#Brynjolf x You

[gloomwitchwrites]

Lavender: Part One

Brynjolf x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): second chances, past relationship, angst, kidnapping, denial of feelings, referenced harassment (non-graphic), suggestive themes

Word Count: 6.2k

Working as a lady's maid to Jarl Laila Law-Giver is supposed to provide you peace and a steady income, but your old life is quickly catching up to you. An old flame comes knocking, bringing you flowers and reminding you of the affection you've missed. Do you keep running? Or do you finally face the future you've always wanted but fear you'll lose again?

Part Two

ao3 // taglist // 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.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth

@miaraei @miss-mistinguett @coffeecaketornado @cherryofdeath @ninman82

[indicrow]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls)/Reader, Brynjolf/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls) Characters: Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls), Mercer Frey, Karliah (Elder Scrolls) Additional Tags: let me marry him you cowards, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Summary:

You briefly hope that Brynjolf will be able to see through the lie but unfortunately, you know him - he's loyal to a fault. How would he take words from the man who'd raised him as anything but gospel?

Before you have the chance to think about it any longer, Mercer stabs his sword into your side.

[gor3-hound]

multi-fandom bot drop // character.ai

ft. gale dekarios(bg3), brynjolf(skyrim), welt yang(hsr), carlos oliveira and leon kennedy(resident evil) (requests in italics)

cw: manipulation, possessive behaviour(yandere god!gale)

bot one: gale -english professor husband gale (modern!au)

It wasn't often you had to run out last minute without being able to make arrangements for someone to look after your baby, but sometimes, it couldn't be helped. You were truly thankful for your husband, Gale, who was always so understanding and patient. He'd been more than happy to take the little one to the university with him today, insisting they'd be a great help for his lectures.

Upon returning home that night, you notice the door to your husband's study open. You smile at the sight you see as you walk in - him lounging comfortably on his worn leather couch with your baby nestled on his lap, a book held in his hands that he reads aloud. You lean against the doorframe, taking a few moments to watch the scene in front of you.

Gale eventually seems to sense your presence, peering up from his book. He smiles instantly once he lays his eyes on you, his head tilting to the side playfully. "Ah, dearest. You're home. Come, sit with us. The esteemed Professor Dekarios was just giving me some pointers for my lecture tomorrow. My class seems to favour the little professor. I might have to make them a permanent fixture in my teachings."

bot two: gale - your new professor

After his failed attempt at proving himself worthy to his goddess by retrieving the tome of gateways, Gale had taken to his tower, isolating himself from others to protect them while doing his best to attempt to understand his newest affliction. His magic was left weakened, the orb draining his powers more by the day. Had it not been for Tara bringing him magical artifacts in which he could harness the power from the Weave to sustain his orb, he would not have survived.

Isolation was doing him no favours. After a year, he'd made little to no progress understanding the magic that had left him so weakened. Heartbroken and wounded, he returned to Blackstaff Academy - this time as a mentor of the Weave - in hopes of answers. Perhaps a fresh set of eyes would be able to aid him in his search.

Things had changed, though. Namely, a new wave of apprentices had made themselves known in the halls. Upon seeing you - his new apprentice - a warmth settles in his chest that he had not felt in a long time, a feeling he had not known since the height of his fleeting romance with his goddess. His heart speeds up as you approach his desk, books tucked tightly against your chest.

By the Gods, she is beautiful. He thinks to himself, unable to take his eyes off of you.

bot three: gale - your husband wants a baby (modern!au)

After a long day's work at the University, there is nothing Gale quite enjoys more than returning to his wife. He pauses by the door briefly upon entering your shared house, taking off his shoes and jacket before heading deeper into the home to find you. He smiles as he spots you in the kitchen, making some steps towards you.

Your back is turned to him as you wash the dishes, and he can't help but watch you for a few seconds, wondering how he ever got so lucky as to marry someone as beautiful as you. With a soft smile, he wraps his arms around your waist from behind, slipping a hand under your shirt to rest on your tummy. He's been driven mad recently, wondering what a family with you might look like. Perhaps it was time he should convince you to indulge him.

He places a few kisses against the skin of your neck before resting his chin atop your shoulder, pressing himself closer to you. "Good evening, my love. You look absolutely ravishing. Although, that's hardly a surprise."

bot four: gale - yandere god!gale

In all his centuries of living, Gale had never found himself drawn to one of his followers as greatly as he was drawn to you. Your connection to the Weave drew his interest - he couldn't help but appear before you, to take you own as one of his chosen.

He can't help but worry for you whenever you are wandering in the Mortal Plane. You'd be much safer with him, in his domain - if he could only convince you as such. Humans are so weak. So frail. You would not live forever, but Gale could not bare the thought of losing his favourite pet.

He needed to make sure you were completely devoted to him. After all, it was for your own good. A test of faith, if you will. He ordered your isolation, and promised he would reward you for it. Now, as he hears the familiar sound of your prayers ringing in his ears, he decides it's time to make good on his promise.

"Did you do as I asked, my darling pet?" Gale murmurs as he sees you, standing in front of your kneeling, sobbing form. He can't help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction, knowing you were willing to leave everything for him. He places a finger under your chin to tilt your head up, making you face him before gently wiping you tears away. "You did well, pup. Truly. I have never had a follower impress me as you have."

bot five: brynjolf - he's impressed with your commitment to the guild

You'd made a fine addition to the Guild since he'd seen you near that market stall in Riften. Bryjolf has known as soon as he'd seen you that you had a penchant for being light on your feet, and having lighter fingers. He always had a good eye for it, and it was clear you'd never worked a day's honest work to get the coin that lined your pockets.

You'd excelled more than he anticipated. He'd grown rather fond of you in the short time you'd spent at the guild so far. He was definitely proud of you, not that he'd say as much out loud - he wouldn't want it to get to your head. Though, after everything that happened with Mercer Fray, he's not entirely convinced you wouldn't make a better Guildmaster than him.

He comes to find you in the Ragged Flagon once you return from another mission, placing a hand on your shoulder. His brows are furrowed with a slight concern as he takes in your ragged appearance. "Alright? No need to work yourself to the bone. You've more than earned your keep. You're one of us now. You've done well, lassie."

bot six: welt - you love listening to him ramble

You certainly were a curious thing. Welt had gotten used to those on the Astral Express treating him as their personal encyclopedia, although he hadn't quite expected you to be so adamant to get him to info dump on every little thing once you'd discovered it.

Not that he didn't like it. He did pride himself on his intelligence, and there were much worse ways to spend his time than having a nice conversation with someone like you, even if it made his heart race when you called him Mr. Yang.

He's not surprised at all when he hears a knock on his door at night. He pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose as he looks up and gazes towards the entrance of his room, spotting you slowly opening it.

"Good evening, {{user}}. Isn't it a bit late for you to expect me to go on one of my tangents?" He asks, the corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement.

bot seven: fuckboy footballer!carlos x sweet cheerleader!user

You're a little bit of an enigma to Carlos. He doesn't want to sound like a jerk - but your lack of interest in him isbreally starting to grate on him. You're sweet, and pretty, and you're on the cheer team, and he's the star quaterback, so you should be eating out of the palm of his hand - but you're not.

That's not to say you don't get all flustered when he flirts with you, cause you do. But you're too shy, backing away before he can put the moves on you. He's got most of the cheerleaders under his belt already, but his focus is purely on you now. You drive him insane, and he wants nothing more than to get some 'alone time' with you.

It's getting to the point where you're distracting him during his games, which really isn't any good. He barely even registers the chatter of his team or the sound of the crowd after they barely scrape by with a win. As soon as the final whistle goes off, he makes his way towards you.

He tugs off his helmet and sets it down on the bench, flashing you his pearly whites as he runs his hand through his dark, sweaty hair. "Hey, {{user}}. Do I get a kiss from my favourite Cheerleader for winnin' us the game?"

bot eight: carlos hitting on chubby!user at the bar

Carlos has only planned to get a couple drinks at the bar with some work friends to settle another successful mission. That all changed after he saw you across the bar, sitting there with your little group of friends.

He was completely enamoured with you. You were seriously cute - exactly his type. His eyes trailed your dress, and the way it hugged your curves. He couldn't help but smile a little when he daw the little tummy you had to go along with your figure. You looked soft, and his fingers practically twitched at the thought of getting his hands on you.

He gets up and makes his way over towards your table, running over a few lines in his head to try and make sure he didn't come off as a creep. He leans down slightly when he reaches your table, having to get a little more on your level to be heard over the music. "Hey, doll. Hope you don't mind me comin' over here. Just thought you were real pretty, wondered if you'd mind havin' a little chat with me?"

bot nine: emo bf!leon x pastel gf!user

Leon sat back on your bed, picking at his chipped nail polish. He likes to pretend that your cutesy aesthetic makes his eyes hurt, but he seems pretty happy surrounded by your plushies in your pastel themed room, making himself comfy as he lounges on your bed.

You set up the movie before plopping down on the bed next to him, dropping some snacks between the both of you. He drapes an arm over your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "What're you making me watch this time, babe?"

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday! 💛

And hoo boy, it is a long one. I'm talking over 3,100 words here. Making a new character in Skyrim has somewhat broken me out of the writers block I've been stuck with for the past few weeks. I'll get back to writing stuff for Elyse eventually, but for now, Thorne is in the spotlight! Plus, I'm having Elyse and Thorne co-exist because I can as Thorne isn't Dragonborn. Will need to take some liberties with the Thieves Guild backstory for Thorne though as a result as Elyse has done some stuff related to Honningbrew Meadery...

I'm relatively happy with it as it currently stands, though whether I make any further edits such as try to add a bit more padding around the dialogue or editing out my million and one mentions of people inhaling/exhaling or post it on AO3 any time soon I'm not so certain about. Thorne needs a hug. And honestly, at the end of this, Brynjolf needs one too.

Tagged by @hircines-hunter and @thequeenofthewinter! Not tagging anyone today but feel free to say that I tagged if you wish 💛

There is implied sexual content near to the end, it's essentially a fade to black situation, so please bear that in mind. I've marked as mature just in case, but it's only implied and nothing actually happens in text.

----------

"Boss. Talk to me – what's the matter? You've got an awfully long face." Thorne's brow scrunched up as she watched Delvin slip onto the seat opposite her in the Ragged Flagon. "Is it Maven? Is she breathing down your neck about something again?" She watched as Delvin leaned closer, attempting to read her expression. "Guild finances in trouble?" A quiet groan escaped her, before her eyes darted to the side at the first sign of movement. That action on its own made Delvin begin to chuckle. "Ah… Brynjolf. Trouble in paradise, hm?"

Thorne's eyes widened at that remark, before she scowled once more and silently stood up. "It's none of your business what the matter is, Delvin."

"You know, if Bryn ain't treating you right… Vex and I could always have a word with him, tell him to-"

"It is nothing to do with Brynjolf!" Her hands slammed down onto the table. It was very much an open secret that she and Brynjolf were together, but that wasn't the problem. It wasn't the problem in the slightest. If anything, Brynjolf was the only reason as to why she remained in Riften, remained the guildmaster of the Thieves Guild following the demise of Mercer Frey many months ago. But how could she tell the guild any of that? That she just… didn't want to be there? "I just… I just need some space to think. Clearly, the Ragged Flagon is not the place for it."

