Do you?” you reply, turning your head enough to gaze upon his face.
The soft smile you receive tells you all you need to know. “Little versions of us running around the cistern? Brandishing knives?” You roll your eyes and Brynjolf chuckles against your throat. “I’ll take whatever you offer me, lass. You know that.”
He still inside you, and so you roll your hips, finding that he’s already becoming hard again.
“Let’s start with one.”
Lavender: Part One
Brynjolf x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (MDNI): second chances, past relationship, angst, kidnapping, denial of feelings, referenced harassment (non-graphic), suggestive themes
Word Count: 6.2k
Working as a lady's maid to Jarl Laila Law-Giver is supposed to provide you peace and a steady income, but your old life is quickly catching up to you. An old flame comes knocking, bringing you flowers and reminding you of the affection you've missed. Do you keep running? Or do you finally face the future you've always wanted but fear you'll lose again?
Part Two
ao3 // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist
The dawn has not yet risen. It is near, but there is still time yet before the sun’s warm glow breaks the horizon. Sunrises in Skyrim are your favorite. It is one of the reasons why you greet the day so early.
From your apron, you withdraw two tiny bundles wrapped in simple beige cloth. It is not much, but it is good to give something to the gods whenever you visit a shrine. Even a simple prayer is a gift, but today you have more than just your voice.
Before you is a Shrine of Talos, located against Riften’s eastern wall. The shrine is slightly secluded and situated in a curved corner near Mistveil Keep and Black-Briar Manor. To your left is a small graveyard that backs up to the Hall of the Dead and the Temple of Mara. Other than an occasional guardsman that walks past, there is no one else around.
It is quiet. Peaceful. Just as it always is at this hour.
Behind the shrine is a statue of Talos himself. He towers over you, helmeted head slightly bent as if he too is in prayer. Trees with golden leaves create a half-circle around the back and sides of the shrine. At your feet, near the stone base, are little flowers springing forth from the ground.
Warmer weather is coming, and they are reaching out to seek it.
Unwrapping one bundle, you gently retrieve three gold coins. From there, you deposit the gold coins into the small silver bowl before the shrine. They clink softly in the subdued dark. The candles surrounding the shrine burn low, their stunted, melted bodies showing their use.
From the other bundle, you carefully remove a small handful of flowers, placing those in the bowl next to the gold coins. Your offerings do not amount to much, but it is all you can spare.
While working at Mistveil Keep for Jarl Laila Law-Giver has given you job security, the pay isn’t nearly as good as you originally believed it to be. Most of what you earn is used to feed, clothe, and house yourself. While Mistveil Keep provides all this, a portion of your earnings is still taken as a small fee to cover those costs. When you first accepted the job, the fee didn’t bother you because that practice is standard across all Jarl residences.
But once you received your first earnings, you realized quickly how little ended up in your hands. You always save just a few gold coins for yourself. The rest is sent away to your ailing mother and cranky aunt who are far from Riften.
Although you have little, you always make the effort to leave offerings at Talos’ shrine. The practice is not for you, but for your father and brothers. They are no longer here, but they all perished as any Nord should, with weapon in hand. That is why you come to the shrine to pray.
You pray that they are happily feasting in Sovngarde. You pray that they at least have each other.
Standing before the shrine, you bring your clasped hands against your chest, head bent just like Talos. Your lips move silently.
When the final word is whispered, you breathe deep, and drop your hands at your sides. Glancing up, you stare at Talos’ face, admiring the craftsmanship of the sculptor’s work. It is then that you notice a change in the air.
A disturbance.
A subtle shift.
It is not the direction of the wind. It is an old sense. Ancient. Prey noticing predator.
You’re being watched.
“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are,” you say, glancing over your shoulder toward the small graveyard.
Brynjolf leans against one of the gravestones.
Even with his hood up and cowl in place, you know the shape of him. You know his body language, and the casualness that comes with it. He’s so relaxed in his leather armor. You remember when he first put that armor on. He wasn’t nearly as muscular then but that was many years ago, and now it fits him like a snug glove. Amongst the public eye, Brynjolf forgoes the armor for more luxurious fare, pretending to be something he isn’t.
