skyrim men x reader | random relationship headcanons
a/n: something a lil different and special to celebrate 100 followers! (i'm acting nonchalant but i am shaking with joy). it may not be a massive number but its massive to me. thank you SO so much to every single one of you who reads, like, and reblog my works!! it means the world to me and i really appreciate it 💚 here's some random fluff stuff feat. a few of our beloved skyrim men. lmk if you'd like to see some more characters!
| brynjolf |
1000% brings you pretty trinkets he finds on jobs that remind him of you. particularly likes to collect necklaces and rings made with your favorite gem
in public settings, he is fond of subtle physical touch. a hand along your lower back, brushing the hair away from your face, kissing your hand or cheek when you have to part ways. in private though? definitely not as subtle
he likes slow, long kisses. the kind where you're both practically gasping for air afterwards. he thinks you just look too cute when you're all flushed and breathless
takes you out on dates a lot. going out for a fancy meal, or a swim at the lake when it's hot out, or finding a nice rooftop to stargaze. even when you're both busy and barely have the time, he will squeeze something in - it's mandatory to him
leaves you lil folded handwritten notes on your desk or bed when you have to work away from each other. some of them probably cheesy as hell
when you're cuddling he almost always ends up spooning you. he just loves having you curled up against him, your back against his chest, fitting perfectly in his arms
| farkas |
frequently gifts you flowers. bouqets, bundles, sometimes a random single one he picked out on a walk or something. "i saw this and thought of you"
he's incapable of simple, short hugs. bear hugs are the default, the kind where his arms just envelope you and give you a firm squeeze. and if he sees you for the first time after not seeing you for an eternity (or like, two days by farkas standards), he will greet you with a pick-you-up-and-spin-you-around hug
awful singer but he likes to sing or hum along with you anytime he catches you doing so
he lovesss to lay his head in your lap. bonus points if you play with his hair during. he can very easily doze off right then and there
will instinctively hold your hand when you are in a remotely crowded area or exploring someplace dark ane unfamiliar. you will not be separated at any cost
he becomes extra motivated for workouts and exercise when you keep him company. probably asks you to do that thing where you sit on his back while he does push-ups
| vilkas |
he's an early early bird and almost always wakes up before you, but uses that time to grab you some breakfast
loves to grab your chin when he kisses you. gently of course (unless you're giving him a reason to catch you by surprise)
lil bit of the jealous type. if he so much as sees someone else looking at you while you're out together, he'll tug you closer and won't let you out of his sight
grumbles a protest if you call him something soft like "cute" or "handsome" but secretly eats it up. will still think about it for days to come, actually
he's a quality time fanatic. even if its something simple at home, like reading your own books in comfortable silence, your head leaning on his shoulder
usually serious but has his own little games he plays with you. like if you ask him to hand something to you, he'll do so but not without a lil game of tug-of-war. or he'll be like "hold still, there's something in your hair", only to ruffle his hand through it and mess it up even more
| teldryn sero |
turns into a big grumpy baby when the weather is too cold/wet. his mood improves drastically if it means you get to stop somewhere and you can snuggle up together to get warm
he's an amazing storyteller and an even better listener. he lives for late night chats where you spend hours swapping stories with each other
he has good, strong hands and therefore is excellent at massages. he'll gladly help you work out any stiff or sore muscles you have
will sneakily buy things he sees you ogling in shops or on market strolls and surprise you with them later
if he's bored he'll provoke you into a sparring match, where he manages to balance actual practice and playful teasing. sometimes he lets you win (and it's definitely not in hopes that you'll end up pinning him down)
he loves whenever you wear something of his, like his scarf or shirt. just gives him a lil burst of tender possessiveness that never fails to make him grin. "you can keep it - looks better on you anyway."
| miraak |
he is touch starved to the max. for this reason he practically melts into any physical contact you give him, no matter how big or small
commits to learning how to cook solely to be able to prepare your favorite meals after you've had a bad day
he greatly enjoys and is comforted by the weight of your body against his, like pressure therapy. he'll ask you to lay your legs across his when you're sitting next to each other or sometimes he'll just straight up ask you to lie on top of him completely. and don't even try to protest you'll "crush" him - he's a big guy, he can take it
his favorite kisses are forehead ones and he will dish them out on you regularly
becomes very, very protective when you get injured, sick, or anything of the sort. he will hover like an obsessive mother and scold you like one if you try anything out of your limitations. would do literally anything you ask him to do (but trust, you won't need to)
he's already a bit of a clingy sleeper but will bring you even closer when he struggles with nightmares. it's easier to forget them when he has you - his salvation - wrapped up in his arms, soothed by your presence
| marcurio |
when you stop at an inn or tavern where there's a bard, he'll either request your favorite song, or a song you hate. depends on how much he wants to mess with you
does gentlemanly things for you without even thinking about it. holds doors open to let you in first, pulls out chairs and stools for you to sit on, offers you the first bite of a shared meal. it's like second nature to him
prides himself on smelling good and thrives off any compliments you give him about it. he'd definitely buy overpriced fancy soaps and scents from markets and shops
he likes to draw in his downtime. usually just studious sketches of buildings or foliage but occasionally he'll draw you. he especially likes to capture you doing mundane lil things like watching a sunset or fixing your hair
sometimes he'll accidentally hit you with his magic in battle but he'll immediately be on you again with a healing spell. he'll either mumble out hurried apologies or call you an idiot (affectionately) for getting in his way
reads to you after you've had a bad day. something with a light mood, like a humurous story or sweet poetry, while his fingers trace idle shapes on the back of your hand - gentle comfort, however he can provide it
[all are gender neutral, but there is a mention of being called ‘pretty’] [this took me almost three hours 💀 I don’t like most of them:(]
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farkas
He could smell them from a mile away.
That’s weird, let’s start again, shall we? Farkas swung his sword at the giant, fighting the urge to turn and run towards the sweet smell approaching. The beast inside him begged— pleaded— for him to go and engulf himself inside that smell, to cover himself in it, whatever it was.
That’s when he saw them. They aimed a bow, a steel arrow shooting through the air and into the giants eye, making it roar out before Aela ultimately got the last hit and killed the giant on the farm. Farkas couldn’t keep his eyes off them, the smell was coming from them. He watched as Aela spoke to them, not even registering what she was saying as he watched this person— the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.
Later, he’d seen them at Jorrvaskr, watching them enter and sneak downstairs. Were they joining?
“Farkas!” He’d heard Skjor’s voice shout from Aela’s room, “did you call me?” He asks as he smells that sweet smell again, his eyes locking on theirs. He barely heard what Aela was saying to him, “uh— new blood? Oh, hello. I’m Farkas. Come, follow me.”
He’d spoken to Kodlak later that night, asking him what in oblivion that sweet smell coming from them was and why was it just coming from them?
Kodlak laughs, forgetting that Farkas could be a bit dense at times, “she’s your mate,” he says as he pats him on the back a little harshly, “your soulmate, in other words.”
His soulmate..
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vilkas
He’d had their stupid name imprinted on his wrist since he was just a pup, a name he’d never heard of in all his years. Vilkas had begun to doubt that his soulmate even lived in Tamriel, in Skyrim, how unlucky was he? First, his lycanthropy, now his soulmate was nowhere to be seen? Nobody knew of someone with such a name?
It was a normal day as any, Vilkas sat at the small table with Kodlak, the two of them wondering if there truly would ever be a way for them to be rid of the beast. The beat haunted Kodlak, he knew that, the old man wanted to get into Sovngarde as any true nord would. But the beast prevented that, he would end up in Hircine’s land hunting for the rest of eternity.
It wasn’t long before an unfamiliar person walked into the halls of Jorrvaskr, heading down towards the two men. Their conversation was cut short, “I’d like to join the companions,” their voice was nice, I stark contrast to the armour and weapons they had on their body.
“Would you, now? Here, let me have a look at you? Hmm. Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit.” Kodlak spoke, making Vilkas furrow his eyebrows.
“Master, you’re not truly considering accepting them?” He asks, making Kodlak give him a subtly pointed look, explaining they had empty beds for people with a fire in their hearts, “Apologies. But, perhaps this isn’t the time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider.”
The person sheepishly looks to Vilkas before they state their name. He freezes for a moment before he looks at them, Kodlak letting out a hearty laugh, making the person look at him with confusion.
“Vilkas, take them out to the yard and see what they can do.” Kodlak says before the person looks between Vilkas and Kodlak for a moment.
Oh gods..