As she began to walk out of the Flagon, everyone's attention now clearly on her, Delvin attempted to follow. "H-Hey! Boss, you don't have to-"

She didn't look back when she heard Brynjolf's voice quietly addressing Delvin, though she did have to blink away the tears in the corner of her eyes as the door to the Flagon slammed shut behind her as she made her way into the Ratways. She hated that she felt this way. She couldn't live like this forever, wallowing in despair, wanting something better for herself… Even if her talents perfectly gave themselves to the line of work of a thief. It was why Brynjolf had took notice of her in the crowds of Riften that day, in spite of her having not long staggered into the city after being attacked and left for dead on the road after all.

Riften was eerily quiet as she stepped out from the Ratways, the smell of fish and salt hanging heavy in the air as the planks of the walkway beneath her creaked with every step. Rain, misty and light yet cold enough to chill her to the bone, fell to the ground around her. The clouds above the city were a dull grey for as far as the eye could see, and honestly… it felt very fitting for the melancholy she was feeling.

Her pace was slow as she made her way up to the upper levels of the city, before reaching the Bee and Barb, with her lethargic attempt at opening the door almost failing to catch Keerava by surprise if not for the sound of her reaching a table and scraping a seat across the floor in order to sit on it. She wasn't paying too much attention as Talen-Jei then tried asking if she wanted her usual drink, though she did give her thanks when a bottle of Black-Briar Mead was placed in front of her, both verbally and through coin.

For a while, she simply sat there, holding onto her drink whilst taking the occasional sip and holding her head in her other hand. It was so much quieter there than in the Ragged Flagon, it gave her a chance to get lost in her thoughts without much distraction. On the other hand, perhaps being left to her thoughts was not the best of situations for her to be in given how negative her mindset had been as of late.

At some point, the doors to the inn opened once more, somebody new coming in – no doubt a regular. She didn't care to look at who it was. Nor did she really care that, of anywhere, they chose to approach her table and put their own drink down on it.

"Lass… You okay? You left the Flagon quite suddenly." Thorne's head shot up at the sound of Brynjolf's voice, before taking a deep breath and nodding, not really paying much attention to the question which she had been asked. He frowned, then slipped into the seat beside hers and reached out for the hand which wasn't firmly wrapped around the bottle of mead. "Talk to me. Something is the matter, and I'm worried about you. I can tell these things, remember? It's all about-"

"Sizing up your mark…" She let out a quiet laugh. "I remember you saying that when we first met." After a moment, she brought her drink up to her lips, before sighing. "What made you decide to join me?"

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at her question. "I think it's quite obvious, Thorne." Her pulse quickened at his use of her name rather than 'lass' – it was very rare that he would use it, but when he did… She knew that he was being serious. "You're not happy. You've got these little furrows in your brow that never used to be there, dark circles under your eyes, and it's not often you smile anymore." His hand gently squeezed hers. "As I said, I'm worried about you."

Hesitation made her body freeze after she opened her mouth just slightly, though tears were once more pricking at the corners of her eyes as she felt him looking at her. She was like an open book to him, she always had been, but hearing what he had to say… hearing that last sentence… she felt as though time was running out on keeping her innermost thoughts concealed. But she didn't want to hurt anyone-

"… You're not happy in the guild, are you?"

Her mouth fell dry. "N-No, it's not that-"

"Thorne…" His tone insinuated that he knew that she was lying.

"At times, the guild is like the family I never had," she whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke. "Not to mention that I love you, but-"

A warm hand came to rest on her cheek, and she felt Brynjolf's thumb wipe away the tears which were slipping down her face. "Don't force it… Take your time, lass."

"But I'm… I don't know if this life is for me, Brynjolf. Being… Being guildmaster, all the cloak and dagger, being under the constant scrutiny of the law and just hoping that I'm not recognised as a thief by any guard we haven't been able to get into our pockets-" She inhaled sharply. "Two years, Brynjolf… I've been here for two years, and I… still feel like I don't fit in. Except for when I'm with you." Carefully, his chair shuffled closer to hers and slowly her head fell into his shoulders as she stifled her tears. "I'm just… I'm not happy. I thought if I gave it time, then I would feel better but…"

"I understand. You don't need to say anything more."

Remaining leaned against him, she brought her drink to her lips once more and downed as much as she could without choking. One of his arms wrapped around her, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

When he finished his own drink was when the silence was broken, and it was with a question she wasn't quite expecting. "Lass… Do you want to take a step back from the guild? "

She stared at him in a dumbfounded silence for a moment, her back straightening out as she sat up and processed the question. "What…?" She then bit at her bottom lip. "I don't want to inconvenience-"

"Don't think about what is best for the guild, lass. This is about what you want."

But… what did she want, exactly? She was so tempted to simply leave, but she didn't want that on her conscious…

"It was selfish of me to have made you take up the position of Guildmaster, I will admit that… But you have done incredibly lass, even if you cannot see it yourself. I've never seen the guild so prosperous, never seen the rest of the guild so happy. If I knew that it came at the cost of your happiness…" He sighed quietly, before taking hold of her cheek and leaning in. "I never would have proposed it. It should have been me taking that role in the first place."

"Bryn…" She was having to choke back her tears yet again. "I don't know. I- I just… I like to think that I'm good at what we do, but… I don't think that it's for me." Thorne tilted her head back, and inhaled deeply. "I… might have to. Pass on my role to somebody else. Somebody who is happy with what they do, and do it well. Somebody like you."

He quietly whispered her name as he acknowledged what she had said, though allowed her to take a few moments to dwell on it. It came as a shock to him, though it was just as much one to her – she had finally said what had been on her mind for months, from the moment that she was taken to the centre of the Cistern, and the members of the guild unanimously named her their new guildmaster.

A throat being cleared beside the table drew their attention after a few long moments, and they saw Keerava staring at them both. "Did either of you hear me? I suppose not… If you are not ordering any more drinks, then please leave. I need to clean up before the evening crowds come in."

They exchanged a brief look, before Brynjolf rose to his feet, and took hold of her hand. "Come on, lass. We can finish this conversation in Honeyside."

A warmth flooded her face as he mentioned his home. With the money which the guild had been making over recent months, she had thought it fair to split some of the excess wealth between members and associates of the guild. Somehow, Brynjolf had managed to persuade Jarl Laila to grant him the deed to a house with his cut. It was like their own private sanctuary away from the Cistern or the Ragged Flagon, and the only place where nobody dared to disturb them.

The rain hadn't let up as the doors to the Bee and Barb opened, and had in fact grew heavier during their time indoors. Fortunately, their destination was not far, so they wouldn't be looking like drowned rats once back indoors once more.

"Lass… what do you say to making your stepping down from the position of guildmaster something to remember?" Brynjolf asked once they had stepped out onto the streets, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Go out on a high which nobody else could ever live up to. Leave a bigger mark on guild history than you already have."

Thorne raised her eyebrow and pursed her lips together. "What high-profile heist did Delvin try to rope you into this time?"

Brynjolf let out a hearty chuckle at her response as he put his arm over her shoulders. "I always forget you can read me just as I can read you. Just before he started talking to you earlier, he was telling me about some reliable information that there are going to be some very notable targets passing through little old Helgen in a few days' time. I'm talking Jarls. High-ranking soldiers. People who have both expendable money and expensive little trinkets that can easily be replaced if they were to… misplace them, so to speak."

She rolled her eyes and let out a quiet laugh of her own. "And you weren't too keen on doing that, were you?"

"Well, Delvin felt that given our… abilities which Nocturnal granted us, it would be a safe job in the hands of one of us two. And I feel that you have a safer pair of hands than I do."

For a few moments, she thought the proposal over, the sound of both rain and their feet landing in puddles being the only noise which broke the silence. Eventually, she exhaled quietly, then nodded. "Okay. I'll do it. My last job. Go out on a high, as you said."

The rest of their short journey was quiet, in part driven by the fact that she was thinking about what sorts of targets would be in Helgen, and what possibly could have happened to bring together numerous figureheads of Skyrim to such a small mountain town.

When they arrived, he opened the door, and allowed her in first. As soon as the door to Honeyside fell shut behind him though, she turned on her heel and exhaled quietly, before pressing a brief kiss to his lips. "When I return from Helgen… I don't think I will stay once I've fenced everything to Tonilia. I'll pass the torch on to you. I will obviously return to Riften on occasion, but… Knowing that my last job will be one that will go down in guild history, I can at least say I accomplished something in my time here."

"You've done a lot to be proud of, Thorne… Don't put yourself down like that." He then exhaled quietly, and took her cheeks into his hands. "But I assume that this means that… between us is…"

The topic she had been dancing around all night, the thought which had been lingering in the back of her head from the moment he had asked if she wanted to take a step away from everything. It was possible that she could continue her relationship with Brynjolf… but a future in Riften was not on the cards for her, and Riften was his home. The guild's home. She couldn't tear him away from that. "A clean break may be what I need to figure out what I want to do with myself. But…" Her breath trembled as she inhaled. "I won't say that it doesn't hurt suggesting that we break up."

He nodded silently, though she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a smile.

"We still have time before that comes to pass though. And before you get all mopey over mead as you did when Mercer tricked you into thinking I was dead, remember that it isn't because of you. This is because of me, okay? You've been the light in my darkness, and I cannot thank you enough for it."

Slowly and delicately, he leaned over and pressed a feather-light kiss to her lips, a smirk once more across his face. "Then if this is to be one of our last nights together… Shall we make the most of it?"

...

When Thorne woke up, it was to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight breaking through Honeyside's windows. Brynjolf appeared to still be in a deep sleep beside her, one of his arms draped over her torso as he quietly snored. Slowly, she eased herself out from beneath his arm and the bedsheets, and went around the room, gathering together her clothes from the night before just to throw them into a nearby basket. She then went over to the drawers which she had hastily thrown some spare clothes into one of the last times she had spent the night there to get some of them, and pulled them on as quickly and quietly as she could.

Once dressed, she ran a hand through her hair quickly, just enough to make it not look as though she had just gotten out of bed, then walked over to the kitchen and grabbed one of the pastries which were there. It was somewhat stale, possibly from a day or two ago, but she didn't really care.

The quiet sound of Brynjolf stirring caught her attention as she wiped the crumbs from her face, and she silently gulped. She had wanted to make parting as painless as she could, without the need for goodbyes – even though she knew that she would be back, to return with what she could get away with stealing from Helgen. She wanted to make things easy for him by slipping out before he woke up.

"Lass…?"

She was frozen to the spot as he walked into the kitchen, and by Nocturnal he hadn't even bothered with getting dressed.

"Are you leaving? Already? It's barely sunrise…" He was rubbing at his eyes as he glanced between her and the window. "You were at least gonna say bye to me before you left, right?"

He walked over to her as her lips parted only slightly, uncertain as to whether she was going to tell him the truth of what she had wanted to do. She quickly settled on not doing so as he took hold of her shoulders and squeezed them as best as he could given his half-asleep state.

"… Promise me you will keep in contact, lass," he murmured, pulling her close to him in a quick embrace. "Even if we're not together, we are still a family. I want to know if you ever find the happiness which you are after... Promise me, yeah?"