But he never hides who he truly is with you.
Never.
Slowly, Brynjolf pushes off from the gravestone, strolling over with a swagger that brings a bit of heat to your cheeks.
“That’s because you know my habits, lass,” he replies, a tease in his tone that always flips your stomach.
You turn toward him fully, pushing your wanton anxiousness down until your heart is Skyforged Steel. But Brynjolf keeps walking, clearly intending to leave no space between the two of you. You do not budge from your spot, and he comes to a stop just inches away. Like this, he towers over you, invading your space.
“Why have you interrupted my morning prayer?” you ask, using every ounce of willpower not to touch him.
Brynjolf chuckles softly and the sound of it is a hammer against tempered metal. This man is going to break you down. “Is that what you were doing?”
You playfully shove at him, the instinct to touch him too much for your weak control. Brynjolf snags your wrist right out of the air. Using his grip on your arm, Brynjolf tugs you against him, pinning your wrist to him. Your free hand reflexively rises, pressing against one of the leather straps across his chest.
All you can see are his eyes. They shine like emeralds even in the dark.
“You come here almost every morning,” he murmurs.
“I do,” you snap, regaining some composure. “And you also bother me almost every morning.”
“Is that right, lass?” Brynjolf’s thumb rubs over your pulse point. The pressure sends a little shiver through your body. “Do I bother you?” He adds a bit more pressure and you inhale sharply. Brynjolf leans down like he’s about to kiss you, but he doesn’t lower the cowl. “I think you’re lying.”
You are lying. Brynjolf doesn’t bother you. Never has. The two of you are forever linked by an invisible teether.
You avoid the accusation. “Why are you here?”
Just above the lip of the cowl, you notice the corners of his eyes crinkling. He’s finding this exchange incredibly amusing.
“To give you these.” He releases your hand and takes a step back. With your wrist free, you immediately tuck your hands to your sides, his touch still lingering on your skin.
Reaching behind him, Brynjolf tugs on something and then brings it out in front of him. There are stalks of lavender and bundles of different colored flowers that grow in the mountains grasped in his fist. The bouquet is slightly squished and several of the flowers are missing petals.
“You only ever give me flowers when you want something,” you blurt, immediately regretting not thanking him instead.
Brynjolf doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t seem to mind at all that you haven’t shown gratitude.
“You know what I want,” he says softly. He transfers the flowers to one hand, and then reaches up, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. It is a gentle gesture, one that pushes you toward sweet memories that seems so distant now.
You shake your head. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
He knows why. The two of you have been playing this game for years.
“My family,” you insist. That is always the excuse, and it’s a poor one, because there is so much more beneath the surface.
Brynjolf sighs but it’s not with annoyance. The two of you do this dance every time. It plays out in the same routine.
“I have contacts in Solitude,” says Brynjolf. “I can have them check on your mother.”
“My mother is fine,” you insist.
Brynjolf shifts slightly on his feet. “Do you even know if she’s alive? When did you last visit?”
You hold your head high. “I receive letters.”
“From your mother? Or your aunt?”
All your stubbornness evaporates. Your mouth turns down in a frown and your face falls. Brynjolf steps into your space again, his voice becoming a caress. “Let me help, lass.”
“I’m fine,” you reply. “Been doing well on my own.”
These last few years have entirely been on your shoulders. You’ve carried the family burden, and a Voice that you’ve kept silent since the deaths of your father and brothers.
“Have you?” Brynjolf’s voice is still gentle. He is not a soft man, but with you, he’s different. Always has been.
“Yes,” you answer, still not looking at him.
“How’s the palace? The Jarl?”
“The Jarl is fine.” You glance up at him and Brynjolf arches an eyebrow. “A good employer,” you insist.
“How much are you earning?”
“Enough.”