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mercer frey
He’d known they were his soulmate from the moment he’d met them. Mercer saw the tattoo imprinted onto their forearm before they pulled their sleeve back down, he wasn’t stupid. But he’d never said anything, never gave them the hint he wanted them as much as they wanted him, not with the plans he had against the guild.
He’d let his guard down, it was so unlike him to bring any of his walls down but they made him. It was their fault, wasn’t it? He reaches over, his hand brushing against their cheek as they both stood outside in the backyard of his home, concealed under the stars, slone with no one watching them.
“I know,” they say suddenly, he furrows his eyebrows, “know what?” He asks in return, slipping his hand down to their neck, cradling it. He could choke them and end the misery of having him as their soulmate.
The grasp his wrist, carefully sliding down his sleeve to show the matching tattoo. His face hardens, pulling away as he covers the tattoo with his sleeve again, “it means nothing.”
He didn’t entirely mean those words, he yearned for them in secret, but he wouldn’t let his walls come down again. They didn’t need to get involved in his dirty work, he didn’t even want them in the guild anymore. It was to protect them.
“Leave, don’t come back, you understand?”
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brynjolf
The Dragonborn walks into Riften for the first time, almost laughing at how scared the guard outside had been when he realised they knew there was no tax. They make their was through the town, they liked the atmosphere even if they couldn’t see the colour of anything, it was better than dealing with the whole Alduin thing, anyways.
“Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all that coin you’re carrying, eh?” Brynjolf’s voice sounds out quietly as he approaches the famous Dragonborn. Who didn’t know of them, being clad in such armour and that weapon? They didn’t hide it.
“I’m sorry, what?” They ask, looking up at the man before a myriad of colours struck their vision within seconds, overwhelming them. Their head ached at the sight before they finally got used to it and looked around, not noticing the look that Brynjolf was giving them, admiring.
“I’m saying you’ve got the coin, love, but you didn’t earn a septim of it honestly, I can tell,” Brynjolf says once their eyes move back to him, crossing his arms with an expression that matches flirtation.
“How could you possibly know that?” The Dragonborn asks, almost bewildered as they finally get a good look of him, he was handsome, effortlessly charming. It was almost.. irritating? No, that’s not the word, “wait— my wealth is none of your business.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, love. Wealth is my business. Maybe you’d like a taste?” They’d gone through with the plan, stealing what’s-his-face’s ring and planting it on the other who’s-his-name successfully.
“Looks like I chose the right person for the job. And here you go.. your payment, as promised,” Brynjolf hands them the payment he’d promised his soulmate. He couldn’t wait to get them into the guild, to live a life with them— even if the life was illegal.
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cicero
Poor Cicero hadn’t even gotten the chance to speak to the pretty assassin that had walked into the sanctuary the day he’d brought his dear mother. Sweet, sweet Night Mother. He was such a good Keeper, wasn’t he? Why wouldn’t she just speak to him! No, he must be calm, that’s what sweet mother would want, isn’t it?
He spoke to the Night Mother now, they were alone, sweet solitude with the sweet Night Mother, “Have you.. have you spoken to anyone? No.. no, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and the saying!” He continued for a while, rambling to the mother.
Suddenly, he opens her coffin, gasping with confusing and repulse. Here, the pretty assassin was in the coffin with the Night Mother!
“What? What treachery! Defiler! Debased and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother’s coffin! Explain yourself! Speak, worm!”
The pretty assassin’s eyes seemed to widen at his words, he couldn’t tell if it was because of his words or tone, but he didn’t care, “The Night Mother spoke to me! She said, ‘I am the one.’” Now, it was Cicero’s turn to widen his eyes. Those words! The words! His words! The ones on his arm, the ones his soulmate would say! His Listener!
Good luck with this one, dear Listener..
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ancano
Ancano had noticed them as soon as they’d walked through those gates. Another new apprentice, how bothersome. Still, he continued his conversation with Mirabelle, quickly growing more irritated by the treatment she was giving him.
The new apprentice was guided away by Mirabelle, leaving Ancano to his thoughts. It was odd, he felt drawn to them, though he didn’t know nor care why. He had business to attend to.
The apprentice was in the Hall of Elements with Tolfdir, the two of them watching the mysterious orb they’d found in Saarthal. Clearly, this mage was more troublesome than Ancano had thought. The Psijic Order was asking for them. So, Ancano had inturruped the two of them, gaining a temper tantrum from Tolfdir. It was only when they were alone that the elf had noticed a familiar scratch on the side of the apprentice’s neck- one that matched the one that had appeared on his not but a few hours before.
Gods be damned, this apprentice was his soulmate, “I need you to come with me immediately. Let’s go.”
For now, he wouldn’t say anything about it, this apprentice seemed to be too oblivious. Or, at least, that’s what they pretended to be with that stupid little smile on their lips.
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serana
Being trapped in a tomb for gods know how long wasn’t something Serana entirely enjoyed. I mean, who would? It was dark and cold, dreary and cramped, far too undeserving of even a vampire such as her. She just had to remember, she was doing this for her father and he would come back for her, right?
She hadn’t woken up until she was almost fallen on the floor, but her quick instincts helped her to keep balance. She was free, her father had come back..—
Glancing up, she noticed a person standing there watching with a small amused smile, obviously the one that had rescued her from the dreary space she was just in, obviously not a vampire. Obviously not her father. She was sure her father would’ve come to get his daughter, so who was this? Though, as their eyes met, a shockwave shot through her, the feeling of being alive again was strong, flooding her veins and undead heart. This was her soulmate, she’d waiting thousands of years for this, but why was she so reluctant now? Reluctant to go with them- to trust them, but a part deep inside her knew this was right, she could get used to it. She could get used to them.
“Who are you?” Serana asks, finally having gained her composure. She looks this person up and down, analysing anything and everything she can see. It was clear they were a vampire hunter. Great.
“Who were you expecting?” They ask, almost amused as they watch the pretty vampire, crossing their arms in a similar way Serana was.
summary: Modern AU. After a year you haven't managed to stop thinking about Brynjolf, the ex you never truly got over.
feat: Brynjolf/f!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content - minors should not read or engage with this post. switching pov. swearing. past unhealthy relationship. unhealthy coping mechanisms. angst with eventual comfort.
a/n: i know this took longer than the vilkas or farkas version but i worked really hard and hope it was worth the wait!! <3
Most of your days are easy - from home to work and back home. Ordering takeout for dinner and watching a terrible show while scrolling on your phone to keep yourself from forming a single thought. If you don't think about it for too long it's quite a peaceful life you've got.
Everything's alright as long as you don't look too close. If you avoid all those closed doors and the shadows where ornately framed photos used to hang. You're okay as long as you stay out of the kitchen and pay someone else to take care of the yard work.
Maybe things aren't as perfect as you'd like to believe. Slurping takeout noodles for the third time this week and watching someone excitedly bake the newest high protein low fat dessert isn't ideal but it's what you've got. For the moment that pit within you feels less noticeable and that's all you can ask for.
You used to complain about how tiring work is but lately it's been a blessing. After nine hours of dealing with annoying customers and nitpicky coworkers you're just exhausted enough to sleep well. Your legs ache and you could probably use a hot bath but that's tomorrow's problem.
Shuffling off toward bed you make sure to keep your gaze trained to the left. You can't stand to look at that door - open or closed it makes no difference. It makes you sick just thinking about what lies behind it. You brush your teeth in the hallway bathroom, swiping at your face and tying back your hair while pointedly ignoring the reflection.
The guest bedroom is fairly small but you've made it comfortable, pillows squashed along the wall and cozy blankets layering every inch. The low buzz of some video from your laptop keeps you engaged just enough to keep your thoughts from straying too far until you fall into the bliss of dreamless slumber.
You shouldn't be here. Have you lost it or does his cologne still somehow linger in the air? Numbly you enter the bedroom, your bedroom, for the first time in nearly a year.
Everything is right where you left it. That old alarm clock he used to grumble about collects dust beside the necklace you wore daily. The bed is still unmade and you can see where he'd kicked the blankets aside that last awful night. It'll be alright, you can keep it together.
Sucking in a deep breath you push onward, forcing your way through a room you've ignored for months. It's a simple task to retrieve an outfit and leave, holding it in for a few more minutes won't kill you. You stumble and nearly fall, an old annoyance flaring up when you clutch the bedframe to stay upright.
Fuck. This is what does it? An ugly sob bursts out of you so suddenly you can't quiet it. Every fucking day you'd reminded him to put his shoes away. He knew you'd trip over them on your way to the bathroom. The memory of his smile is hot and painful, searing through your mind. You can practically feel the way he'd grip your arms and kiss you like he can make you forget all the obnoxious little habits.