She was silent for a moment, before nodding quietly. "I promise." She then stepped back, and took a deep breath. "I'm… going to go over to the Cistern to grab some stuff. Give Vex my vault key. Then make my way to Helgen. I don't suppose that whilst I'm gone… you could put some pants on and let everyone know that I'm stepping down as guildmaster?"

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, now seeming much more alert than he previously had been upon hearing her plans. "I will. But remember that you're coming back after the Helgen job. You can tell everyone when you return…"

"… I know. But I just thought… hearing the news from you will soften the blow a bit. They all know and trust you. I still feel like a stranger to some people. I mean, they go to you to handle their problems more than they do me, so I don't feel that it will make much of a change to the guild dynamic…"

His hands gently cupped her face. "You'd be surprised, lass. Losing you will leave a bigger gap than you could possibly anticipate…" He then took a deep breath. "We will miss you. I will miss you. And if you ever want to come back, or if things don't work out as you venture out into the world, the doors to the Cistern will always be open for you."

Her eyes fell to the floor, before she took a step back. "… I'll… bear that in mind. Thank you, Bryn."

She needed to leave before she changed her mind.

[maedhrus]

Brynjolf had always supposed that the Dragonborn’s death would have some greater finality.

Mercer Frey returns from Snow Veil Sanctum alone.

[coffee-at-daybreak]

power | brynjolf x reader

a/n: ty all SO much for 50 followers ahh !!! here's a celebratory bf brynjolf fic. technically sfw but it's suggestive if you squint bc bryn's a tease lmao

“Everything alright, love?”

His voice, tender and gentle, pulls you out of your thoughts. You look up from the dagger you were sharpening, though your lack of concentration keeps you from doing a good job.

Brynjolf crosses the training room to approach you. He looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and concern, studying your features intently. Even when he’s assessing you for your emotions, his gaze sends flames along your skin.

You nod. “Yes, just fine.” You turn back to your dagger, swallowing any other words that might give you away.

He makes a small humming noise. Then he’s sitting next to you, the locked chest you’d been using as a seat creaking with the added weight. His shoulder taps your own.

“Are you sure?” He asks. “You seemed very unfocused during that meeting.”

Your stomach takes a dip. You’d been praying to Nocturnal that nobody had noticed - especially him.

It wasn’t often that a meeting was called for all the Guild members to attend, so you knew it had to be something big. And something big it was, because whatever map Brynjolf had rolled out onto the desk looked too complex to be a simple grab-and-go mission.

Turns out the owner of a grand estate somewhere outside Solitude will be gone on a business trip, the optimal chance to swoop in and take all the riches that can be found within. Surely, he’ll have some guards there, but that’s nothing for seasoned thieves like yourselves. So there was a lot of planning to be done - who goes in, who grabs what, which paths and entrances to take. You really did intend to pay attention.

But then Brynjolf had started drawing circles and lines on the map, and you found yourself watching his hands. You’d never noticed how well-formed they are,how muscular and veiny, how they are adorned with tiny scars and notches. And how nimble in their movements…

And then he had leaned over to gesture to one area of the map, and you’d caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled like leather and warm spices, something comforting and masculine, a refreshing waft of air compared to that of the cistern.

And then at one point, still locked in discussion, he had quickly tied up half of his hair and gathered it into a messy knot, getting it out of the way so he could see better as he hunched back over the map.

Unfocused is a major understatement for your state of mind during that meeting. You’d been entranced by him, reminded of your boundless infatuation.

But you hope you still have a chance to play it off. “Did I?” You ask, trying not to let one drop of nervousness show up in your voice.

Brynjolf watches you fidget with the dagger in your hand. “Mhm. I wager you weren’t even listening.”

Your head shoots up to look at him. “I was listening!”

Half his mouth lifts in a smile. You see a little sparkle in his eye, and immediately, you regret saying anything. “Really, now? What’s your role in the plan, then?”

You open your mouth, then close it. You look away again, heat flushing the ends of your ears.

Brynjolf chuckles softly. “That’s what I thought.”

You go back to messing with the dagger, but you don’t get very far before he’s reaching over and taking it from you. His hand brushes over your own, and you feel a prickle shoot up your spine.

“When you’ve been in the field as long as I have, you become very observant.” He sets the dagger aside and his hand goes back to yours, but this time, the grazing of his fingers on your palm is slow, and feathery - deliberate.

Your heart starts to race against your ribcage.

“And it seems like you were very observant of me,” he says, his voice dropping a little.

The warmth on your ears rushes down your neck, and you know if you try to play dumb again, it’ll only get worse.

So you give a lazy shrug instead. “Maybe…”

Brynjolf laughs again, a soft rush of his breath falling against your cheek. “You could have picked a better time.”

“I know - sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be, love. In fact, I like it.”

His fingers dance farther up your hand, to the sensitive skin of your wrist. His thumb prods at the pulse point, and even though it’s a light touch, you feel a jolt leap up your arm.

“You do?” You question, getting a nod in return. “And here I thought you would chastise me for not paying attention.”

“If I were still your superior, I would,” he says flatly.

You scoff and start to gather a reply, but then his hand strays higher up your arm, and your words die with a hitched breath. Your thoughts stumble over one another as your attention shifts to the path of his touch.

You can feel the warmth of his palm through your leathers as he reaches your shoulder. His fingers stretch out to briefly weave some of your hair between them. One of his fingertips grazes your jaw, and your heartbeat flickers.

“But we are equals now. We run this guild together.” Brynjolf’s voice goes soft, matching the gentle movements of his hand as he tucks the strand of hair behind your ear. “Frankly, you can do whatever you want - even if it’s drooling over me at a meeting.”

You roll your eyes at that comment. For a second, you forget the nervous state his touch is putting you in. “I was not drooling. Don’t exaggerate it.”

He snickers. “Had it gone on a little longer, I’m sure you would have started.”

Your blood simmers at his teasing. But once more, your attempt at a retort vanishes when he leans closer. With your hair out of the way, you can feel the subtle warmth of his breath on the side of your face. His hand is back near your shoulder, the pads of his fingers resting against your skin.

The pounding in your chest increases, making it difficult to draw in a slow, unsteady breath. But there is also an excited flutter in your abdomen, and the nerves are overpowered by the desire to play along, to feed more into his intoxicating attention.

You turn your head to look at him. The immediate eye contact is so intense that it’s nearly overwhelming. But you tilt your head, holding that sensual gaze of his. “You like the power, you mean.”

Brynjolf cracks a smirk. “Aye, that might be true.”

Suddenly you feel his fingers slithering down your back, making you flinch with a jolt. He laughs. “Alright, very true. I like having the power to do that.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, flushing deeper as his fingers stray lower.

“Too late.”

He moves to the small of your back. His fingertips trace your spine, diving into every little ridge as they work their way back up. You shiver, back rippling with movement, but he keeps going.

“I could get drunk off of this,” he says, sounding a little winded. His hand pauses between your shoulder blades, his thumb making a sweeping motion there.

You cast him a glance. “Careful. You know what happened to the last Guild leader to abuse his power.”

He grins again. “Right, right. But if you ask me, I’m using mine wisely.”

His hand travels up until his palm is flat against the nape of your neck. His touch feels warm on the exposed skin there. His fingers stretch up, easing themselves into the hairs at the base of your skull.

Another tremor runs through your body, and you can’t help but lean into his touch. It’s almost embarrassing how weak you are for him.

“Doesn’t seem very fair,” you murmur. You look at him again, trying to narrow your eyes in defiance, but you’re caught off guard by the heat in his own gaze. His own composure is slipping, the amusement in his eyes slowly being washed out by something more serious.

“Is it not?” Brynjolf’s voice drops lower, and so does his head. His mouth is dangerously close to your neck, the sensation of his breath there causing your lungs to lock. “Do you even know of the power you have over me, love?”

That surprises you. You start to voice a doubtful “really”, but it turns into a silent gasp when you feel his lips brushing ever so lightly over your throat.

“How often I look at you when you don’t notice? The effect you have over me when you say my name, or when you give me one of those gorgeous smiles from across the cistern?” He carries the breathy words further down your neck, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin above your collarbone. He’s so close that you wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel your crazed heart pumping. “How often I think about you at every moment, how utterly obsessed I am with you…”

You shudder. It’s a struggle to find your voice, but you manage to whisper, “I .. didn’t know.”

Brynjolf moves back up slowly, his mouth never quite lifting off your skin, until right before he reaches your own lips. He inches back just enough to reply, “Now you do.”

Then he’s finally pulling you in for a kiss. You’ve never melted into one so fast. His lips caress yours with a fierce hunger, one you easily match. It is pure instinct that takes over your body, that drives you to cling to one of the buckles on his armor and bring yourself even closer. You thrive off the warmth provided by him in every way - his hands squeezing your waist, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip, his ragged breaths tumbling onto your face.

It puts you into a euphoric haze, one you only break out of when you impulsively slide a hand up his neck and into his dark russet locks and he groans into the kiss. The sound alone shocks you to your core, but feeling it from his chest, pressing against your own - that is forever etched onto your memory.

You break apart, a brief second passing where you both merely catch your breath, sharing the same air and tingling aftereffects. A warm, amusing realization appears in the clouds of your mind.

“I get it now.” You tilt your head and leave a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I could get drunk off of this.”

Brynjolf’s laugh is breathless, his lungs still recovering from the kiss. But his hands snaking up your waist and back have a newfound strength.

“Like I said, love. Equals.” And he captures your lips again.

[ironwoman359]

A Thief's Gamble - Ch. 16

A Toast to the Fallen

Prev: Ch.15 The Final Spark|| Next: Ch.17 Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf is forced to confront the one truth he was unwilling to face.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, grief.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 2,681

Check the relogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — — 

Brynjolf stared down at the steam curling up from the surface of his mug. The woman who placed it in front of him spoke rapidly as she bustled around the small cabin in a futile attempt to make her guests at home. 

“There we are, snowberry tea, just what you need on a cold day like this one, that’s what my own mother would always make for us when we were young and spent too long out in the snow. I am awfully sorry about that misunderstanding this morning, it’s just that I was paid to keep things under wraps, and I had absolutely no way of knowing that you weren’t one of the people I was meant to be keeping secrets from, you understand. Would you like anything to eat? I’m sure you’re hungry after such a long time spent on the road, and in this dreadful wind too–”

She continued her tirade, but her words washed over Brynjolf in a distant haze. His mind only had room for one thought, the thought that had been repeating itself over and over again in his mind since he and Mercer had rode out from the Nightgate Inn:

Ariene was dead. 

Somehow, he hadn’t quite thought that it was possible. He had worried about it, imagined it, had tried to plan for what would come next if it were true, but somewhere deep inside him, he hadn’t truly believed it could happen. How could someone who had survived Goldenglow, the Legion’s headsman, and not one but two dragon attacks fall to a single opponent in an abandoned crypt? It didn’t seem right. 

And yet, she was dead. 

Brynjolf tightened his grip on his mug of tea, barely registering its heat. 

“–stew should be ready before too long, it’s got some warming herbs in it that I grow in my garden out back–”

“That will be all for now, Aeri,” Mercer said, his voice cutting off the mill owner’s nervous chatter. “My companion and I are in need of some privacy.” 