Brynjolf grunts, his upper body retreating slightly. He doesn’t believe you, and you don’t blame him. It really isn’t enough, but you’re not going to admit that to him. Brynjolf used to be part of your life, and no matter how much he tries to fit himself back in, you know you’ll only drag him down if you do.
He holds out the flowers to you. “Take them.”
“Give them to Talos.” You nod in the direction of the shrine.
Brynjolf laughs. “They’re for you, lass.” He bends forward a bit, whispering. “And what would the Heir to the Seat of Sundered Kings do with flowers?”
“I offered him flowers.” You indicate the small bowl next to the shrine.
“So you did, lass.” Brynjolf removes a few of the lavender stalks and tosses them into the bowl. “Talos can have those, but the rest are for you.”
Brynjolf holds the bouquet out in front of him. Reaching for them, Brynjolf’s fingers brush against your own. The contact is liquid fire, flooding through your limbs.
“Thank you. They are lovely.”
Yes, they are slightly smashed and wilted, but it is the thought that counts. Brynjolf went out of his way to pick them and bring them to you even if his motivations for doing so are completely selfish ones.
You just—you can’t let him back in, even though you long for it.
Brynjolf’s fingertips lightly graze the underside of your chin. “Turn around, lass. I need to disappear.”
You giggle, giving him your back, clutching the flowers to your chest. You lean in and inhale, eyelids closing slightly in pleasure.
The wind kicks up, and the grass rustles. You exhale and glance over your shoulder.
Brynjolf is gone.
Jarls are some of the messiest people you’ve ever met.
Perhaps it’s because they have a fleet of people constantly waiting on them. They have no reason to care about what they do because an attendant will swoop in and fix it all. Someone else will always clean up the mess.
Right now, you’re staring at chaos.
There are empty bottles of wine and Black-Briar Reserve scattered everywhere. Amongst the bottles are plates, goblets, and platters. The Jarl’s private balcony is trashed, and you’ve been left to clean it all up on your own.
It’s…fine. The quiet will be nice, and the spring air is cool compared to the heat within Mistveil Keep. You’ve been helping in the kitchens all day, and this is the first time you haven’t felt like you’ve been stuffed inside an oven.
Sighing loudly, you start piling up plates and platters. Anything that still held food is long gone, likely sent back to the kitchen to be quietly distributed amongst staff to reduce waste. Sig, one of the kitchen maids, is always taking scraps to the beggars.
Once the plates and platters are removed, you begin to clear the empty bottles and goblets, washing your hands before returning to sweep. With broom in hand, you survey the private patio.
You turn. Glance up. Stifle a scream.
Between the balcony railing and wood awning crouches a man. One hand grasps the edge of the wood awning while the other holds a bouquet of flowers.
“Brynjolf,” you hiss, quickly resting the broom against the table with the intent to approach him. “What are you doing?”
Brynjolf’s hood is up but his cowl is down, showing off the rest of his handsome face.
“Bringing you a gift,” he says simply, as if that is a perfectly logical thing to do at this exact moment.
The worst part about his sudden appearance is his smile. You adore that smile. It is a teasingly soft thing with just the slightest hint of mischievousness.
“Right now?”
He shrugs, slipping to the floor, unfurling to his full height. “Couldn’t wait.”
“By the Nine, Brynjolf,” you exclaim, raising one arm in exasperation. “Sometimes you are just an insufferable—”
Your next words are snatched from your lungs. It only takes Brynjolf two large strides to intrude into your space. You have nowhere to go, and he is right there, both hands grasping your waist.
“No comment about me wanting something, lass?” he asks with a gentle croon.
That sweet sound melts your bones. “The answer is still no,” but even you don’t believe what you say.
Brynjolf murmurs your name, his head dipping.
“We can’t. We live different lives.” At this point you’re simply making excuses.
“You were almost mine once,” he says, voice a whisper.
“We were children.”
“We were young,” he corrects, lightly squeezing your waist. “But we knew what we wanted.”
