#ngl part of me does feel a little bad for Ulfric

[whitegoldtower]

How hugging my least favourite NPCs would go:

Harkon: he wraps you up in his arms and sways you from side to side, and it would be nice if only you didn’t know that you were being lulled into a false sense of security. He tells you sweet things, he tells you he’s so proud of you, but you know that he is only saying such things because he views you as his prized possession. You’re not a person, you’re an object. You’re his object. He might tell you that he loves you, but you can see it in those hollow, unfeeling eyes that whilst he appears to be looking in yours, he’s admiring his own reflection. Because mirrors do not work.

Isran: as your arms close around him, you feel cowardice and rage emanating from him. You are merely a means to an end, a dog to do his dirty work. He only holds you to be polite, and you regret thinking that you could squeeze any sort of affection out of him, for his embrace is colder than that of any vampire. He is stiff and unforgiving. You can feel that he doesn’t care, and that your sentiment irritates him.

Astrid: She leans into you out of cordiality, yet something tells you that she feels threatened by your very presence. She squeezes you, holding you in such an uncomfortably tight embrace that you feel as if any tighter, and your ribs would crack. You get the impression she is trying to assert some sort of dominance over you, and when you lean back, she simply says “Brother/Sister.” And plasters on a very rehearsed smile. It would be a lovely smile, if it reached her eyes. If her eyes weren’t black as the night. If she didn’t look at you like a blood-sniffing shark. You’re sure that if you were truly alone, you would have pulled back to find a blade running you through.

Ulfric: He pulls you in and roughly slaps your back with all the grandiose machismo of very worst of men. His embrace exudes a false sense of equality and brotherhood, but he doesn’t believe that for a second. He believes that you are thick as thieves, that you’re his friend. He reeks of ale and mead, and somewhere underneath all of it, you feel a peculiar sort of emptiness. He might be a broken man, masking it all with a need for control and a drive for power. He thinks your love for him is unconditional.

Orthjolf: Of all the vampires in Harkon’s court, he is the worst, next to Harkon himself. The way he grips your arms is a threat, and if you weren’t already dead, you’re sure he’d leave bruises. He doesn’t ask you if you’re loyal to him. He tells you. You feel insecurity radiating from him somewhere underneath it all. Insecurity and disgust. Whether his disgust is aimed at you, or himself, you will never know. Over your shoulder, he is looking at Harkon, and you feel his envy, his idolisation of the Vampire Lord. He wants to be him. He wants to be Harkon, he wants that power over everyone, including you, and he wants you to be his favourite pet. You’re nothing more than a blood-bank to him, and someone to validate his heinous personality. You’re a fool if you think he loves you.

Mercer Frey: He lets out an uncomfortable parody of a friendly laugh. He reeks. He stinks of ale, of body odour, of damp corridors and muggy rooms. There’s something slimy and underhand about his body language, and you realise that - as you painstakingly hold him - he has never felt the touch of a man or woman. His hands are tempted to wander, to claim. His breath would make you recoil in disgust if you weren’t so polite, remnants of vomit from the morning’s hangover clinging to his lips. He smiles at you, and his teeth are caked with filth. He almost refuses to let go of you, and for a moment, you feel like you are in danger. He tells you not to be a stranger, and your guts roil with repulsion. You are left feeling somewhat violated.