“Of course, of course, so sorry, I’ll leave you to it, I’m sure you have lots to catch up on, I’ll just be tending to the mill if you need me,” Aeri said, bowing quickly before hurrying out of the cabin. 

“Shadows grant me patience,” Mercer muttered, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Brynjolf slowly looked up and met Mercer’s eyes, speaking for the first time since Nightgate.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Brynjolf…” Mercer said, his face contorting into a grimace. “Are you sure you want to–”

“Tell me. What happened,” Brynjolf repeated, and Mercer nodded slowly.

“I had hoped to corner Karliah while she was inside the crypt, but I underestimated her preparedness. She managed to sneak past the draugr and lay traps for us in her wake that slowed us down and let her know that we were coming. Ariene suggested that we turn back, but I just couldn’t let Karliah get away again, not after everything she’d done, so I insisted we push on. I…I regret that now,” Mercer said with a shake of his head.

Brynjolf’s stomach twisted. How many times in all the years they’d known each other had he heard Mercer actually admit that he’d been at fault? Not many more than the number of times that he’d heard the Guildmaster apologize. In any other circumstance he’d feel vindicated, but if this was what it took to soften Mercer’s exterior, then Brynjolf would rather endure a thousand of his screaming matches. 

“I was certain that if I could just get close enough to her, then we’d have the upper hand,” Mercer continued. “Karliah is decent with a blade, but she never was able to beat me back when we were sparring partners. And I foolishly assumed that having an archer of my own with me would level the playing field.” 

Mercer balled his hands into fists, his knuckles turning white with the strain. 

“I was wrong. Karliah played me like a damn lute. We entered into the final chamber of the sanctum and she was ready for us. Before we even saw her an arrow came flying out from the shadows. I assume that the shot was intended for me, but Ariene shoved me out of the way at the last second and took it in the shoulder. The wound shouldn’t have been fatal, but she went limp instantly and fell to the ground. That’s when I remembered what kept me from going after Karliah all those years ago. Poison.” 

Mercer practically spat out the word, and Brynjolf’s blood ran cold. Mercer was still speaking, saying something about failing to revive her with healing potions, but Brynolf wasn’t listening anymore. 

He couldn’t help but picture the scene: Ariene crying out in warning as she pushed Mercer aside. The arrow piercing her body and sending her stumbling. Dark hair fanning out around her head as she landed, blue eyes wide open and glassy as the poison flooded her veins and stopped her heart. 

“What about Karliah?” he heard himself ask, though his own voice sounded far away to his ears. 

“She got away,” Mercer said through gritted teeth. “She must have only had enough poison for one arrow; once she missed me she didn’t stick around to trade blows. By the time I accepted that Ariene couldn’t be saved, Karliah had vanished without a trace. I worried that she would try to ambush me on the road back to the Guild, so I’ve been hiding out here until I felt it was safe enough to move again.” 

So in the end, it had all been for nothing. 

“I truly am sorry, Brynjolf,” said Mercer quietly. “For what it’s worth, you were right about Ariene. She demonstrated a tremendous amount of skill. I should have listened when she told me to turn back.” 

Brynjolf’s eyes fell back to the cup of tea. He was distantly aware that an apology from Mercer should have felt significant. It was no small thing for the Guildmaster to accept responsibility for his failure. However, Brynjolf found that the gesture did little to offset the grief that was nestling deep into his chest. How could he hold Mercer responsible when, at the end of the day, he was the one who had let this happen? 

He had let Ariene and Mercer go out alone. His gut had told him that it was a mistake, that they needed to make a better plan, that Mercer wasn’t fit to lead the job, but he’d let them go anyway. Any anger he felt towards Mercer paled in comparison with his own guilt. 

He had been the one to promise Ariene that he wouldn’t let Mercer put her in danger again. He had been the one to let her go on a mission that was doomed from the start. He was the one who had failed her. 

That idea refused to let him go as he and Mercer packed up their supplies and headed out from the mill. They crossed the Yorgrim, then followed the western road down along the White River. The landscape passed by them in a blur of rocks and hills and trees that Brynjolf barely took note of. He was too focused on the thought that repeated itself over and over in his mind as they rode:

It’s my fault she’s gone. 

They reached Darkwater Crossing, and Mercer finally broke the silence that had hung between them all journey by suggesting they make camp for the night. He was still worried about Karliah laying a trap for him, so they left the road and headed deeper into the trees to make their meager campsite. Brynjolf volunteered to take first watch, and Mercer didn't argue, disappearing into the tent without another word.

Sitting on an overturned log, Brynjolf stared into the flickering heart of their campfire. He couldn’t help but think back to the last conversation that he and Ariene had shared, before she'd left for this pointless job.

"The Guild needs you in one piece," he had said, and Ariene had looked up at him with those beautiful eyes of hers and said "The Guild needs me?"

He'd heard the unspoken meaning behind her question loud and clear: what about you? He had wanted to take her face in his hands and answer her, to say the words that terrified him but that he knew were true:

I do need you, lass. I need you here, I need you safe. I think I might even love you, though I don't quite know what to do with that. All I know is that I don’t want you to leave.

He should have told her how he felt when he had the chance. He should have kissed her when he had the chance. 

But he had been a coward, and now he’d never get that chance again.

— — — 

Stepping into the Ragged Flagon after a job usually brought Brynjolf a sense of triumph. The only feeling better than pulling off a perfect heist was returning to the Guild with plenty of gold to spend and stories to share. Even if a job had gone badly, sinking into one of the tavern’s old chairs and commiserating with his Guildmates over a drink held its own kind of catharsis. 

But this time, as Brynjolf entered the familiar room he felt neither relief nor victory. He looked around, taking in the flicker of torchlight on the wall, the gentle lap of the water against the stone sides of the old cistern, and the quiet murmur of customers sitting at tables or trading with merchants and just felt…empty.  

The sound of the door shutting behind him signaled Mercer’s presence, and the Guildmaster let out a sigh as he stepped up next to Brynjolf. 

“Well, we made it in one piece,” he said grimly. “Time to figure out our next move.” 

Before Brynjolf could think of an answer, Dirge’s voice rang out from the bar.

“It’s Brynjolf! And Mercer’s with him!”

The Flagon burst to life in an instant. The sound of wooden chair legs scraping against the floor echoed through the room as Guildmembers got to their feet. Cries of welcome filled the air and people raised hands and tankards towards them in greeting as Mercer and Brynjolf made their way into the Flagon proper. To an outsider, it would have sounded like a decorated soldier was returning from battle to a hero’s welcome in their home village.

It made Brynjolf feel sick. 

“There he is,” Delvin’s voice cut through the chatter and the old thief stepped forward, reaching out and clasping Brynjolf’s hand and nodding to Mercer. “I knew you’d make it back to us; the both of you are too stubborn to die.” 

Brynjolf fought to return Delvin’s smile, but found that he didn’t have the energy in him to put up that facade. 

“Bryn?” Vex’s face was twisted in a frown, and her eyes narrowed as she scanned the room. “Where’s Ariene?” 

A sudden stillness fell over the room at the mention of the lass’s name, as though the rest of the Guild had only just realized that she wasn’t with them.

“She…” Brynjolf began, but it was as though the words were stuck in the back of his throat. He couldn’t say them, couldn’t bear to utter them aloud because if he did then that made them true, it made the nightmare that he’d found himself in real. 

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked to see Mercer standing beside him, his expression grim. He tilted his head in a silent question, and after a moment Brynjolf slumped and gave a quick nod in response. 

“She didn’t make it,” the Guildmaster said.

The room reacted with a flurry of gasps and cries of dismay, and for a moment Brynjolf was adrift in it, floundering like a child who’d fallen into the canal. But the hand on his shoulder squeezed, a short, sharp burst of pressure, and Brynjolf sucked in a breath, letting that sensation ground him. He locked eyes with Mercer and gave another nod, firmer this time, and Mercer nodded back. 

“Vekel, put his drinks tonight on my tab,” he said, and then his hand fell from Brynjolf’s shoulder and he was gone, ducking past the crowd and slipping through the back door into the Cistern.  

“Brynjolf…” Delvin began. “Gods, I’m sorry…I don’t know what to say.”

Vex didn’t say anything, just silently pulled a chair out from the table for Brynjolf to sit in. Vekel approached a moment later with a tray full of drinks, setting one before Brynjolf before passing the others out to those who were gathered around. 

“You know,” Vekel said, sitting down with a cup of his own once everyone was served, “When you first told me about this new potential recruit you’d found, I was prepared to bet against her. With the way things had been going around here, I fully expected her to wash out of the Guild within three weeks.” 

He raised his tankard up, addressing the room.

“But Divines as my witness, she proved me wrong! The Guild never saw a finer recruit. To Ariene!”  

“To Ariene!” the gathered Guildmembers responded, taking swigs of their own drinks. 

“Aye, she was a rare one,” Delvin said. “She had a sharp blade and a sharper wit. I can count on one hand the number of folks I’ve known throughout the years that were as well suited to this line of work as she was.” 

He lifted his cup of wine, and again the group toasted to her memory. Others chimed in with stories of their own; Niruin praised her archery skills, Vipir her stealth, Cynric her good humor. Even Tonilia remarked that she’d had an excellent eye for what items a potential client would find desirable. 

Slowly, as each Guildmember spoke, something deep within Brynjolf’s chest began to loosen. Sitting here in the Flagon surrounded by his friends as they took turns memorializing their fallen comrade was slowly chasing away the numbness that had threatened to overtake him. 

“You know I hate to admit it,” Vex began, “But she managed to pull things off that even I wasn’t capable of. The Guild would be worse off without her.” She raised her bottle of mead. “She’ll be missed.”

“Hear hear!” someone called, but as the room took another drink, Brynjolf found his breath was caught in his throat. 

The warmth he had begun to feel was all at once overwhelming; it was like someone had tried to fill the void inside him by pouring molten iron down his throat. The emptiness was gone, but the heat that had taken its place now threatened to burn him from the inside out. The room was suddenly too loud, too crowded, too much, and he needed to get away, he needed to breathe. 

Brynjolf stood abruptly, and of course all eyes in the room went to him. He looked around at his friends’ faces, saw the grief and sympathy written in their expressions, and he steeled himself. He gripped his tankard’s handle so tightly his knuckles went white, then he raised the drink high. 

“Aye, to Ariene!” he said, loud and clear. “Truly, she was the best of us!” 

He drained his tankard in a single gulp, then as the rest of the Guild echoed his toast, he turned and walked out of the Flagon without another word. He heard someone from the crowd start to call his name, but Vex interrupted them by loudly ordering another round, and Brynjolf disappeared down the tunnel that led to his quarters. 

He entered his room, leaning against the door as he shut it and took a shuddering breath. In an instant, his last remaining bit of strength left him and he sank to the floor, his empty tankard falling from his fingers. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he raised a hand to cover his face as the grief came pouring out. 

Finally alone, Brynjolf let himself cry.

— — —

[cramberrytea]

How Could an Angel Break My Heart?

Characters: Kaidan x Kimiya (Original Character)

Summary: Doesn't absence make the heart grow fonder? For Kimiya's sake she hoped that wasn't the case. She hoped that those several years apart would assist her in forgetting about their shared past. However, upon seeing her childhood friend chained and shackled in an abandoned prison those hopes were turned to ash.