"Yeah, but you still love me right?' He'd always grin into the kiss as if it would distract you from him kicking the shoes under his side of the bed.
It hurts. It hurts so bad to be here but you're already in, you might as well get it over with. Tears burn at your eyes as you venture into your old bathroom, slapping at the switch to flip the lights on.
Dust has settled on every surface. Your old perfume bottle is half full beside the mismatched toothbrushes. A towel is tossed lazily over the sink and the tub's lip bears bottles you haven't been strong enough to purchase since. Everything is as it should be if your life had stayed on track.
Seeing yourself in those old mirrors feels strange. There's a twinge of nostalgia there but you don't fully recognize yourself - your hair is cut differently and you're wearing a shabby work shirt. It's difficult to not remember the way he'd fold you into his arms and smirk at you in the mirror, commenting on how good your reflections appear together.
"Like we were made for each other, lass."
The last bandage to rip off is the closet. With a pathetic sniffle you wrench it open and for a beat your turmoil stills. Pressed shirts and perfectly folded pants hang there, forgotten and abandoned. Bravely you take a step deeper when it hits you.
Like a knife to the gut his scent hits you all at once. Suits and old band tees hang on his side of the closet steeped in the smell of his cologne. It's like you're in a trance as you lean closer, drawing the sleeve of a familiar black shirt to your nose.
The floodgates within you open. Terrible pain wrenches at your heart, the flicker of momentary relief washed away by a depression you've grown far too comfortable in. Every desperate breath is heavy with the smell of the man you've loved too much for far too long.
It smells of home, the life you thought you'd always live. Cologne and the hint of cigarettes he'd only smoke after a couple drinks. Like the man you love holding you close and kissing your forehead during late nights and lazy mornings.
For once it feels like a blessing that you're hopelessly alone. There is no one around to judge the way you slip your ex husband's shirt over your head, sleeves flopping over your hands and long enough to cover your shorts. The logo has faded from years of washing and you can't fight back the memories of him reminding you that under no circumstances is it to go through the dryer.
'It'll ruin the logo, lass. That was a limited print, remember? You're the one who bought it, don't wanna drag you halfway across the globe lookin' for a new one.'
Finally you see it, the final piece of whatever outfit you'd come searching for. Your breath hitches at the sight of your rings. It's like they've been waiting for you all this time, still somehow shiny under the layers of dust. Your fingers shake but it's awfully familiar to have their weight on your hand once more.
It's just to scare off men at the bar. You justify it to yourself, completely ignoring the way your stomach flutters. You find yourself tracing the outline of the engagement ring, it's center stone still so dazzling you can only imagine he stole it.
"Nah, bought it fair and square. Wouldn't risk losin' something this precious." Always so smug while denying your accusation, clearly proud of how much you loved it.
You should leave. This room is dangerous. You've spend so many months successfully compartmentalizing your life around the echoes of him but this pain feels good. Your chest burns and tears leak down your cheeks but it's somehow nice to be here hurting. The pain almost feels like some part of him is still here with you.
You'd forgotten how soft this bed is. After all those months sleeping on the couch or the lonely twin size mattress in the spare room you sink into your bed. Every achy bone relaxes and despite the tears drying over your sore cheeks life feels alright.
Even the pillows smell faintly of him. You turn your head, staring at the way your rings shine and the cuff of his shirt hangs at your wrist. The seam's a little frayed where he always fussed with it.
How funny it is that a year after he left a ghost of him still lives in this house with you. His favorite clothes are here and his shoes are kicked aside like he'll be back in the morning. It makes you wonder how seriously he took the divorce. He probably thought this would blow over and he'd be back in a couple weeks.
Bad idea. Alarms in your brain sound but the thought's already forming. You fight back against it, squeezing chilly hands to your face but it's already there. The image of him walking back through the door as if he'd never left, that crooked smile and the loving way his hand always found your waist to keep you close.
His scent invades your nose once more and it only fuels this awful fucking fantasy. It hurts to think about him, that jagged wound in your chest suddenly raw and fresh when you fantasize about him walking into the room like nothing happened.
He'd flop down on the bed beside you, a lazy hand on your thigh while he told you about his day. Unbuttoning his shirt and toeing his shoes off while he bitched about Mercer, that lilt in his voice that always drove you mad. You can still hear it clear as day in your head as the fantasy unfurls.
You shouldn't want this.
You should not be fantasizing about your ex husband leaning closer to you, his lips on your throat while he mumbles about how badly he missed you. It's an evening you'd lived so many times that it's practically burnt into your memory, a mundane life that now heats something forgotten within you.
You recall how his large hands would roam over your stomach, grabbing at your hip and curling you closer to him. The chuckle when he'd mumble about 'having somethin' so lovely to come home to' making his job worth it. How good it used to feel when he let you undo his belt to get those uncharacteristic slacks out of your way.
Fuck, you shouldn't be in here. Your hand ghosts down your body and it's an awful facsimile of what lives in your head. There is no stubble scraping at your cheek nor are there warm kisses pressed to every inch of your face but the arousal is still there, spurned by memories and the scent of his cologne. Your fingers are too shaky when they reach for the waistband of your undergarments but for the moment it's the best you have.
'Thought about you all day, lass.' He'd always speak right against your skin, like he couldn't bear to be parted from you. Your fingers don't fit the illusion when they slide into your underwear, gathering slick arousal just like he would. Nothing feels quite like you recall but it's good enough to keep going.
God, you remember how he'd swallow your moans like they were all he needed. He always kissed you like it could be the last time and just the memory has your mouth trembling. Tears gather along your lashes as you plunge two fingers into yourself because it isn't enough. He's not here, you can't quite make the same practiced motions over your clit and your wrist is at the wrong angle.
You hang onto the memory of how good he felt, arousal a weak flame compared to what it used to be. How he used to curve his fingers just right, such a practiced motion that made your senses explode. The kisses he'd trail down your chest as you panted his name, hips bucking against his hand because you always wanted more of him. Your hips shift now, fingers unable to reach that same spot as you chase the same high.
"Bryn," you whimper his name but he doesn't magically appear. Your free hand raises to your face and with your lungs full of his smell an orgasm finally washes over you. Your whine of his name is pathetic but for one blissful moment you forget that he's gone, all the fights and chilly silences disappear because all you want is your husband.
For the first time in a year you sleep in your own bed. You don't really care if you're pathetic, clutching his pillow to your chest and snuggling down into the blankets you'd chosen together. It feels like home to fall asleep here, the firm pillow under your head almost enough to fool you into thinking he's come home.
Brynjolf isn't entirely sure why he does this. The job means nothing and his life outside of work is even less substantial. He stays late whenever Mercer asks because a late night with his annoying boss is somehow better than an evening of drinking and learning to cook for one.
There's no point to anything he does. He works this job because Gallus gifted it to him all those years ago. The locked drawer of his desk holds all the pictures and trinkets that used to decorate his office. He can't bring himself to throw them away - it feels an awful lot like giving up.
It's been months since you spoke to him but he still remembers every second. The way your hand accidentally brushed his when you handed him the finalized divorce papers. The tears in your eyes as you wished him a happier life and the twitch in his wrist when he failed to wipe them away. The helpless way he'd watched you walk away from him, boxes on the curb and wedding ring in his pocket.
He'd been so fucking useless. Brynjolf stares up at the sloped ceiling of his shitty apartment and wonders how he'd gotten so out of touch with his own life. He'd watched you grow distant from him, had been a passive witness to the slow ruination of his own marriage and did nothing to stop it.
Brynjolf stares out the foggy window and indulges in his favorite form of self harm - thinking of you. He wonders what you're doing now or if you ever think of him. If you've ever missed him. He supposes that your life is better without him and selfishly hopes that there's no one else living in the house you used to share.
He has no right to feel like that but it doesn't stop the cool slice of jealousy through his mind. He curls into the cheap mattress and endures the waves of self hatred washing over him.
He never meant to fall in love. He'd watched Karliah mourn Gallus and told himself that it would never be him. For so many years his life revolved around maintaining Gallus' memory. Doing anything and everything to make his old mentor proud.
And then he met you.
You with those eyes that shone like stars and made life worth living. Who loved him so loudly and unconditionally through his countless fuckups. You, who made him feel like someone worth the effort it took to fix himself just for a shot with you.
Brynjolf has long swore that he loved you before he officially met you. He was in love with you the minute he saw you smile. When you made your way to him and introduced yourself he was ready to pledge his life to yours.
It's a terrible pain to remember the way you used to look at him, so in love it hurt. The drunken night he'd tattooed your name on his chest because you'd only been on a few dates and the ring wasn't ready yet but he knew. How had he let all that fade? How had work of all things become more important than seeing you smile?