You did. He did. And then you didn’t. Everything changed and the only thing you had left in the world was your mother who couldn’t even help herself. And there was no one to help you. Not even Brynjolf.
When you don’t answer, Brynjolf rests his forehead against your own. “What can you give me?”
He asks so sweetly, and the old memories are hard to ignore. They bubble up to the surface only to sink into bone and blood, flooding you with the peacefulness you once knew with him.
You’re going to regret these next words.
“You can have a kiss.”
Brynjolf’s hold on your waist tightens. He draws you in, bodies pressed close. One hand slides slowly up your side, stopping at your throat. Brynjolf’s hand is large enough to cradle the bottom half of your cheek.
Everything in you stutters for a moment, and then Brynjolf is right there, hovering as if unsure of this offering. Maybe it is the emotion on your face or his own need moving him to action, because the distance closes and you suddenly realize just how much you missed this.
Brynjolf’s kiss is all tenderness. He doesn’t smash his mouth against yours or use too much tongue. You are lost in this, opening for him, and he takes it.
His hands fall away only to slide to the backs of your thighs. He lifts, and your arms immediately drape around the back of his neck. He brings you to rest on top of the table.
You promised him one kiss, but giving him more won’t hurt. You can give those to him.
Brynjolf’s hands slide to the tops of your thighs and then downward. With an ardent quickness, Brynjolf pushes your skirts and apron up, exposing your bare thighs to the cool air. You don’t even blink because it’s him.
His kisses deepen. Lengthen. His hands are on your bare thighs, caressing. They move up, and then one hand dips between.
His touch upon your sensitive skin makes you gasp, breaking the kiss.
“Oh, lass,” he groans. “You do miss me.”
He presses in and you moan, his mouth coming down to stifle the sound. With one hand on your upper thigh, Brynjolf drags you to the very edge of the table, slotting himself between your legs.
There is a loud clatter followed by a laugh. You both freeze, slowly easing apart but Brynjolf keeps his hand between your thighs.
You wait a beat before you speak. “You need to go.”
Slowly, achingly so, Brynjolf withdraws from your body. Almost absently, he brings that glossy finger up to his mouth. His gaze remains on the door to the Jarl’s chambers as he sucks it clean.
Only then does he turn to face you.
His face is grim like he doesn’t want to leave you out here alone.
“Go,” you insist, squeezing his upper arm. “Before you’re caught.”
That gorgeous grin of his returns in full force. He steals one more kiss before retreating to the railing. He pulls up the cowl, covering his mouth, and swings one leg over the side. He glances back once before sliding off and disappearing into the dark.
Brynjolf does not come to see you the next day or the next.
You’re not sure if somethings happened, but extended absences are not uncommon for him. You know who he is and what he does, but even you aren’t sure of the specifics. That part of his life is closed off. Only those who walk with him in the Thieves Guild completely understand. There are always the rumors you hear from others, but it doesn’t change your perception of him.
But that is not what worries you. Never has. Brynjolf can take care of himself.
It is the Jarl’s son, Harrald, that concerns you. That cretin of a man has a lingering eye, staring for far too long. The man is wholly arrogant, but he’s smart. Harrald never says anything to you in front of his mother or anyone that might report him for his poor behavior.
Instead, he watches, keeping a close eye on your every step.
His stare is like the slime scraped off the sides of ships. Nasty business, and you don’t want any part in it.
But just as Harrald has a wandering eye, he has wandering hands.
It is why you’re pacing, why you are out in the middle of the night on a walk to clear your head. You stick to the outer wall on the eastern side near Talos’ shrine, walking in one direction and then the other. Pacing and thinking and worrying.
How do you approach this issue? And who can you tell? Who would believe you?
“Need some company?”
You yelp, and whirl around, only for Brynjolf to melt from the shadows.
He chuckles softly. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, lass.” He starts walking in your direction. “But—” Brynjolf freezes. Pauses.
His gaze roams over you before his legs find the will to move again. “What’s wrong?”
Do you look that bad?