Word Count: 1,716

Warnings: Slight Angst, Kimiya being slightly hungover. (am i doing this right?)

A few wee notes:

first off i'm ngl this is my first time posting on here. Please give me grace while I try to be aesthetic, and learn tumblr etiquette.

second, the main character is a redguard woman (she's black y'all). while i describe her in detail please feel free to envision her however you'd like.

first few chapters are on the shorter side! sorry!

title is from the song "How Could an Angel Break My Heart" by toni braxton and babyface

Chapter 1 (Kimiya)

⋆｡‧˚ʚChapter 2ɞ˚‧｡⋆

───✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧────✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧────✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧────✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧───

　

With trembling hands, she gripped the parchment. The words were blurry from the tears in her eyes obscuring the image. But that didn’t matter, as she read the letter five times over. She knew, even through blurry eyes, exactly what each word said.

Even when the tears began to fall onto the words, smudging them beyond recognition, she knew what they said. She slid down the wall, her naked body trembling. Her cheeks and neck wet with fresh tears. Her wails bounced off the wood walls, as she clawed at her chest. The pain was so deep, too deep to get to. That didn’t stop her from trying.

She looked back down at the letter in her hands. It was torture reading this over and over again, but she had to understand. There had to be something she missed. So she read it again…’Dear—‘

“Kimiya” A loud voice with an accent called out. At the sound of her name, the said woman jolted up out of her modest single bed. Her voluminous hair slanted into the shape the pillow forced it into. Several loose pieces of hay protrude outwards from her curly tresses in various locations. Under normal circumstances she would have applied her moisturizer and oils and braided her hair back. However last night was anything but a normal circumstance. Well, it actually was.

The soft clink of empty bottles of mead colliding helped remind her of the events from last night.

“By the Nine lass, this place is a sty. You really oughta clean up around here” Kimiya pried her eyes open. Crust from the intense sleep she had, and the tears she let out while unconscious, made it hard to finally open her eyes. Her eyes turned directly towards the red headed figure at the door to her room.

She whines, throwing herself back onto her pillow, attempting to go back to sleep.

“Fuck off Brynjolf. It’s your fault.” She grumbles out, her words muffled by the pillow covering her entire face.

“How so?” He teased leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t recall doing anything.”

“You were the one who challenged me to that stupid…hhhuhhm…challenge!” Kimiya tiredly argued. “You claimed you could drink me under the table! No way was I gonn…a let that slide! That’s defamation of character!” She continued pointing at him lazily.

“Speaking of, I believe I am owed 20 gold.” He says walking closer into the room. Stepping over the several bottles of Black-Briar Mead, and the occasional Honningbrew. Kimiya slaps a small sack of 20 gold into Brynjolf’s calloused hands, with way more force than necessary.

“You can add it to the grocery fund.” She says venomously from the same position on her bed.

He retraced his steps, over the empty bottles and back to the doorway.

“Great idea, I’m running to the market. Need anything?” He asks before he exits the room.

“More sleep.”

“It’s past noon, lass.”

“What that got to do with me?”

Brynjolf nodded. “Noted.”

Everything was quiet once Brynjolf left the house. As much as Kimiya tried her best to drift back off to sleep, her eyes remained locked on the wooden beams above her head. Another dream. Her eyes drifted down towards the wall, and her eyebrows furrowed as images from her dream resurfaced. The dream was closer to a memory than an actual dream. It makes sense that it would manifest in such a way, she thinks about what happened every day.

She hadn’t realized she’d been laying in bed so long until she heard rapid footsteps coming closer and closer to her room. Her door swung open, slamming into the wall beside it. At the sound of the collision Kimiya bolted up in her bed, her hand sliding under her pillow and grabbing her dagger in one fell swoop. She was ready to attack, until she saw her roommate.

“Maven’s here.” He says basically hanging on the doorknob of Kimiya’s room, before running back out.

At the realization that her employer was present at her house she jumped out of bed. Immediately running to her dresser, grabbing a pair of brown pants. She haphazardly stepped into her pair of pants, flopping onto the corner of her bed tugging her pants up to her waist. However at the sound of Brynjolf’s voice she stopped halfway.

“Maven, it’s a pleasure to see you—“

“Cut the pleasantries Brynjolf, where’s Kimiya?” Maven’s icy voice replies.

“She’s—“

Kimiya comes hastily jogging down the steps, into the dining room, where Maven and Brynjolf were located. The sound of thumping and colliding against furniture could be heard by the two in the dining room. Finally Kimiya bolts straight into the dining room. Her pants were hanging just below her butt, however her long flowy shirt covered it completely. Kimiya kept her legs wide in an attempt to keep her pants from sliding down her legs.

“Right here.” Brynjolf finishes.

“Kimiya,” Maven starts, turning her attention towards the woman who just entered the room.

The raven haired woman eyes Kimiya with a raised brow.

“Your stance is uncomfortably wide this morning.” She finishes before continuing on as if it was beneath her to notice. Brynjolf looked at his roommate with a look that read “what are you doing?!”

“I need you in Whiterun.” The air in the room grew stale as Kimiya’s heart dropped at the command, it would be a surprise if anyone didn’t hear it. “Sabjorn has once again declined my generous offer for a merger. I need you to gather information and report back to me. Do you understand me?”

Kimiya nods, soaking in the information.

“Loud and clear, ma’am.”

Maven nods in acknowledgement before turning towards the front door, however before she exited she turned towards Kimiya.

“And, do clean yourself up. You smell like the inside of an empty bottle of mead.” She finishes, glancing over at Kimiya with a quirked eyebrow. She didn’t miss the way Kimiya’s nostrils flared and the corners of her lips turned downwards into a slight scowl. Maven directed her brief attention which was on Kimiya back towards the door before gracefully exiting the home.

Kimiya bore into the door where Maven was previously, attempting to shoot a laser out of her eyes and into the unsuspecting skull of said woman. Sadly such things were impossible, so she had to use her imagination.

Kimiya let out an exasperated sigh once so tired herself out with the mental image of frying Maven’s head off, she leaned back onto the wall beside her. The slight shift in her body caused her loose hanging pants to slide down to her ankles with a plop.

Brynjolf watched as the pair of pants pooled at her ankles, he stared for a moment before looking up at his roommate with a deadpan look on his face.

“You couldn’t even put your pants on right, lass?”

Kimiya scoffed, stepping out her pants. “I was in a time crunch. Would you rather have me come down with no pants at all?” She grabbed the pair off the ground.

The lack of an answer from Brynjolf, was an answer within itself.

“Stop that.”

“I mean three years ago that would have been a definite yes.”

Before he could finish his sentence Kimiya was already walking up the steps back to her room

“I’m not listening to you!” She yells back. At the sound of her door slamming he let out a snicker.

Kimiya fell on her bed with a grunt. Maven’s words “I need you in Whiterun.” echoed in her mind, almost tauntingly. Her heart hammered in her chest at the thought of being… there. There’s no way to get around it, negotiating with Maven is futile and a waste of energy. She stared at the wood walls beside her. Memories flooded her mind and her lips crinkle into a frown, however she sits up and pushes herself up off the bed, stone faced.

After about 2 hours Kimiya finally came back down. She plopped her brown and gold pack on the table next to where Brynjolf was eating. She grabbed a few apples from the table, stuffing them in the bag.

“Headed out already?” He asked looking up from his plate, and towards the woman in light leather armor. A corset hugged her torso, not tight enough to be uncomfortable or anything. Her sleeves came down to her wrists, however the front part came to her knuckles. The sleeves were split down the middle and bound together by string, from her shoulders down to her wrists. Her boots came up to her mid thigh, stopping before her harness which sat on her upper thigh. Her voluminous hair was parted into several braids, which ran down her chest.

“Yeah, pretty sure Mavens orders weren’t to be done at my leisure.” She sighs, shrugging her bow over her shoulder, and shoving a dress in her pack with unneeded force. Brynjolf nods knowingly, attempting to take her mind elsewhere he starts on his list.

“Health potions?”

“Yeah, got five.”

“Stamina potions?”

“Also five.”

“Change of clothes”

“Yup.”

“Water skin?”

“Got it…wait.”

Brynjolf gave Kimiya a knowing look as she jogged upstairs to her room to grab her empty waterskin. Once she finally came down the steps she hooked the water skin onto her belt. “Got it.” She says with a triumphant smile.

“I see that.” He nods with a small amused smirk.

After the two had finally finished up their impromptu checklist Kimiya swung her bag over her shoulder.

“Well, roomie, I’m off.” she says as she extends an arm out towards Brynjolf. The redhead stands up from his chair wrapping his arm around her waist bringing her into a side hug. However before she could pull away, he put his hands on her shoulders holding her steady. His emerald eyes looking into her brown ones.

“You’ll be fine, you won't be there for long.” He says looking into her eyes, as if he was trying to force what he was saying into her brain. Kimiya pressed her lips into a firm line as she recalls her job, the task ahead, and the strenuous emotional regulation ahead. Brynjolf squeezes her shoulder as he looks down at her despondent expression. He exhales through his nose, rubbing her arm in comfort.

[esta-elavaris]

Day 1 - "I've got you." - Thorin Oakenshield/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 2 - Family, friends, loved ones - Aemond Targaryen/OC - tumblr / AO3 Day 3 - "You love me?" "I always have." - Papa Emeritus IV/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 4 - Cinderella Moment - Aemond Targaryen/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 5 - X + 1 - Brynjolf/F!Dragonborn - tumblr / AO3

Day 6 - Hot Chocolate - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 7 - Porch Swing - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 8 - Rainy Day - Theodore Groves/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 9 - Massage - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 10 - Playing With Hair - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 11 - Sweet Tooth - Cullen Rutherford/F!Inquisitor - tumblr

Day 12 - Fire & Ice - Aemond Targaryen/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 13 - Reading Together - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 14 - "I hate it." "No you don't." - Cutler Beckett/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 15 - Emergency, Confession, Adventure - Jack Sparrow/OC - tumblr

Day 16 - Singing Each Other to Sleep - Thorin Oakenshield/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 17 - Encouraging Someone to Achieve a Goal - Eddie Munson/OC - tumblr Day 18 - "Did you plan for this to happen?" - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 19 - Keeping Someone Safe - Vilkas/F!Dragonborn - tumblr / AO3

Day 20 - Wearing Each Other's Clothing - Boromir/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 21 - Swoon - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 22 - Picking - Boromir/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 23 - Trinket - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 24 - [Melting Emoji] 🫠 - Aemond Targaryen/OC - tumblr

Day 25 - Nook - Cullen Rutherford/F!Inquisitor - tumblr

Day 26 - Fireplace - Boromir/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 27 - Outdoor Event - Cullen Rutherford/F!Inquisitor - tumblr

Day 28 - Soothing Touch - Ulfric Stormcloak/F!Dragonborn - tumblr / AO3

Day 29 - "Hey, wake up!" - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 30 - Self-worth / Self-love - James Norrington/OC - tumblr / AO3

Day 31 - "You told your parents?" - Arthur Morgan/OC - tumblr / AO3

find me elsewhere: AO3 ~ FF.net ~ long!fic masterpost

[bekaroth-reads]

Brynjolf x reader pt .2

[Decided to make a sequel, though I guess you don't have to had read the first part to understand this. Once again I write gender neutral reader in general, so instead of Brynjolf saying lad or lass, I have him saying bairn like how you might call someone kid. Proof read but quickly so there's probably a lot still wrong, haha]

It doesn’t seem like it would be possible for someone to startle awake while also not moving an inch, but that was exactly what Brynjolf did. There was enough of his mind conscious to know he needed to check his surroundings, however the rest of it as well as his body protested. Once he was finally able force his eyes open, there wasn’t much he could see aside from a blur… and a piercing light of some kind.