Nothing feels right but Brynjolf supposes it's the punishment he deserves. This bed is too small and the blankets are scratchy but luxury isn't a part of his life anymore. He had a nice bed with blankets you'd selected, a beautiful home that he'd simply let go of.
It's a bit easier to fall asleep with a pillow curled under his arm. He knows it's awfully pathetic but there's no one around to see. Brynjolf's sleep is uneasy, the painful awareness of his life rushing back every time he wakes.
He can't think about all that now. He has to be at the office before seven to get ready for some pointless meeting. He avoids the unfamiliar man in the mirror while he washes his face and runs a brush through his hair. It's hard to fight off the memories of your fingers running along his scalp or braiding bits of his hair when you got bored.
Brynjolf puts on a suit he knows you'd hate and shuffles off the the job that cost him everything because there's no alternative. There's nothing left in his life except work and lonely evenings. He grabs a coffee from the cafe you'd once frequented together and tells himself that he needs to get out of this rut. Maybe he'll go to some shitty bar and drink himself stupid just to break up the monotony.
After last night it feels a bit foolish to be here. The rings feel extra heavy on your hand but you need them. You tell yourself that it's merely protection against creepy drunk guys, repeating that while you nervously twist them around your finger.
One of the girls from work waves you over, a bright smile on her face when you join. Your heart leaps as you pass a group cheering as a Jenga tower crashes between them, the sound causing your anxiety to spike as you scurry past.
"It's good to see you." Another coworker comments when you slide into the free seat. "Thought you never went out."
"I don't." Well, not anymore.
The night is fairly easy after your initial nerves wear off. A drink or two, a shared appetizer, workplace gossip about who flirts with who and which manager definitely didn't earn their promotion. It isn't your favorite place to be but it's not like you have anywhere better to be.
"Hey, are you expecting anyone?"
"What?" You sputter out a laugh at the question. Cider dribbles down your chin and you swipe at your face, cheeks burning as you wait for a punchline that doesn't come.
"That guy's been staring at you for like, an hour now."
"Gross." You grumble, using your sleeve to scrub at the table. There's no point in looking, you're not interested in any guy's clumsy attempts at flirting.
"Oh, he's handsome." There's a playful slap at your shoulder but you don't budge.
"A man is the last thing my life needs."
"Even a man like that?"
Annoyed by their insistence, you whirl around. It takes your tipsy brain too long to catch up before they narrow in to the rude fingers pointing so obviously across the room. Your eyes narrow because no one seems to be paying you any attention - is this some prank you aren't getting.
Emerald eyes glitter dangerously under the low light. He's leaning against the bar, red hair tucked behind one ear and a drink sweating his hand. Your stomach drops and it seems that you've forgotten how to speak.
Of course he has to show up after last night. The memories are still fresh in your mind, his favorite shirt folded neatly behind a door you closed once more. The corner of his mouth lifts and when the crowd parts you watch in horror as he takes a step closer to you.
"Oh my god, he's coming over."
"You have to go talk to him!"
"I, I can't - I mean, I should probably get going, I have a lot of work -"
"Ladies." His voice is like silk and you curse yourself for the shiver it sends down your spine. He leans close to you, his scent washing over you when his hand rests on the table.
"Mind if I steal her for a minute?"
One hand opens for you, a simple offering that carries so much weight. You should politely refuse him and return home for the evening. The rational thing to do is to walk away from him right now and return to the life you've rebuilt around his absence.
Instead, you're a fool. Your stomach flips when you take his hand, something dangerous in his gaze when he notices the rings. You kick yourself but there's no time to make excuses - he's already offered your acquaintances a dazzling smile and pulls you to your feet.
"You look lovely." He leads you toward the bar once more, music a steady thrum in your chest. You note that his hand doesn't release yours when he orders your favorite drink, simply holding it at his side as if the last year hasn't happened.
"What are you doing here?" Your voice sounds sharp but his eyes snap back to you. He's analyzing you but you can't figure out what he's looking for. Some small part of you wonders if he still likes what he sees.
"Work's rough." He sighs, thumb brushing over your fingers. It pauses on your rings and you watch color rise in his cheeks.
"I just - it's for creepy guys, y'know." You stumble over the explanation despite saying the same to your coworkers with ease.
"'Course."
The world tilts when he sees you. Brynjolf can't believe it - you're here. It's like an angel has descended to earth. He hardly tastes the beer, too focused on the slope of your neck. He doesn't recognize the shirt you're wearing or the friends you're with but he knows that fake smile anywhere.
There's bags under your eyes. He wonders how long it's been since you slept well. Brynjolf knows that his nights are spent tossing and turning, rolling over those last few months in his mind and kicking himself for not fighting harder.
He should've quit his job. He should've given up anything and everything to stay by your side. You look like you're trying to have fun but he notes the slouch in your posture and the way your eyes flit too often toward the exit. Indecision churns within him - should he offer you an out? Or will it be worse to see him?
Brynjolf knows he's fucked when he spies fingers pointed in his direction. Gulping down another drink and praying for courage he awaits your reaction but you don't look. Another friend joins in, more fingers pointing at him and he can practically hear the sigh you heave.
That first uninterrupted look at you makes him weak at the knees. Brynjolf clutches the bar for support when your eyes go wide, lips parting and cheeks flushing a bright red. He's grateful that you don't appear to angry, merely shocked by his presence.
How much more can he push his luck? There's just enough space to squeeze between a few bodies and Brynjolf sucks in a deep breath before approaching. Your eyes are wide and he can't quite hear what you're saying to your friends but before he knows it he's exactly where he's spent the last year wanting to be, standing right in front of you.
"Ladies." He absently greets your friends, unable to look away from you. Still staring up at him like you can't fully believe he's here. It's too easy to lean closer to you just as he always has, starving for anything you're willing to give him. He gulps against the nerves and plants his hands on the table to keep them from quivering.
"Mind if I steal her for a minute?" A minute, the night, a lifetime, anything you want to give him. He's a greedy man but you haven't rebuffed him yet. His hand opens to you, an invitation as much as it is a damnation.
It must be terribly easy to tell how badly he wants you. You're so close, looking up at him with something like fascination. He'd only need to lean a few inches closer to kiss you, to taste that chapstick you always liked so much.
For some reason you take his hand. Brynjolf feels himself grinning when he clutches your hand, worried at how chilly it is. He's trying to cook up something flattering to say, some reason he can give your friends for taking up your time but it falls flat when he feels it.
You're wearing a ring. Two rings. Panic floods out every bit of sense he has left at the thought of you remarrying. One fearful glance down does little to quell the roaring in his mind because he knows these rings.
One he'd placed there nearly ten years ago, soaked in rain and drunk on the sound of your laugh. It had lived in his pocket for months just waiting for the perfect moment. The other shines as bright as the day he married you. Brynjolf can't fight back the memories of that day, you swiping at his tears as he pledged the rest of his life to you.
He can only hope that the smile he offers your friends doesn't look too strained. It's blissful to feel your hand in his once more as he leads you back to the bar. He's too much of a coward to speak around people he doesn't know, shaken purely by the sight of you.
"You look lovely," Brynjolf sighs before he can bite his tongue. He clears his throat and prays that your tastes haven't changed too drastically, ordering a drink you'd always enjoyed.
"What are you doing here?" It isn't quite an accusation but it sure gets his attention. For the first time in a year Brynjolf stares at you, taking in all the little changes.
Your hair's grown longer and the softness has left your gaze. Perhaps it's him that changed that last part. You still bite at your lower lip while you wait for him to speak and he wants so badly to rub his thumb across your mouth as he always did to stop that bad habit.
He doesn't get to do that anymore. Instead he clears his throat once more and ignores the fact that he's being watched by the most beautiful woman to ever grace his worthless existence.
"Work's rough." It's a non-answer but it's all he's got. Absently his thumb trails across your chilly fingers, stilling when they bump into the familiar rings.
"I just -" you stammer, eyes sweeping anywhere but at him. "It's just for creepy guys, y'know."
Oh. Of course. Brynjolf rubs a hand at his chest, carefully covering the bump where his own ring hangs near his heart. He can't bear to wear it anymore but the thought of leaving it behind makes him ill, settling on a chain under his shirt.
"'Course." He answers easily, ignoring that familiar ache.
It's quiet for a while. Brynjolf expects you to drop his hand, to swear or leave but you do none of those things. Your fingers twist into his and you drag a stool closer to his, taking an experimental taste of the drink he slides your way.