You start to reach up toward your hair, but Brynjolf is grasping your hands, bringing them to chest-level, inspecting them. “You’re shaking.”
Is that what this feeling is?
“I’m fine,” you say, but it sounds of drowning.
“You’re not.” Brynjolf’s tone is firm. You’re upset and he wants to fix it.
“It’s nothing,” you whisper.
“Did someone hurt you?” You shake your head. “Say something?”
“No, Bryn.” The little pet name rolls off your tongue uninvited.
Either he doesn’t notice or he doesn’t say anything because Brynjolf continues.
“But you are not fine.” He cups your cheek. “Your face is puffy. And your eyes are red.” He gently squeezes the hand he’s holding. “Your hands are cold. Talk to me.”
You sniffle, only realizing then how stuffy you sound. “I’m probably imagining things. Making a big deal out of nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.” Brynjolf’s words are a comfort. They slide over and around you. If anyone in Riften will believe you, it’s him.
“It’s the Jarl’s son. He—” You pause when you notice the deep frown on Brynjolf’s face.
“Go on,” he prompts.
“He—he touched me. At dinner. Maybe?”
“Touched you?”
You start to draw back, regretting saying anything at all. “It was probably an accident.”
“Which son?” he growls. The anger in his voice surprises you.
“Harrald.”
Brynjolf’s frown deepens. “No. It wasn’t an accident. Not with him.”
“Bryn. What should I do?” This job is the only thing keeping you afloat. You need this.
The muscles in his jaw tenses. “Steer clear of him if you can. Make sure you’re never alone with him.” He places his hands on your shoulders. “Is there someone there you can trust? Someone who will listen?”
“I think so.”
Anuriel would listen. She might be the Jarl’s steward, but she has a good heart and looks after everyone.
Brynjolf’s hands cradle the sides of your face. “If he touches you again, say something. Understood?”
You nod.
“Good girl.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll walk you back.”
“In that?” you laugh, indicating his Thieves Guild armor with a nod of your head.
“From the shadows, lass,” he teases.
“Finally. Didn’t think I’d ever have a moment alone with you.”
The familiar, arrogantly slimy voice sticks to the insides of your ears. You are in the market. You are not alone. And yet Harrald is right there, standing far too close, grinning widely.
You swallow, the salvia in your throat momentarily sticking. “How can I help you?”
Harrald’s grin widens, and he leans in. You immediately lean back. He makes no indication that your retreat bothers him.
“You’ve been making eyes at me.”
I haven’t you rodent.
“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”
He laughs. “I’m not.”
You quickly glance around but no one is paying the two of you any mind. “Apologies, sir. But I—”
Harrald shrugs and then waves his hand dismissively. “Hard to get is fine. I’m up for a chase.”
“That’s not—”
“I’ll play.”
“My lord, that is not—”
His voice lowers and some of his smile recedes. “Pretty thing like you needs a bit of taming.”
A shadow falls over Harrald’s face. You sense a presence to your left just behind your shoulder. The fading smile on Harrald’s face evaporates. In its place is a deep frown.
“You’re interrupting,” spits Harrald, head turning in the direction of the intruder.
“She said she isn’t interested.”
Brynjolf. Thank the Nine.
Harrald stands stall, puffing out his chest. It does little for him. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” says Brynjolf flatly. He steps around you, inserting himself between Harrald’s red face and your body.
“I could have you locked up for this!”
“We both have connections,” replies Brynjolf casually. He leans and lowers his voice. “Mine just go a bit deeper.”
Harrald’s reddened face loses all color. He begins to blubber, mouth opening and closing like a fish on a hook. Brynjolf takes a deliberate step forward, completely cutting off Harrald’s connection to you.
The paleness is replaced by redness again.
“You—” begins Harrald, his lip curling. He glances around, and this time there is an audience.
Harrald inhales sharply and turns on his heel, storming back toward Mistveil Keep, shoving a guardsman out of the way as he ascends the steps. Brynjolf doesn’t address you until Harrald has disappeared.