Wanting to shield himself from the bright onslaught he went to turn. This action was cut short as the second he started to move Brynjolf felt like his was going to explode.

“Look who’s still alive!” A familiar voice teased in a thankfully soft voice.

“Bairn?” He questioned horsely, “By the Eight! What in Oblivion happened?”

You walked over to him, poured some water into a cup, and stared to mix something into it. Brynjolf was only minutely aware of any of this.

“It seems that you had a rather eventful night.” You laughed as you tried to get him to drink the concoctions you had made.

He was aware enough now to grunt and pull his head away, not wanting to risk upsetting his churning stomach further. As you came more into focus he pressed drudgingly with his interrogation. “Did I get in a fight?”

Brynjolf gave a sour look and a glower as even not knowing what the answer was, you thought is was funny and that it was certainly at his expense.

“Oh, yes. You had a valiant fight against some mead, and sadly lost.” You postulated before finally catching him at an angle that let you actually get the cup up to his mouth, “Now, drink this.”

He obliged you, but wasn’t afraid to let you know how he felt about the drink.

“Shor’s Stone! That’s vile!” He spat mostly figuratively, but somewhat literally.

“Got it from the apothecary. Supposed to help with the hangover.”

“Ya, know what’ll help that bairn? Put out that bloody light!” He groaned.

This made you actually laugh, which made him winch.

“Sorry.” You apologized as you tried to quiet back down. “But, I can’t put that light out, Bryn. That’s the sun.”

After this, you started prattling on about something along the lines of how there was rumored to be a way to actually black out the sun, but he wasn’t even to the point of comprehending any of that.

“Bairn, I’m not in the mood.” Brynjolf warned as he finally managed to move an arm and rest it over his eyes.

“For what?” You questioned.

“For games!” He grumbled, “Hardly a place in the cistern that the sun gets to.”

Based on the fact that you had to hod back another laugh, it seemed that something else caught you funny. You moved some of his fiery hair behind his ear as best you could with his arm in the way.

“Bryn, we aren’t in the cistern.”

This made him bolt up, suddenly aware that this bed was much too comfortable to be one of the ones they were able to sneak into the hideout. A few moments after his pounding temples stopped protesting the quick movement, he noted that he was in a rather nice, if slightly under decorated house.

It must have been yours. In recent times you had started to do favors for the Jarl, as a sort of means to have an insider in on her plans (as well as a way to make up to the people of Riften for the things you were told to do during your initiation), and the house was an opportunity you weren’t going to pass up.

Something else that he was more aware of now that he was more awake was that he was at the very least bare-chested. Not being one to miss out on a chance to fluster you, he decided to better his morning by doing just that.

“It seems that I lost a bit more than my wits last night. That your doing, bairn?” Brynjolf hummed as he leaned closer to you.

“Well, yes- but not for the reason you think!” You were quick to add. It was pouring last night and I figured there was no point in you getting pneumonia on top of the hang over.”

Your tone changed to a playfully, parental one, “You were on this side of the town square, stumbling around and about to fall into the lake. When I went to see what was wrong with you, you practically passed out on top of me. There was no way I'd be able to sneak you down to the hideout."

"Could have let me fall." He chuckled almost bitterly. While he was trying to play the comment off as a joke, you felt a shift in his demeanor. Maybe there was a more serious reason he was black-out drunk last night.

Not sure if what else to do, you sat next to him on the edge of the bed. Resting your hand on his you quietly assured, "I like you too much to risk you drowning."

Again your comment was continuing the façade of teasing, but there was a more serious intent to it you both knew was under the surface.

To your surprise Brynjolf leaned forward, reached a hand around to rest on the side of your head and move it closer so that he could place a gentle kiss on your hairline.

"Gods bless you! You're too sweet for this line of work." He sighed almost longingly, but in a way you couldn't quite work out why.

Looking over to him there definitely was a much more somber tone than he wore much of the time. Whatever was causing it, it seems the wrong time to try and talk about it. So, you simply moved on by placing your index and middle fingers on varying points on his brow to see if the tension was starting to let up.

"How are you feeling?" You asked.

"Now that I can see that bonny face of yours clearly, lovelier than anything my tonics ever promised to do." He was back to his flirting, and looked happy to be so.

Brynjolf wrapped you in his arms and held you close as he could, resting and nesting his head on the crook of your neck, relishing in the way you both squirmed and sought his attention.

"I do need to ask one more favor of you, bairn. Be sure not to tell anyone I was so pissed last night." There was another hint of somberness to Brynjolf's voice for another moment, before it abruptly changed back to playful. "If word got out that a Nord couldn't hold his drink, I'd never live it down!"

You matched his tone. "Oh? And, what can you bribe me with to not tell?"

There was something of a dark chuckle from him, like he knew something you weren't catching on to.

"Bairn, I'm sitting here in naught but a sheet and my small clothes, and you're asking how I plan to bribe you?" Brynjolf let said sheet fall a bit lower than was considered descent.

He leaned forward once again and kissed you. You were so dazed by the suddenness of the situation that you were basically along for the metaphorical ride.

Just as you were gaining your footing in this situation and things were starting to heat up, there was a pounding on the front door.

Seeing as you were clothed, you were the one to go answer it. To your surprise it was none other than Mercer.

"I'm doing a neighborly call to see if you've seen a certain red head around." He pointedly explained.

Your face must have heated up or possibly still been heated from before as all you said was, "Well," before he cut back in.

"I'll take that as a yes. Look, just have him come down as soon as possible." He sounded more exasperated than upset, though still upset nonetheless. Mercer didn't even wait for you to reply before he walked away, grumbling something to him.

"Sometimes I swear he's trying to ruin my life on purpose." Brynjolf huffed as he came up behind you, watched Mercer walk away for a moment before pulling you back into the house and shutting the door.

"I see you found your pants." You snicker as you note that he was now at least half dressed.

"Aye, they're dry enough to wear. Little smokey from being by the fire." He replied as he pulled you close to him once more.

While you were rather attracted to Brynjolf and more so actually cared for him, there was still some doubt in your mind about how he felt about you. So, you played off trying to back out of his hold by teasing, "I might think you're still a bit drunk with how handsy you are."

While he did laugh at the joke, he was also quick to ease your worries. "Hey, look at me." He placed his hand under your chin to help with the action. "I would never hurt you; not in any way, bairn."

Rather than something teasing or extravagantly passionate like many would expect from him, Brynjolf once again placed the gentlest of kisses to your forehead. There was something that finally made it's way through to you with this action. It wasn't just his way of showing gentle affection.

It was his way of saying, "I love you."

[gloomwitchwrites]

Spring 2024 Collection Masterlist

Spring themed stories from across multiple fandoms.

** Indicates a Community Label

Skyrim: (complete) Lavender: Part One // Part Two (Brynjolf x Female Reader)

Brynjolf only ever brings you flowers when he wants something.

Lord of the Rings: (complete) Flower Crown (Aragorn x Female Reader)

During a spring festival in a small village, Aragorn reunites with the woman he’s been missing.

Star Wars: (complete) Greener Things (Din Djarin x Female Reader)

It isn’t until the woman he loves is in danger that Din realizes he’s wanted her all along.

High Stakes (Boba Fett x Female Reader)

Losing a bet with the infamous bounty hunter places you in his control.

Call of Duty: (complete) Easy Access (Task Force 141 x Female Reader)

A short dress is your idea of an invitation for a bit of fun.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot

@firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady

@spicyspicyliving @thepetitemandalorian @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado

@aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett

@keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @cinnabeanz

@berarenado @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu

@marispunk @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics

@ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @jade1605 @tulipsun-flower

@nomercyforthewarrior @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project

@burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @contractedcriteria

[seigeocs]

Ships and Characters

Skyrim

My OCs + their ships. Farkas Vilkas Brynjolf

Fallout 3 Butch Cross Jericho Charon

Fallout New Vegas (if it’s not obvious, I really like the ladies in NV) Boone Lily Bowen Raul Cass Veronica

Fallout 4 All of the romance options Deacon Maxon The Raider bosses in Nuka World except the Black siblings

Fallout (TV Series) Ghoulcy Maximus x Lucy

Destiny 1 Any of my OCs Siobhan x Emyr Siobhan x Shaxx Siobhan x Uldren

Destiny 2 Any of my OCs Siobhan x Crow Siobhan x Shaxx

Dragon Age: Origins Any of my OCs established ships F!Cousland x Anora, F!Warden x Leliana, F!Warden x Morrigan, M!Warden x Morrigan, M!Warden x Zevran, F!Warden x Zevran

Dragon Age: Awakening F!Cousland x Nathaniel Howe, F!Cousland/Anders, F!Warden x Varel

Dragon Age 2 I’ll write for any of the characters and ships in DA2.  My favorites are: F!Hawke x Fenris, F!Hawke x Isabela x Fenris, F!Hawke x Varric, M!Hawke x Fenris, M!Hawke x Fenris x Isabela

Dragon Age: Inquisition I like almost all of the ships.  I struggle to write Solas so he’s just not available unfortunately.  Not that I don’t like his character, I just suck at writing him. My OCs and their ships, Dorian x Bull are some of my favorite.  I also love writing interactions that don’t involve smut for the companions as well.

Dragon Age Veilguard (when it comes out as I’m trying to keep away from most of the game information)

Mass Effect F!Shep x Kaidan, F!Shep x Ashley, F!Shep x Garrus, F!Shep x Tali (DON’T CARE IF THEY WEREN’T OFFICIAL, THEY EXIST TO ME).

Mass Effect 2 F!Shep x Garrus, F!Shep x Thane, F!Shep x Zaeed, F!Shep x Garrus x Thane, F!Shep x Tali, F!Shep x Miranda, M!Shep x Jack

Mass Effect 3 Same ship as 1 and 2.  I also write F!Shep x James Vega but in the non creepy Citadel DLC way.  That doesn’t exist in my canon.

Stardew Valley I’ll write smut about many of the characters in the game.  My one farmer is shipped with Harvey and my other is shipped with Leah.  If you give me characters I’ll make it work.  My only line in the sand is I will not write any cheating.

BG3 *waves hand to OCs* I’ll write whatever for them and their ships.  If you request BG3 just give me some options and I’ll figure it out.

Helluva Boss* Established canon ships!  I am loving the angst with Blitz and Stolas right now.

Hazbin Hotel* Established canon couples, Angel Dust x Husker (mostly fluff for these two because Angel Dust needs it).  I won’t write Alastor in any romantic ships.