"How you been?" His voice cracks around the question. He shouldn't be asking you this. He should know how you are, should be coming home to you every single day and hearing you complain about what customer annoyed you or how your feet ache. He hates this feeling - that he's become a stranger to you.
"Fine." It's stiff. He doesn't believe you. "You?"
Fucking terrible. So lonely it's like the world could swallow him up and no one would give a shit. The constant headache from hating himself has only grown with each day he's been away from you.
"Been alright," he lies because the truth is too heavy.
Talking to you used to be the easiest thing in his world. Now it's stilted and awkward, like he's navigating a maze without knowing if there's an exit. But when you look up at him with those eyes he fell in love with so many years ago it's still a bit harder to breathe.
"I should get back to my friends," there's just enough hesitation in your words to make hope flicker in his chest. Brynjolf feels your fingers tighten around his and foolishly he wonders if you want him to beg you to stay.
"Maybe." He agrees, heart in his throat. The shred of confidence is bolstered by the bump of your rings against his knuckle. "Or I could buy you another drink."
God, you're stunning. Even the shy little smile makes his heart do backflips. Brynjolf swears he could cry when your knee knocks against his and you nod.
One drink turns into two, three, maybe four - he's lost count. He isn't sure how much longer he'll be conscious at this rate but you're here. There's a flush in your cheeks and your voice no longer trembles when you tell him about your job. Brynjolf falls in love with you all over when you sigh, chin resting on your hand and shamelessly staring at him.
"Bryn," his name on your tongue is like a salve to his busted heart. He finds himself brushing your hair aside and you don't stop him. "You have no idea how bad I missed this."
"Think I've got a clue."
Terror rises in his throat when you hop down from your stool. Your hand leaves his for the first time in hours and it's like a spell is broken. All that pain comes rushing back when you brush down your front, eyeing the table he'd seen you at hours ago.
"Oh, my coworkers left." You don't sound too upset. Brynjolf stands at your side, ready to let you break his heart all over again when you look back up at him.
"Oh well." You're sighing and grabbing his hand again. You're so warm when your other palm presses to his chest right over the tattoo of your name. "Wanna head home?"
He almost doesn't believe that he's heard you correctly. Brynjolf tells himself that he misheard you or maybe his useless brain imagined it. The delicate brush of your fingers along his jaw seem to sober him and he could cry from the loving expression on your face.
"You sure, lass?" His voice shakes and there's a flush in your cheeks but you don't laugh it off. You're almost shy when you look up at him, the man who let you down, with love in your eyes once more.
"Do you not want to?"
"I just wanna be sure." Brynjolf feels like a glutton as his hand rests on your hip. He can't help the way he leans closer to you, starving for anything you'll give to him.
"I don't wanna go home alone." Your voice is smaller, fingers gripping the front of his shirt. He wants to remind you that this is the only place he wants to be but he's a bit breathless.
"Yeah?" He urges, arousal he'd forgotten so long ago flickering to life at the heated way you look up at him.
"I want you to come home with me."
"You haven't gone and forgotten about me, have you?" Brynjolf's breath is hot where he murmurs against your throat. He feels too fucking good to answer. You can't think about anything with his fingers thrusting so deep in you.
"I haven't forgotten you, lass." Oh fuck, that has your hips bucking against his hold. Your face flushes but arousal chokes out any sense of embarrassment. Brynjolf chuckles in your ear and his kisses cascade down the slope of your jaw.
"You still like that, huh?" His voice is pure sex to your addled brain, you never want him to stop talking. "Haven't forgotten a thing about ya, don't worry."
He makes damn sure you know he isn't lying about that. Brynjolf sinks into the bed and grips your hips, dragging you closer until his face is buried in your cunt. That crooked nose bumps against your clit with every filthy stroke of his tongue along you. Both of those large hands cradle your waist ensuring that you don't wiggle away from the onslaught of pleasure.
It feels too fucking good. It almost feels like Brynjolf could still love you when he murmurs sweet praises through your orgasm and kisses across your stomach. Even when he makes a filthy show out of sucking those fingers that were just deep inside you there's something like love simmering in his gaze.
The moment Brynjolf removes his shirt whatever remains of your self control is fucked. That tattoo of your name is stark on his his skin and a chain rests against his chest. Near the end of its length hangs a ring that leaves your stomach in knots.
"Missed those sounds," he grins, easily raising your trembling legs to rest on his shoulders. "Need me to stop, love?"
No. Terror jolts through you at the thought of him leaving you again. Tears prick at your eyes but Brynjolf is leaning closer, muscles in your legs straining while he folds you in half. His ring is chilly where it tickles over the skin of your chest and the kiss he presses to your lips is painfully sweet, one hand stroking your cheek.
"No, I don't want you to stop, pl-"
"I'm here, baby. I'm not leavin' you."
Everything just falls into place with him. Brynjolf teasing you, cock sliding up and down along your cunt until you're greedily grinding your hips against his. He watches you with pure fascination, legs shaking where they're held over his shoulders because it isn't enough. The way he swallows your whimpers at the first press of his cock into you, eyes rolling back and nails digging into his arms.
He feels better than you remember. Your own fingers were nothing compared to this. Brynjolf nearly pulls out, the tip of his cock twitching just inside your entrance while he stares down at the messy display.
"Bryn," you whine, wiggling your hips in a useless attempt to get more of him. You know it's probably wrong to want him this bad after all this time but there isn't enough space in your brain to care. The girth of his cock has your back arching from the bed, pleasure zinging along every nerve until you can't think.
His hips are snapping against yours and those hands hold you right where he wants you, knees bumping into your chest with every thrust. You're grasping desperately at his arms and the sheets but you're completely at his mercy. Beautiful red hair falls around his face and his eyes never leave yours, that same intensity heating your blood.
"Bryn, Bryn,"
"That's it, lass." He grunts, a sloppy kiss pressed to your ankle. "Keep it up. Want the neighbors to hear ya."
Fuck, you don't want to cum already. You aren't ready for this to be over. Trying to stave off the orgasm is useless when Brynjolf pants out your name and his hand drops to press to your stomach. You feel him there, that slight pressure from his hand ensuring you feel every fucking inch of him.
"C'mon, beautiful." Brynjolf urges, pressing your numb knees into your chest while he leans closer to you. His thrusts are growing uneven and through all the arousal there's a sadness welling up in your chest.
He'll be gone again soon. You try to stuff it down, to stay in this moment with him because he feels so good. His hand slides down and the thumb tracing over your clit is enough to sent you over the edge.
It's a release like you've never felt before. The orgasm steals your breath and you're shaking against him, pleasure pounding with every beat of your heart despite the grief settling under it all. Brynjolf finishes a moment later, messy kisses and promises you can't quite hear mumbled against your cheek.
He slips from your arms and for one terrifying second you're aware that this is it. Brynjolf is going to put his clothes on and walk out the door for good this time. He steps into the bathroom and you scramble for something to say but your throat is wrecked. Your limbs tremble and you gather them close to your body, tucking the blanket to your chin and waiting for whatever comes next.
"Y'alright, lovie?" Brynjolf kneels beside the bed, one thumb smoothing over your brow. You nod because telling him the truth is too hard. "Got the bath runnin'."
How could you forget? Brynjolf's always taken careful consideration of your body after sex - rubbing your back or thighs if you were on top and icing any hickeys he left to lighten them up. His favorite had always been a bath to soothe away any aches or pains. Excitement smothers the sadness remaining within you because he's here.
It feels like home to be scooped into his arms once more. For Brynjolf to carry you into your shared bathroom and sink into the tub you'd spent far too much money on. You'd almost forgotten how good it felt to be cradled against his chest and float in water warm enough to loosen the many knots in your back.
"Missed this." He murmurs into your shoulder and you savor every bit of this moment with him. Brynjolf's fingers comb damp hair back where it curls around your face, the metal of his ring warm where it pokes your back. He gazes down at you like you're something precious and it breaks your heart a little to realize you can't recall the last time he looked at you like this.
Exhaustion slows your mind but you cling to consciousness as Brynjolf wraps a towel around you. He dries your hair the best he can and you sag against his chest. How long has it been since he's focused on you like this? Your eyes feel heavy but you gaze up at him, infatuated with the pink in his cheeks.
The bed feels better with him in it. Your room isn't scary anymore, not with Brynjolf wrapping an arm around you and snoring against your shoulder. There aren't ghosts or shadows haunting you. This is just the room you share with your husband.
You don't quite remember falling asleep, too lost in the blissful fiction that your life is alright. Brynjolf's skin stick to yours and you can feel every breath he takes. It's almost like the last year of your life was an awful dream.