But Brynjolf does not speak. He simply inclines his head in your direction before moving back to his stall. The chatter of the market resumes, and you go about your business.
Harrald leaves you alone the rest of the day, but you remain on edge. The tension sticks around until bed, keeping you awake and alert as if Harrald will appear at any moment.
Sleep eventually comes but you hardly notice when you drift off. But your body knows routine, and you awaken at the time you usually do for morning prayer.
The ground is covered in a low mist and the grass is dew-laced. Head hurting from lack of sleep, you stumble through your routine. And when the air stirs, your alertness sharpens, the thread of excitement rushing through your limbs.
You turn, expecting to find Brynjolf.
You do not find him.
Instead, you find two men. Both are tall. One is thin and lanky with greasy yellow hair. The other is burly and balding with his face all scarred.
The burly man grins, showing missing teeth.
You don’t even see or feel the blow.
It’s just their faces. And then darkness.
“What are we supposed to do with her?”
“He said rough her up a bit. Just avoid the face. He likes that.”
You stare at the grimy stone wall. With the lack of light, you can’t tell if the stone is scorched or simply weathered. Distantly you hear dripping, and faint rattling as if something moves behind the stone. If something does, you don’t want to know.
When you breathe in, a dampness clings to the air, sticking to the insides of your lungs. It’s not exactly foul-smelling wherever you are, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. You are underground, that much you know, and there is only one place in Riften that is entirely beneath the earth.
“She awake?” comes a nasally voice. It’s the one that mentioned he wants you “roughed up.”
“I don’t know.” This is the first voice. It is low and droll.
You’re in the Ratway. You’re certain of it. But where, exactly? The place is large. It is easy to lose yourself in the maze of tunnels.
“Well find out.”
You stay perfectly still as one of the men approaches.
“She ain’t moving.”
Beside you, part of the wall crumbles outward. Slowly, you reach out, fingers finding a solid chunk. Within you, there is a Voice, but you haven’t used it in years, and the power you once wielded is a distant memory.
That is tucked away. You’re not even sure if you remember how to use it or if you might do more harm than good.
“Give her a kick.”
Grip tightening on the broken stone, you turn over and hurl it. The chunky rock nearly collides with the burly, balding man. They both start, faces awash with surprise before anger crosses their faces.
The greasy, yellow haired man’s mouth forms a snarl. He approaches quickly, fists raised. “You—”
But the blow never comes.
His head is there and then it’s not.
It is at your feet. The eyes looking upward, and the mouth shaped into an exaggerated “o.”
The one with his head still on stands there, glancing down at his friend’s unattached head. There is a beat of silence. A pause as his gaze turns to you.
Before either of you can speak or move, a thin blade bursts through the man’s neck.
His eyes go wide, hands reaching up in disbelief. His mouth opens, gasping for air he cannot inhale. The blade slides out. Disappears.
The bloody gurgling increases in volume as he falls face-first into the ground. It tapers off as you push yourself against the gently curving wall. You glance up from the black pool quickly forming beneath him.
In the shadows, something moves in the dark.
You reach for another stone, ready to throw the thing. The moving shadow emerges, and you promptly drop it.
“Brynjolf,” you breathe.
“Lass.” He reaches for you, and you throw yourself into his arms.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, hands roaming as he inspects you.
You take stalk of yourself. Nothing hurts expect a faint throb at the side of your head. “I think I’m all right.”
Brynjolf wraps his arms around you, and you melt into him, clinging so tight the buckles across his chest dig against your skin.
“Take me away from here, Bryn.”
“You can’t expect me to stay here.”
When you told Brynjolf to take you away, you meant above ground, not to Thieves Guild headquarters.
A Guild member strolls by and Brynjolf grabs your arm, pulling you further into the dark. “Mercer isn’t all that inclined in letting you go.”
The two of you stand nearly toe-to-toe in one of the alcoves surrounding the cistern. It’s not well-lit, and your voices are hushed, but this is a conversation between the two of you. No one else needs to take part.