My Hero Academia*

I mostly write Reader insert fics for MHA.  I also write ships between characters too.  Platonic fluff, found family, sarcasm, and anything that is G to T rating is for every character.  My main ships: Midnight x Eraserhead x Mic Midnight x Eraserhead Mic x Eraserhead Fatgum x Mirko Fatgum x Hawks Fatgum x Eraserhead All Might x Eraserhead Mirko x Shigaraki (Don’t question it, I love the toxicity of it) Compress x Twice Twice x Hawks Hawks x Dabi

Demon Slayer*

My OC x Rengoku My Demon OC x Muzan Reader Inserts for all the over 18 characters I also write platonic found family for all the characters

Kaiju No. 8*

Hoshina is my absolute favorite character in this show. Kafka Hibino is a close second Narumi (omg the anime did him a disservice so badly) Eiji Hasegawa Haruichi Izumo Iharu Furuhashi Reno Ichikawa

Any any platonic, fluff, cute stuff with any of the characters

Haikyuu

As everyone in the main cast is over 18 by the end of the manga, I’ll write all the characters.  It’s mostly Reader Inserts but I’m open to OCs and character x character ships.

One Punch Man

Saitama Genos Atomic Samurai Blast Zombieman

[skyrim-forever]

Fic Masterlist

Finally doing the proper fanfic writer thing and making a master list of my fics!

TES/Dante's Inferno Crossover

The Dragonborn's Inferno

Ondolemar

I'm only happy when I'm with you (Chapter 1 teen, chapter 2 explicit)

Beg for me (Explicit) (AO3 Link)

Neloth

A Master Wizard and His Feelings (Mature)

A Solstheim RomCom Part 1 (General)

A Solstheim RomCom Part 2 (General)

Lucien Lachance

Match made in the Void (Explicit) (AO3 Link)

Erandur

Everyone has a past (General) (AO3 Link)

Brynjolf

TesFest: Teeth

Serana x Teldryn Sero

Devour Me (Explicit)

Elenwen x Rikke

Until You Break (Mature)

[magnavox-selfship]

Romantic F/Os

Arranged in alphabetical order by name. Not comfortable with canon x canon ships; neutral toward doubles. I don't block based on sharing status but I ask you not gush about them to me.

Bold = current focus/favorite.

💜 1-Ball - Fortnite - #💫 TBD

💜 Breakdown - Transformers: Prime - #🍊 i intend to live

💜 Brynjolf - The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim - #💎 walk with the shadows

💜 Chuck - Dead Rising - #🌻 by your side always

💜 Cosmo - IF - #🔎 we found each other

💜 The Dealer - Buckshot Roulette - #🍺 dancing on the edge of love and hate

💜 Death - Family Guy - #🪦 drop dead gorgeous

💜 Grand Galactic Inquisitor - The Venture Bros. - #🚦 space age love song

💜 Hide - Lethal Company (Bracken OC) - #🌹 lethal lovers

💜 IG-11 - The Mandalorian - #🦾 love is all i can give to you

💜 K-2SO - Star Wars: Rogue One - #💿 together in electric dreams

💜 The Kidnapper - Welcome to the Game - #🐺 show me your darkness

💜 Khonshu - Moon Knight - #🌙 heavy wings and the hum of decay

💜 Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley - Call of Duty - #💀 i carry your heart with me

💜 Lord Nighty-Knight - Megamind vs. the Doom Syndicate / Megamind Rules! - #🌑 partners in love and crime

💜 Michael Myers - Halloween - #🔪 TBD

💜 Miguel - Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse - #💥 bite me

💜 Miraak - The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim - #🐉 fate decreed us

💜 Stalemate - Spider-Man (Symbiote OC) - #♟️ TBD

[0-animelover-0]

Skyrim Masterlist

A/N: The reader is almost always gender neutral unless I specified differently in the title.

My other Masterlists are -> here

Scenarios

When you hug them (Aela the Huntress, Ghorza gra-bagol, Grelka, Shahvee, Balimund, Derkeethus, Farkus, Vilkas, Scouts-Many-Marshes, Ghorbash the iron hand, Brynjolf, Cicero, Lord Harkon, Serana)

If you can't swim (Shahvee, Derkeethus, Scout-many-marshes)

Relaxing with their S/O (Aela the Huntress, Cicero, Serana)

S/O is the Same Gender as Them (Aela the Huntress, Shahvee, Balimund, Farkas, Vilkas, and Scout-many-marshes.)

He celebrates your birthday with you (Derkeethus)

Oneshots

Accidental Insanity (Cicero x Assassin!Reader)

Headcannons

Coming soon...

[ironwoman359]

A Thief's Gamble - Ch. 12

A Ghost From the Past

Prev: Ch.11 Misdirection || Next: Ch.13 Lacking in Virtue Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf is used to dealing with Mercer's temper, but when an old enemy of the Guild resurfaces, not even he is prepared for the explosion that follows...or for its fallout.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 3,602

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — —

“You forgot to get intel from the girl before she left?” 

Brynjolf closed his hands into fists, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm. 

It was difficult; he was sore and exhausted after his long day of travel. When he’d arrived back at the Guild, he’d intended to share the good news that the payout from the Markarth job was likely to be double what they’d expected and then take a well deserved nap. Before he could get out a single word though, Mercer had asked him about the Solitude job. 

Which of course, he’d completely forgotten to get an update on before sending Ariene off to Markarth.

“What do you mean you FORGOT?!” Mercer shouted, and Brynjolf rolled his eyes.

“Is there another meaning of the word ‘forgot’ that I don’t know about?” he asked lightly, and Mercer glared at him. 

“Don’t test me right now Brynjolf, I’m not in the mood for your games.” 

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Brynjolf said with a sigh. “We were being watched in town, and the job turned out to be just as dangerous as Ariene feared. In all the excitement, the mission to Solitude slipped my mind.”

“I seem to recall one of your main arguments for going to help her was so that we could get the intel from Gulum-Ei sooner,” Mercer snapped. 

“She had to rendezvous–”

“Rendezvous with the client in Markarth, I understand that,” Mercer interrupted. “What I don’t understand is why you failed to do the most basic part of your job and get a report from her before heading back here.”

Brynjolf didn’t answer, mostly because deep down, he knew Mercer was right. He should have thought to ask Ariene about what Gulum-Ei said before letting her ride off into the sunset, but after their near death experience and subsequent conversation, he’d been more than a little bit preoccupied.

Mercer, apparently taking Brynjolf’s silence as confirmation of his suspicions, shook his head, his face twisted with distaste. 

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” he growled. “Gallus was getting sloppy towards the end too, you know.” 

“That’s not fair,” Brynjolf protested instantly. “I told you–”

“That this won’t turn out like last time? You don’t know that,” Mercer shot back. He huffed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, regardless of our differences, I don’t want you getting a knife in the back because you got distracted.”

“She saved my life, Mercer,” Brynjolf hissed. “What, you think now she’s going to turn around and murder me?”

“More than once, I’ve been burned by someone who used to have my back,” Mercer said simply. “In this line of work, loyalty means nothing.” 

Brynjolf opened his mouth to protest more, but Mercer waved his hand dismissively. 

“I’m not saying the girl will turn traitor, Brynjolf. Just that, so far? You’re not doing a great job of proving to me that she’s not a liability.” 

“So you’re just going to ignore her record?” Brynjolf asked. “Take a look around, Mercer. The Guild is finally starting to gain some footing again, and it’s nearly all thanks to her. She’s even managed to win over Vex and Delvin. Just because she reminds you of Karliah–”

“Don’t say her name,” Mercer cut him off, his eyes flashing with anger. “This isn’t about her.”  

Brynjolf ground his teeth in irritation, biting back his urge to reply:

Yes, it clearly is. 

Instead, he took a deep breath and folded his arms, fixing Mercer with a steady look. 

“So do you not want to hear about the massive payout we got from the Markarth job, then?” 

Mercer’s expression was still glowering, but at the mention of money, he raised a curious eyebrow. 

“Payout?” 

Brynjolf’s assurance to Ariene that coin would cheer Mercer up didn’t end up ringing completely true. Mercer was still angry, and Brynjolf’s haul of septims wasn’t enough to totally soothe his temper. However, the promise of even more coin when Ariene returned was enough to spare Brynjolf any further scolding.

He retreated from the cistern, and decided that what he really needed wasn’t a nap, but a drink. He made his way into the Ragged Flagon and fell into a chair, burying his face in his hands and letting out a frustrated groan. 

Delvin looked up from his table and grimaced in sympathy. 

“Mercer’s in a mood, I take it?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Brynjolf quipped as Vekel approached with a tankard for him.

“I think that when even coin isn’t enough to calm that rotten old skeever down, then it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep clear of him for a few days,” Delvin said, and Brynjolf snorted.

He took a sip of his ale, then looked at Delvin thoughtfully. As one of the few holdovers from the time that Gallus had been Guildmaster, the old thief had been a constant in the Guild for as long as Brynjolf could remember. He knew the younger thieves in the Guild thought the same thing about him and Vex now, but that was hard for him to wrap his head around. 

Brynjolf had been only nineteen when Gallus was killed, and had only been with the Guild for a few years. Just long enough to come to idolize Gallus, Mercer, and Karliah, but not long enough to really get to know them. Delvin, meanwhile, had been one of the Guild’s top members even in those days. He was even the first person that Mercer had made a lieutenant, though he had always been firm that he didn’t want to lead anyone. A sentiment that Brynjolf hadn’t understood at the time, but now that he was a lieutenant himself, he couldn’t help but  sympathize. 

Being a thief was hard enough; it was so much more daunting when you knew that everyone else was looking to you for direction.

A thought struck him, and he found himself wanting to ask something that he’d never really considered before.

“Delvin?” he asked, and the older man looked up. “Why exactly do you think the Guild is cursed?” 

Delvin looked surprised at the question, but he leaned forward, eager to have someone listen to his theories willingly. 

“It just ain’t natural, Bryn,” he insisted. “I’ve been doing this a long time, longer than even you or Mercer. I’ve seen bad thieves, and I’ve seen bad luck. This? It’s different. It’s affectin’ every single member of the Guild, even the most experienced. Vex got made on a job, for cryin’ out loud. Vex!”

“There were over a dozen guards…” Brynjolf offered lamely, but Delvin waved his protest away. 

“Guards, yes, but guards that she should have noticed sooner than she did. The fact that she didn’t is just plain bad–” 

“Bad luck,” Brynjolf finished, and Delvin nodded. 

“Exactly. And it’s like that every time. Things that shouldn’t happen, happenin’ to folks it shouldn’t happen to. Look, I know you lot think I’m crazy, but I can feel it. Something out there is doing this to us.” 

Brynjolf thought of the crypt in Pinewatch, of the way Rigel had appeared seemingly out of thin air without either of them noticing. It had certainly felt unnatural at the time. But how on earth could you be sure of something like that? 

Delvin swirled his mug of ale thoughtfully, then he smirked at Brynjolf. 

“At least, that’s what it has been like. I can’t deny that over the last few months we’ve actually been on the up and up, for what feels like the first time in ages. Maybe that girl of yours is some kinda good luck charm.” 

“She’s not my–” Brynjolf began, and Delvin chuckled, cutting him off. 

“Don’t give me that, Bryn. Maybe it ain’t official yet, but everyone knows the two of you’ll be an item soon.”

“Are you going to scold me about it like everyone else?” Brynjolf asked tiredly, but Delvin shook his head. 

“Nah. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a good match for you. Besides, she’s nearly single-handedly pulled this Guild outta the gutter. How could I complain? A word of advice, though.” 