Brynjolf knows he shouldn't be doing this yet he can't resist. There's a terrible pain in his chest at the sensation of being a visitor in his own home, tiptoeing through the hallway to get a clue of how you've been living.
Bare walls and plain furniture are all that greets him. Quite a bit of your regular skincare items are in the hallway bathroom and your shoes are carefully lined up near the front door. Everything feels terribly bland, like the life's been sucked out of a home that was supposed to be full of love.
His heart shatters when he peers into the guest room. Your favorite pillows and blankets piled up on a small mattress intended for drunk friends or visiting family. All the pictures you'd been so excited to hang are lined up against the wall, their backs facing the room. There's a hamper overflowing with your work uniforms and your laptop balances carefully on a tiny folding table.
Explains why you haven't slept well. Brynjolf visualizes the circles under your eyes and wonders how long you've been avoiding the master bedroom. It hurts to imagine you crunched onto this tiny bed all alone.
The kitchen is worryingly clean, fridge bearing a few takeout containers and enough cold coffee to last at least a week. That special dairy free creamer he used to drive a little farther to find because it was your favorite and berries old enough to be growing mold but nothing substantial.
Brynjolf kicks open the trashcan to toss them and feels his stomach turn. Takeout containers and trays from frozen meals are piled in there. He'd always been the one to cook but it shocks him to know how poorly you've both been doing without one another.
You barely eat and he hardly sleeps. You both probably drink too much. Numbly Brynjolf tosses the old produce into the trash and turns to investigate the rest of the kitchen he'd once loved so dearly.
It's eerie how clean this place is, like you haven't touched it since he left. A pantry he'd once overstuffed now hosts little more than spices and a handful of shelf stable meals. The red stain where he'd spilled pasta sauce faintly visible on the backsplash. A loaf of bread from your favorite bakery untouched on spotless counters.
Brynjolf had planned to cook you breakfast, to wake you up just as he always did after a night out. A feeble ray of hope that perhaps it wasn't just a one night fling. With the fridge woefully empty his stomach turns at the thought of leaving.
This is his home. He hasn't stepped foot here in nearly a year but that depressing apartment isn't home. It's like fate is on his side to find his beloved old shirt tossed atop the dresser and you still asleep in bed. Brynjolf can't help himself, pressing a kiss to your temple before scooping up his keys and wallet.
His walk to the store is like a forgotten ritual, something he'd practiced for so many years and abruptly stopped. He doesn't recognize the man at the counter or most of the neighbors he passes but the sidewalks haven't changed. The same bell dings when he enters the little corner store and its prices have only gone up a few cents.
Brynjolf can't decipher the squirming feeling in his gut, a mix of glee and dread. He so desperately wants to forget the last year and let the rest of his life be like this, to wake up to you snoring on his chest and make you breakfast. To kiss your forehead and wear his favorite clothes every single day for the rest of his life.
Instead, he feels like a visitor entering his house. Brynjolf ensures the door is locked behind him, balancing the paper bag on his hip and thoughtlessly tossing his keys and wallet onto the entry table. It warms something in his heart to see them right next to yours. Just how it used to be.
A little sniffle breaks the silence.
Brynjolf turns to find you curled up on the end of the couch, tears and old makeup staining your cheeks. One hand is squeezed over your mouth but a sob still breaks through. The way you're staring at him, like he's broken your heart all over again, makes him regret every little thing he's ever done.
"I thought," your voice breaks and Brynjolf hates the way you curl into yourself. Like you're protecting yourself from him. "I thought you left."
Waking up alone hasn't been a problem for months, it's something you've grown quite accustomed to. It's not the most comfortable thing after years of marriage but it's what you've got.
Waking up alone in your bed, skin still buzzing with the sensation of his kisses and hips sore where he'd manhandled you, well that's a new low. You're barely conscious and choking on tears while you glare at empty bed where he'd been snoring the night before.
You're a fool. Falling for him again has to be your biggest fucking mistake yet. There's shame burning in your gut when you haul yourself from a bed that still smells like sex and him. It's useless to fight back against the onslaught of tears but some stupid part of you hopes that he's just out in the kitchen.
It's so easy to remember how things used to be. Friday nights spent out at some bar or Brynjolf taking you to a fancy restaurant and cooking breakfast on Saturday mornings. Waking up to the smell of pancakes or bacon and the strongest coffee you've ever had. You shamble down the hall, collapsing into a heap on the couch because of course you were right.
He left again. You chuckle at the mess of tears on your face - you had no right to expect anything of him. Even though you're wearing his rings and the crescent of his teeth are still imprinted on your thighs you have no right to expect him to stay.
You divorced him. You both drifted apart but you were the one to pull the ripcord, to put to words what you'd both been feeling for ages. You shouldn't expect any kindness out of your ex husband. Even when he'd gazed at you like he could fall in love with you again and clutched you to his body all night you have no right to expect him to stay.
Knowing doesn't stop it from hurting. Ugly sobs tear up your throat and you slap a hand over your mouth, so needlessly desperate to hold it together. You were stupid for thinking maybe something could grow between you again - you're separated. It was one night of fun and now you're alone again.
Maybe it's better that he left. If he hung around for too long you'd likely get attached again and that's the last thing you need. One misstep in an otherwise clean breakup. In a day or two you'll shut that door again and move on with your life again, for now there's nothing to do but feel the pain.
The feeling of Brynjolf still lingers in this home. Your stomach turns and you wonder if you should just sell the house and move on. You'd tried over and over to make the house your home, to remove the bits he'd left behind and shove them into some old closet because throwing them out felt wrong. But one night in the home has reinstated that this is your home together, that you will never truly be here without him.
Keys jingle in the lock. Ears perking up you watch in amazement at a sight you've seen thousands of times; Brynjolf carrying a sack of groceries and humming something. His jeans are wrinkled and he's wearing the shirt you'd borrowed only a few days before. But he's here.
It's heartbreaking to see Brynjolf like this, like he belongs here. He does. You try to hold back the sobs but they're ripping up your throat the moment he whirls to look at you. Messy red hair is tied away from his face and he's tossing his keys on top of yours like he always has. His ring isn't tucked into his shirt anymore, shining where it bumps against his chest.
"I thought," you hiccup through the tears, "I thought you left."
Your vision's blurry but he's there in an instant. Warm hands rub up your legs and Brynjolf is kneeling before you. It's awful how much comfort his touch brings, apologies mumbled into your hair.
Maybe you can be foolish a while longer. You sink into Brynjolf's hold and for this moment he is your husband again. Thick arms wrap around your waist and he lets you bury your messy face into his shoulder. You aren't even certain why you're crying but something in your chest feels like it's cracked open. Too many emotions for you to handle spill into every crevice of your being but Brynjolf is here to hold you together.
"Sorry, lass." He murmurs it into a kiss but you can't respond. You clutch him closer like he's going to disappear and if you hold him tight enough he'll stay right here with you.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you can't stop the apologies from escaping any longer. "I'm sorry for all of this."
"All of what, my love?" Fuck him for being so patient and caring. Your heart burns and you squeeze him a little tighter. This anger is old and doesn't serve you anymore, there's no point in being angry at him over a past neither of you can change.
"Everything. All of it."
"You've got nothin' to apologize for." Kisses on your forehead only fuel the pain. "I should be sayin' sorry to you. Could say it until I die and don't think it'd be good enough."
Words aren't enough to explain the jumbled mess in your brain. You're gripping his face and staring at him, heart fluttering when he thumbs away the tears staining your cheeks and you're fairly certain you fucked your whole life up. You should apologize to him, to let him apologize to you and go your separate ways because going back on such a big decision makes you both look embarrassingly indecisive.
"Would you ever want to try again?" You blurt, heart in your throat. Brynjolf stares back and you brace yourself for rejection. Even if it will break you you'll take it.
"Every minute of this last year's killed me." He sighs and you swallow back the onslaught of tears. Everything about this is too vulnerable but you can't back down now.
"I know."
"Missin' you every single day. Wonderin' what I could've done different." Brynjolf sucks in a shaky sigh, dangling you in a horrible sense of suspense. "Wishing we could start over - maybe I could love you the right way."
It feels too wonderful to be a mistake. This kiss is messy and you're both crying but to be here on the living room floor with him is the best you've felt in the years. To be gathered up in his arms and falling back into the bed you shared, your cheeks burning from tears and the impossibly large smile on your face. It feels right.
"So, should I expect you to move your stuff back in?" You ask, watching in amazement at Brynjolf's fingers tracing yours. There's a little huff of laughter against your cheek that makes your heart race.