“Why?” you hiss, already knowing.
“He thinks you’ll compromise us,” replies Brynjolf calmly, but you hear the subtle tension. Even he doesn’t entirely believe what he’s saying.
“Everyone already knows the Thieves Guild operates out of the Ratway,” you insist. “They already know you’re down here. How will I change anything?”
Brynjolf glances over your shoulder and you follow his gaze. Mercer Frey stands in the middle of the cistern with two others. One is a woman with white hair and a permanent scowl. The other is a man who keeps glancing at the scowling woman with a soft smirk.
Brynjolf sighs, his head dipping slightly. “Yes, lass. But where? They don’t know and they don’t dare come looking. Not with Maven in their way.”
You scoff. “And you trust her?”
“As long as money is involved.”
You shake your head and look away to a spot over his shoulder. Discovery of where the Thieves Guild is located isn’t the point. Mercer intends to trap you here. Either you stay down here with all of them, or potentially put your life at risk.
Brynjolf lowers his voice. “Mercer won’t harm you.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Because it’s true. Brynjolf would intercede if it came to that. The issue is with not being allowed to go.
“I’m not a prisoner,” you finish, returning your gaze to Brynjolf’s face.
“You aren’t.”
“But I can’t go.”
Brynjolf laughs softly and it’s a lovely sound. “You want to run from me that badly?” he teases.
“Be serious,” you hiss.
“I am,” his tone shifting. Brynjolf moves closer, shielding you from the cistern. “You keep running and it has gotten you nowhere.”
“Don’t,” you begin but Brynjolf isn’t having it.
He leans in, placing both hands against the stone wall behind you. You’re trapped. Pinned. Wherever you look, wherever you turn, it will only be him.
“You’re running from yourself. From your family. From me.”
“Brynjolf,” you warn, but he ignores it.
“You say you don’t want me but we both know that’s a lie.”
You huff and attempt to dip under his arm. He moves with you, keeping you in place. Shooting him a warning look does nothing.
“Listen to me, lass,” he murmurs. “You don’t shy away from my touch. You always give me soft smiles. Kind words. Kisses.” It is then that his gaze drops to your mouth. There is clear appreciation in that look, and it instantly stirs a heat in your core.
“We almost married once.” His tone softens, and then Brynjolf’s gaze returns to your eyes. “It did not happen. But I still consider you my only option.”
You fall into memory, of the times before, of when Brynjolf meant everything to you, and your family was whole. A time when you wielded a Voice so powerful it scared you, but you knew it meant you were destined for greater things.
How quickly things change.
How quickly they fall apart.
“Don’t say that,” you murmur, shaking your head.
“Why? Can I not speak freely with you?”
“Of course you can, Bryn.”
“Then that is how I feel.”
You cross your arms over your chest, retreating slightly. Years have passed and the two of you have not faced this. Is it fate that led you to Riften? You knew Brynjolf was here, but that is because of his involvement with the Thieves Guild. Maybe you should attempt to rekindle what the two of you shared—what you still share.
There is still love there. It does not fester or wither.
It is loud and bold beneath the skin. It simmers. Lingers. Waiting for the two of you to finally find each other again. Every time you see Brynjolf, it warms you all over. You feel safe, and you silently hate it when he leaves.
“If you truly do not want me, say so,” he murmurs. “Plainly and firmly. Tell me there is no chance for the two of us to be together.”
Your gaze settles at his throat. It is the only place you can look. If you look into his eyes, if you see those emerald pools, you will drown in him.
“Bryn.”
“Look me in the eyes when you reject me.”
This makes you start, gaze snapping to attention, finding those green gems you’d know anywhere. And you are lost. Completely. You stare at him, the tension increasing until it’s a knife through the heart.
You drop your gaze. Shake your head. “That isn’t fair.”
It’s not a rejection and Brynjolf’s sigh of relief is palpable. It would be unfair to say you don’t love or want him. Because you do. You’re just—
Scared.