Brynjolf leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.

“Vekel I could understand, but what makes you qualified to advise me on my love life?”

“Very funny,” Delvin said flatly. “Look, all I was gonna say is this: the girl’s a free spirit. And you’ve gotta be quick to make your intentions clear with ladies like that, or you’ll find that they’ve slipped through your fingers.” 

“Do I pay you to sit around and gossip?” a familiar voice growled, and Brynjolf suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. 

Mercer walked up and grabbed a piece of bread off of the plate that Vekel was bringing Delvin, before dropping one of the ledger books in front of Brynjolf. 

“Look over this, and see if your projected take on this oh so special Markarth job will allow us to pay a portion of what Maven plans to give the jarl. She’s not too happy with the idea of paying for the entire bribe herself.”   

Mercer turned and stalked out of the cistern, and Brynjolf sighed. He reached a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples, then grabbed the ledger and stood up.

“You’re not actually going to work on that now, are you?” Delvin asked.

“Gods no,” Brynjolf said. “I’m going to bed. And if Maven and Mercer are lucky, I’ll wake up sometime before the fifth era and I can finish crunching their precious numbers for them.” 

— — — 

Brynjolf did not, in fact, sleep for hundreds of years. However, he did make himself scarce around the cistern for the next several days, opting to do his accounting work from the relative privacy of what passed for his quarters down in the Ratway tunnels that surrounded the Flagon. 

Fortunately, the gold he’d brought back did provide the Guild enough extra funds to foot half of Maven’s “donation” to Mistveil Keep, and Mercer’s mood improved considerably after the guard patrols were pulled back to their normal rotations. He didn’t apologize, Brynjolf could count on one hand the number of times the Guildmaster had done that, but at least he’d cooled down enough for Brynjolf to walk through the cistern again without being treated to withering glares and backhanded remarks. 

Still, when Ariene finally returned from Markarth, Brynjolf made sure to pull her aside before she went to report to Mercer. 

“It’s my fault, not yours, lass,” he said quietly. “But Mercer’s not pleased that he’s had to wait an extra week for the news from Solitude. Tread lightly, alright?”

Ariene’s face twisted in a grimace.

“Honestly, he could be in the best damn mood of his life and he’d be more livid than a cave troll after getting this news. No sense beating around the bush.” 

“Gulum-Ei didn’t have good intel?” Brynjolf guessed, but Ariene shook her head. 

“Worse.” 

She headed into the cistern without another word, and Brynjolf followed, unease stirring in the pit of his stomach. 

Ariene marched right up to where Mercer was bent over his desk, and the Guildmaster frowned at her as she approached. 

“About damn time you got back,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Please tell me Gulum-Ei gave up some information on our buyer.” 

“He did,” Ariene said bluntly. “It’s Karliah.” 

Mercer’s head snapped up and the room went dead silent. 

“She’s the lieutenant you told me about, isn’t she?” Ariene said, looking at Brynjolf. “The one who murdered Gallus?”

“Aye, lass,” Brynjolf said quietly. “If she’s back…” 

His blood ran cold at the thought.

“You’re absolutely certain?” Mercer asked, his voice low and dangerous, and Ariene nodded. 

“Gulum-Ei acted as a go-between for her with Aringoth, though he swore up and down he didn’t know it was her until after he’d agreed to broker the sale.” 

Mercer swore and slammed his fist down on his desk, and Brynjolf didn’t miss the way Ariene flinched before quickly regaining her composure. 

“Damn that Dunmer to Oblivion! I hoped we’d never have to cross paths with her again, but it seems she won’t be satisfied until she’s destroyed the Guild for good. Did Gulum-Ei have any information about her current whereabouts?” 

“Nothing concrete,” Ariene said carefully. “But apparently she told him she was going ‘where the end began.’ I pressed him for details, but he insisted that’s all he knows.”

“Where the end began…” Mercer repeated, his face darkening. 

He began to pace back and forth behind his desk, muttering the phrase to himself over and over. Ariene glanced at Brynjolf, a questioning look in her eyes, but he could only shrug in confusion.

“There's only one place that could be,” Mercer said finally. “The place where Karliah killed Gallus over twenty years ago…a ruin called Snow Veil Sanctum.” 

“That’s a few hours north of Windhelm, right?” Brynjolf asked, and Mercer nodded absently, still muttering to himself. 

“I’m the only one left who knows all Karliah’s techniques, all her skills. If she manages to take me out…” He looked up sharply. “We have to go out there and stop her before she does anymore damage.” 

“We as in…?” Ariene asked hesitantly, and Mercer glared at her.

“As in you and me, obviously. We’re going to go out there together and kill her. That should put a stop to any more of her attempts to bring the Guild down.”

“Mercer,” Brynjolf cut in, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Mercer snapped. “This needs to be done, and I won’t hear any argument otherwise.”

“Aye, and I’m not saying it doesn’t, but the two of you can’t go on your own.” 

“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I damn well please, Brynjolf.” 

“This is Karliah we’re talking about, for Shor’s sake!” Brynjolf exclaimed. “She killed Gallus, and she almost killed you! Vex and I should–”

“I don’t need you to remind me what she’s done,” Mercer interrupted, shooting him a withering look. “I am well aware of exactly how capable she is.” 

“So don’t rely on one new recruit for your backup,” Brynjolf insisted. 

“A recruit who’s proven herself capable in combat multiple times over.”  

A part of Brynjolf urged him to back down. He argued with Mercer often, but he could always tell when it was best to put his own concerns aside in favor of the Guildmaster’s will. It wasn’t exactly good for morale if the underlings saw the Guild’s head and second in command fighting over decisions. This would ordinarily be the type of argument where he had to swallow his pride and concede. 

And yet, this time he found that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“Not three days ago you were complaining that she was a liability,” Brynjolf pressed. “Now you want her to help you hunt down Karliah?”  

“She’s a liability for you, Brynjolf,” Mercer growled. “I’ll be just fine. Which is it, exactly? That she’s a competent thief who deserves my respect, or a green recruit who has no business putting herself in danger? It seems to me the answer is whichever is more convenient for you in any given argument.” 

Brynjolf’s face burned, more from anger than embarrassment, though he could feel the eyes of everyone in the cistern on the two of them as they argued.

“You’re making a mistake,” he insisted, forcing himself to ignore the staring. “This isn’t just another job. Leave the lass behind and let me and Vex come with you.” 

“Karliah is trying to destroy the Guild! I’m not putting my best lieutenants in her path.” 

“You’re too close to this, Mercer,” Brynjolf hissed. “You’re not thinking straight. You shouldn’t–” 

“I am your GUILDMASTER!” Mercer roared. “I’ve made my decision, and you are in NO position to question me!”

The shout echoed around the cistern, and any murmuring from the other Guildmembers stopped instantly. Brynjolf and Mercer openly glared at each other, but before things could escalate further, Ariene’s voice cut through the rising tension. 

“It’s fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll go.” 

“Damn right you will,” Mercer spat without taking his eyes off Brynjolf. “Get your things ready and meet me at the stables within the hour.” 

Brynjolf felt a muscle jump in his jaw, but he didn’t speak or break their eye contact, and eventually Mercer turned and stomped out of the cistern. Brynjolf had half a mind to march right out after him, but Ariene’s hand on his arm stopped him. 

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “It’s not worth it.” 

“It’s not right,” Brynjolf said through gritted teeth, and Ariene shrugged, flashing a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, but came off as slightly manic.

“Well, look at it this way,” she said, her voice full of false cheer. “Maybe after this, he’ll stop seeing me as a liability.”

She turned and started walking towards the Flagon, and Brynjolf winced.

Damn you, Mercer.

“You don’t have to do this, lass,” he said, falling into step beside her.

“Actually, I do,” Ariene said, ducking through the passageway and into the dingy tavern. “I think he’d kick me out of the Guild altogether if I refuse him.” 

Brynjolf shook his head immediately. 

“I wouldn’t let that happen. Mercer may be too dense to see it, but you’re one of the best we have.”

“I can’t let you use up all your good will with him on my account,” Ariene protested. “You’ve done enough for me already. Syndus!” 

The last was to the fletcher who kept shop beside the Ragged Flagon, who looked up as they approached his alcove. Ariene pulled a coin purse from the satchel at her side and held it up for him to see.

“I need fresh arrows. Two quiverfull.” 

The Bosmer quickly filled her order, and she pulled out a few coins from the purse and handed them over. She turned to Brynjolf and held out the rest of the purse to him. 

“Here. The profits from Markarth. I didn’t get a chance to report to Delvin, but tell him that Endon is happy to open whatever doors are necessary in the city. With any luck, we’ll be able to use the foothold there to start operating more in Haafingar.” 

Brynjolf took the purse, not missing the way that Ariene didn’t quite meet his eyes as she spoke. 

“Are you certain about this, lass?” he asked in a low voice. “Karliah’s too damn smart to let slip where she was going by accident…this is more than likely a trap.”

Ariene sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. 

“I know, but that’s a chance we'll have to take. Mercer is an asshole, but he’s also right. Putting more of the Guild’s leadership in harm’s way than is necessary doesn’t make tactical sense. It’s…it’s better for everyone if I’m the one to go.” 

Brynjolf moved without thinking, stepping forward and taking one of her hands in his. She startled at the touch, but she didn’t pull away. 

“You’re not expendable, lass,” he said softly. “You know that, right? I– the Guild needs you in one piece as much as it needs me or the other lieutenants.” 

Ariene’s looked from where their hands were joined up to Brynjolf’s face. Reflected torchlight danced in her eyes, so deep and blue that he felt as though he could drown in them, and he felt his pulse quicken.

“The Guild needs me?” she repeated, her voice low, and he swallowed. 

Standing inches apart, it was like all rational thought flooded from his mind in an instant. Absently, he reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and he let his hand linger beside her face. It would be so easy to cup her cheek, lean forward and…

The creak of a door and sudden footsteps cut through the silence, and the two jumped apart on instinct. Brynjolf dropped her hand, wondering briefly if he was imagining the flicker of disappointment on her face. 

Damn this sewer’s lack of privacy!

“Well. Good luck, lass,” he said lamely.

She nodded, swinging one of the quivers of arrows she’d bought over her shoulder. The movement made her knapsack shift, and he saw the empty space on her belt where her steel dagger had sat. 

On impulse, he reached for his own belt, unbuckling the sheath of the dagger on his left side. He held the weapon out to her hilt first, and her eyes widened. 

“Here. To replace the one that broke in Pinewatch,” he said.

“I– Brynjolf, I can’t accept that. It was a gift!”

“A gift from Gallus,” Brynjolf agreed. “If you’re going out to avenge him, you may as well take a piece of him with you.”

Reluctantly, Ariene took the dwarven blade and strapped it into place. The silence between them stretched into awkwardness as she fiddled with the straps and straightened the sheath. 

“I guess I should go,” she said eventually. “Don’t want to keep the Guildmaster waiting.” 

She turned to leave, but before she could walk away, Brynjolf called after her. 

“Ariene.”

She looked back at him, and his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt he had to say something before she left, something important, but for once in his life he couldn’t find the right words.

“Just…come back to me in one piece, alright lass?” 

She smiled, though the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Of course I will,” she said. “You still owe me a drink, remember?”

— — —

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