"Ah, ah lass. You said we're startin' over, right?"
"Yeah."
"You ask everyone to move in before the first date?" Brynjolf tsks his tongue and sighs in mock disappointment. "No, we're doin' this right."
"Is there a right way to date your ex husband?" It feels so good to laugh with him again.
"I'll pick ya up at seven." He kisses your cheek once before rolling out of bed. The hem of that old shirt raises with his arms and you catch a glimpse of his hips and the trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Brynjolf grins when he clearly catches you looking and it makes you feel like a lovesick kid again.
"Better get ready. I hear you're in for one hell of a first date."
"Brynjolf, it isn't our first -"
"See you at seven, my love."
He shows up that night. Dinner is a little awkward at first but laughing with him again heals a little part of your heart you'd thought to be lost. He scoots his chair toward yours and squeezes your hand. Brynjolf makes you nervous and giddy just like he did all those years ago.
More importantly, he keeps showing up. Every few nights he's on your doorstep offering to take you to the movies or some swanky new restaurant downtown. Not once does he mention work or Mercer and it's almost worrying how good everything feels. His phone buzzes but he ignores it, tossing it onto the couch or shoving it in his jacket. Everything's so different from how it used to be.
You're still spending most nights in the guest room but more than once you've fallen asleep on the phone with him, unwilling to end the call. The ring remains around his neck and more than once you've been disappointed to find it's not on his finger. It may be small but it feels a whole lot like progress.
It's nearly everything you wanted from him but there's something you're missing. So many nights he respectfully drops you off at home with little more than a kiss and mumbled goodbyes. The urge to drag him inside only grows with every date but you hold back.
You're going to do this right. Even if your stomach hurts when you have to sleep alone after spending all night with a man you're been tentatively calling your husband again. Even if the nights you fall asleep together on the couch with some rented movie playing on low volume feel better than any fancy date ever could. Brynjolf was right - starting over means starting at the beginning.
You can wait. It's fun to be courted by him again, to get flirty texts when you're sure he's at work and meet on lunch breaks for a shared coffee and a kiss. You're willing to wait for more.
"Brynjolf, you're staying late. Right?" It isn't really a question. With a steadying breath Brynjolf glances down at the picture he'd hidden in a drawer for far too long. Your hair was a different color and his was far shorter but he swears it was the happiest he'd ever been. It only feels right to put it back on his desk.
Following Mercer into office is unusually terrifying. The old man grumbles out something that passes as acknowledgement but Brynjolf's mind is made up. You are the only priority in his life.
"Not tonight." Any attempt to keep his tone light falls flat when Mercer's sharp eyes cut through him. "Got a date with the wife."
"Nice excuse, you're divorced." Mercer snorts, sifting through the seemingly endless paperwork on his desk. "Get back to work."
"Ah, but she's lettin' me try again. And I'm not fuckin' it up."
Brynjolf is sure Mercer can hear him but doubts any of his words get through that thick skull. He tosses the papers atop Mercer's stack and waits for recognition to hit the old man.
"'Letter of Resignation'?" Mercer's laugh is harsh. "Don't be stupid. You aren't leaving."
"I am."
"Gallus worked so hard to build this company and your ungrateful ass is going to throw it all away over what? Your ex wife?"
"You're the one who bullied Gallus outta this company." Brynjolf's held his tongue for decades but no longer. The 'effective immediately' on his resignation letter has loosened the grasp of stress he's been living under for too long.
"I'm tryin' hard to make her my wife again and this job doesn't work with that."
The long hours, demanding coworkers, round the clock emails and calls. That expectation that he should always be available and grateful for the job. Brynjolf had seen the toll it took on you, had watched you withdraw from him time and time again but the man he'd been had done nothing to stop it. He'd been so focused on the honor of Gallus practically handing him partial ownership in his company that it blinded him to any downsides.
He'd asked for patience and expected it to be an endless well. He'd asked for and taken too much from you. No more of that shit. He isn't asking you for anything but a chance.
"This is a mistake, kid." Mercer's words don't quite soften but their edges are blunt, intended to harm not kill. Brynjolf's been tricked by this before. "You'll regret it when you lose that nice house and she kicks you out again."
"Maybe." Brynjolf shrugs, already itching to get home to you. He's been planning the pasta he'll make for dinner all day. "I already fucked it up once, I'm not doin' it again."
"Good luck." Mercer's dry sarcasm follows Brynjolf out the door. When he's scooping up his boxed up belongings he supposes he should feel sad, he's letting go of the life he thought he'd lead for ages, but he can't summon an ounce of regret.
He's done nothing with his money for ages. The rent on his shitty apartment and the bill for a phone he hardly used allowed for a good amount of savings. He can stretch the money for a bit before he has to find a new job and can only pray that you'll allow him to enjoy that time together in the home he's missed so badly.
Coming home to you is the easiest thing in the world. Brynjolf adored your excitement the first few times he waited on the porch and knocked but this sight fills his soul; you curled up on the couch wearing his sweatshirt and smiling over at him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Finally moving back in?" You tease when he drops the boxes and sinks into your hold. "I've only asked a dozen times."
"Quit my job."
"What?!"
"It was our biggest problem, right?" Brynjolf shrugs, deeply enjoying the way you grab at his face. He cannot explain how badly he missed this casual intimacy. "Nothing's gettin' between us this time."
You have a hundred questions but Brynjolf doesn't have the power to answer them all right now. He kisses your cheek and heads toward a freshly stocked kitchen, mentally moving on to the dinner you'd gone shopping for a few days ago.
Grocery shopping, cooking, sleeping, he wants to do every single thing at your side. Brynjolf wonders if Mercer was right that his choice would disappoint Gallus but that pain seems so much smaller when he looks back at you. A glance back at your shocked expression solidifies everything for him.
"I'm not losin' you again, lass."
Still panting and lightheaded from the last orgasm, you turn to Brynjolf. He's propped up on an elbow and gazing at you like the rest of the world is just a backdrop to the two of you. You'll never quite understand what he sees when he looks at you but the way his eyes shine makes it harder to breathe.
You've thought about this for weeks. Slowly you've started to wear your rings regularly. Brynjolf's never mentioned it but you know he noticed - his thumb bumping against it when he holds your hand or kissing your fingers when you head to work. He's never seemed upset, merely intrigued by it.
"Alright. Think I'm ready."
"For what, lass?"
Words fail you for a moment. Brynjolf tracks your hand where it raises to his bare chest to unhook the thin metal chain. The blankets rustle at your waist and he leans closer, breath hitching once the ring falls into your palm.
"I'm ready for you to wear this again."
You both know exactly what this means. Brynjolf analyzes you for a while longer and you wonder if you've taken a step too quickly. He's been staying at the house nearly every night, having the difficult conversations and unashamedly telling you how much he loves you every chance he gets. There's no job eating up all his time and energy but still he hesitates.
"You sure?" Warm fingers inch closer to yours. "It's a big step."
"I know. But it's what I want." Anxiety creeps up your spine but you steady yourself, awaiting his answer. "Is it what you want?"
The ring's on his finger in an instant. It's not as shiny as it once was but it feels just like the day you married him. Brynjolf clutches you close, kissing you like he needs you to breathe and you dissolve in his hold.
All is right in the world. His fingers are in yours and you feel the ring there just as it always should've been. His lips are on yours and his body shifts impossibly closer, the pleasant weight of his chest making you a little dizzy.
"Love you, love you so much," he mumbles the words into your throat between messy kisses. "Loved you every single second, lass. Sorry I ever let you go."
"You're getting real sappy, Bryn." You laugh and earn a grumble in response.
"Never lettin' you go again. Gonna stay right here with you 'til I die."
"Oh, you're being dramatic."
"Yeah?" His hips roll against yours and it feels like the world narrows down to just the two of you. You're already exhausted and sore but Brynjolf's lips are on your chest again. His fingers thread into yours, pinning your hands to the bed and another filthy roll of his hips sends shivers up your spine.
"You're an evil man." You try to chastise him for his shamelessness but he merely laughs.
"I know, lass." He mutters in faux sympathy. "Can't seem to get enough of you."
"Think you ever will?" Your voice is breathy when his teeth graze along your shoulder and up your throat. There's a little chuckle against your ear and Brynjolf frees one of your hands to urge your legs around his waist.
He wonders if there would ever come a time when he would be deprived of her, a time when he would have to live off a memory of her endlessly eating itself away like a day's cycle. Maybe it would've been easier if she hadn't been so conveniently tucked and sewn into the flesh underneath his breast, because she would've been nothing but an occurrence in his life, as sporadic as the valleys and hills on the horizon.