Brynjolf leans against the wall with one arm, dropping the other. Using that leverage, he creates an intimate space, faces close enough to come together but not meeting.
“Everything you need will be provided for if that is what you worry about. I promise you,” says Brynjolf. Casually, the backs of his knuckles brush against your upper arm. “Money will be sent to your mother. I’ve already been looking after her care.”
You blink, startled. “What do you mean?”
Brynjolf shrugs. “You think your measly earnings for the Jarl are enough?”
Your mouth opens and then closes, your mind trying to process this information. “How long has this been going on?”
Brynjolf remains quiet.
“Tell me,” you insist, lightly beating your fist against his chest.
“I’ve been sending money for many seasons.”
“Since when?”
“You know,” he says simply.
The whole reason you broke it off with Brynjolf all those years ago was because of your mother’s health and the death of your father and brothers. All that income disappeared, and you were the only person available to keep you and your mother afloat. Maybe if you had married Brynjolf, money wouldn’t have been an issue, but you didn’t want to drag him down with you. The threat of the streets was constant, and all your hopes for the future suddenly vanished.
And he’s been sending money all this time?
“You didn’t have to. Brynjolf—you shouldn’t—”
Brynjolf starts shaking his head. He pushes off from the wall, face stern. He glances back at the cistern and then returns his gaze to you. “Come with me.”
Brynjolf grabs your upper arm and pulls you away from the wall. A small part of you tells you to stick your heels in and resist because it’s all you know. But you allow him to guide you away into what must be some sort of training room.
“You didn’t need to send anything. I have it handled.”
Brynjolf has his back to you, hands on his hips. He sighs audibly and speaks. “I wanted to. Want to.”
“Bryn.”
He turns, one hand up to ask for silence. “We were to be married.” He drops it, that hand forming a fist at his side. “That didn’t just disappear for me.”
You can’t fault him for caring. It was you that severed the connection, who walked away from a good man that loved you beyond care for himself. Even now, he looks after what’s left of your family.
“Do you remember how happy we were?” he asks.
“All the time,” you reply, voice cracking slightly.
Brynjolf moves toward you, and without thought, you extend your hand to him. He takes it, pulling you into his arms, inhaling deeply of your scent.
“I’d choose you every time,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “I’d bring you a priestess of Mara. Bind ourselves to each other. Give you anything you ask for.”
Brynjolf pulls back enough to change his position. With one hand, he cups your cheek, and draws you in. “You’ll never have to work.” He hesitates, then closes the distance. The kiss he offers is sweet. Gentle. “Never worry.” Another kiss, this one tinged with a spark of fire. “I would provide.” This next kiss is deep, all need and passion. You open for him and Brynjolf groans into your mouth.
When the two of you break apart for air, his thumb begins caressing your cheek. “You know I speak truly.”
“What would I do here?”
“Whatever you want,” shrugs Brynjolf. “Could even teach you our ways.”
“I’m not becoming a member.”
Brynjolf’s smile is infectious. You can’t help but match it. “If you marry me, you do by default.” He lowers his voice. “And you know where we live.”
“Is this your way of forcing my hand?”
Brynjolf laughs. “If I was going to force you, lass, I’d have done it already.”
It’s true. Brynjolf has had years to make you his without your input. But he has always given you space. Given you time. And you do love him. You do long for the times the two of you shared together before you pulled away.
Perhaps it is time to accept, to know that his support is there and so deeply wanted on your part.
“You’ll fetch a priestess of Mara?” you ask softly.
“Right now,” he answers immediately. “If that is what you wish.”
You see the hope in his eyes, feel the anticipation in his muscles. All these years, and still you are so enamored with him, and he with you.
“You did ruin my job with the Jarl.”
“Me?” he laughs, pulling you tighter into his arms. The two of you stay like this, just embracing.
After a long moment, he finally speaks. “Is this a yes, lass?”
You take a deep breath and snuggle closer into him. “It’s a yes.”
POV: You're Jim Marcus (and/or a fascinating bug)