When Karliah appears back at the Thieves Guild after Mercer has informed them of Y/N's death, Brynjolf is quick to see red.
Spoilers for the Thieves Guild questline.
Brynjolf was a thief, there was no doubt about it. Thievery was in his blood, and always had been. Unattached, flirtatious, and talented at what he did, that was how most people would describe him, yet there was always someone who saw him differently.
Y/N, the latest addition to the thieves guild, was recruited by Brynjolf a few months ago now and the pair became fast friends. Having been the one to recruit and train her, Brynjolf knew a lot about the woman, including her distrust of those around her.
It took Y/N a while to open up to Brynjolf, for reasons unbeknownst to him. Naturally, he assumed there was something in her past, a lover, perhaps? Brynjolf didn’t like the way that thought made him feel, so he did what he did best and ignored it. He didn’t have feelings for her, he couldn’t…
So why did he feel so depressed when Mercer told him how Karliah had killed the woman in cold blood? Why did he lock himself away for days on end? Surely it was just a friend thing, right? He totally didn’t regret not telling her how he felt. Why would he?
“You better have a good reason for coming here, Karliah.” Brynjolf spat, being held back from attacking by Rune. “I should kill you where you stand.”
“It was not I who betrayed the guild,” she spoke softly, sensing Brynjolf’s anger.
“That is not what I am talking about,” he raged, freeing himself from Rune’s grasp and flying towards Karliah, only to be grabbed once again.
“She is telling the truth, Bryn,”
That voice…? It can’t be, surely.
“Y/N!?” Brynjolf immediately sprung backwards, holding the speaker at arm’s length. “You’re alive? Mercer said-“
“Mercer tried to kill me, Brynjolf. You’ve been lied to this whole time. Karliah saved my life.” She spoke quietly as she stared into Brynjolf’s erratic eyes.
He couldn’t believe that she was here in front of him. Mercer said that she had been killed, yet here she stood with Karliah, claiming that Mercer – the man who he trusted more than anything – had betrayed them.
There was no doubt that Y/N had been injured, the way she stood was enough proof of that, but by Mercer? That was not possible… So why did he trust her more than Mercer?
A sudden tug on his hand pulled Brynjolf from his thoughts. “Listen to her, Bryn. For me.”
He could never deny her anything.
And so he listened to Karliah. Every single word she spoke angered him and made him resent Mercer. His hand was still in Y/N’s, and he never wanted to let go, squeezing it gently to calm himself, as well as to remind himself that she was alive.
“I’ll kill him,” Brynjolf snarled. He wasn’t entirely sure what angered him more. That he had betrayed the entire guild, or that he had tried to kill Y/N whose hand was still in his own, earning more than a few confused looks from the other guild members, yet a knowing one from Karliah.
A soft squeeze on his hand pulled him from his anger, however, and his gaze fell on the woman beside him as she gave him a comforting smile. He nodded at her, taking a deep breath to completely calm himself.
She is alive and here. Everything is fine, Brynjolf.
Most people had left the Flagon by now - their anger at Mercer’s betrayal fuelling their plans for revenge – leaving only Brynjolf, Y/N, and Karliah, the latter being quick to excuse herself.
“Thank you for trusting me, Brynjolf,” Y/N whispered, as though she was ashamed of what she was saying. “I didn’t know if you would.” Her words had the red-heads eyes widening as he quickly spun to face her with a force that almost sent him flying.
“I’ll always trust you. I’m just… I’m glad you are alive.” He admitted, one hand resting on the table in front of them whilst the other nursed his drink.
Y/N smiled to herself, a blush running up her cheeks as she took his hand in hers again.
“I’m glad to be back here with you.”
Now it was his turn to blush as he cleared his throat, unsure at what to say.
As he glanced over at Y/N, he noticed that she was already staring at him, and for the first time for as long as she had known him, Brynjolf was rendered speechless.
“I think I should be getting some rest,” Y/N said before he could think of something to say. She lifted herself from the seat she occupied, releasing Brynjolf’s hand in the process. “You should too.”
Brynjolf stared at her for a moment as she turned to leave.
“Y/N,” he called out, abruptly standing up.
Y/N turned to face him, confusion on her features. “What is it, Bryn?”
Content & Warnings: 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.”
Brushing the dust off this account with a short Brynjolf x GN!Reader oneshot! (No mention of reader's gender or appearance!) I always ache for more Brynjolf content lol. Enjoy!
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You’ve never seen Brynjolf look so utterly dumbfounded than when you touched his hand and softly inquired, “Bryn,” barely above a murmur, then after gaining confidence: “are you seeing anybody?” You knew the answer to that question, but asked anyway.
The way his eyes snapped up to meet yours; his head remained unmoving, downturned, hovering above the charcoal in his hand. His eyes moved to survey the way you’re leaning across the desk to reach him, likely tucking away the image for later. You were amused; able to choke down a chuckle, but you couldn’t catch your smirk in time.
He had been scribbling down some notes on a map: a heist he’s been planning for some days now. That’s what you two were initially discussing, but the conversation has led… elsewhere, apparently too quickly for Brynjolf to process with his usual wit. Now, though, you watched a lump in this throat appear and disappear again.
“No,” he said flatly, then made eye contact with you again, “I’m not.” He said it like an invitation. He relaxed over the desk, but kept your hand where it was. He was studying you; he knew your intentions, where this question was leading, but he needed to hear it from you, plain and simple.
“In that case, how would you like to treat me to dinner sometime?”
He flashed a coy smile. “As long as it’s not at the Bunkhouse, you’ll have me wherever you point me to.”
I wrote this wee little thing about what I imagine it’s like for the LDB to come back from Snow Veil Sanctum (before getting the journal translated) from the perspective of Delvin. Nothing romantic but written with LDB/Brynjolf in mind. It’s too short for me to want to put it on ao3 so I’m putting it here. Male LDB.
The look in the newest recruit’s eye is… well, it’s scary. Crazed. Livid. Their eyes are wide open and flickering back and forth, pupils blown so wide you’d think they were high. Their whole body is tense like a compressed spring, ready to lunge.
Dirge wisely lets them pass into the Flagon proper. Finally, Delvin sees the tear in the chest of they’re armor, all the way through and past the recruit’s undershirt. It’s stained dark with blood, all down their front. Like they were run through. Which doesn’t quite make sense, because Mercer said they’d died from an arrow, and that slash is far too big to be from an arrow.
The thief’s eyes land on Delvin, and he fights the urge to squirm under their unwavering gaze. They blink for the first time since they came in, a long slow blink. And then they approach the table where Delvin was previously enjoying his supper.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Delv,” they say, voice quiet but with a hard edge to it. Whatever happened, the fella is pissed.
“Yeah, s’pose I have,” he replies, tone even. He’s doing his best at seeming neutral and unthreatening.
Something awful has happened, clearly, that’s sent the thief flying into a crazed rage, and the longer Delvin can avoid being on the receiving end, the better.
They just nod, and that too they do for a long time, too long. They sit at the table, across from Delvin and still they never look away, doesn’t blink.
“Where’s Mercer?”
And that question doesn’t surprise him, not as much as it should, but the authority in their voice does.
“I dunno,” Delvin shrugs, reaching towards the food on his plate.
“Bullshit!” The recruit screams, the sound echoing around the cistern-turned-bar. At the same time, they draw a knife, bringing it down on Delvin’s plate, spearing the slab of meat, then further, into the plate, and further still, pinning all of it to the table beneath.
The blood rushes out of Delvin’s face.
“Easy now, easy… I’m tellin’ the truth, haven’t got a clue where’s he at. Came in a day or so ago and told us all that Karliah killed you and split, then he took off again. Didn’t say a word about it so we figured he was going after her again.”
At that, the tension seeps out of them, and the crazed look fades into something else. Sadder.
“What about Bryn?” Their voice is quiet and hollow.
Delvin winces. “Took off as soon as Mercer said you were… gone. Said he needed to bring you home.”
The man mutters a curse under his breath, his hand coming up to shield his eyes as he slumps over in his seat. Something like sorrow radiates from them.
“And you all let him go? By himself?”
Delvin shifts, uncomfortable with the line of questioning. “We tried to talk him out of it. He wouldn’t listen.”
He expects the up-in-coming thief to ask more questions, or maybe get angry. But they don’t do any of that, they just stand and stalk back the way they came. Off to find Bryn or who knows what. Delvin lets out a deep sigh at the sound of the door slamming, everyone else returning to their business now that the drama is over.
For now at least. Delvin knows that whatever happened in that ruin is not done yet.
