Sorry, Lass

His beloved. The most favored of his consorts. Miraak has not been the First Dragonborn for decades, has separated himself from that man. But you remain. In his loneliest nights he traces the lines your hands would make down his body, recalling the comforting weight of you in his lap and the expensive silks that rippled around a body he knew too well. Miraak is haunted by the memory of your touch.

Miraak has paid little mind to the passing of mortals in his life. He'd shed that skin, looking back would be pointless. Though, after the occasional glass of wine Miraak would find his eyes drifting toward you. Jealousy he has no right to feel driving him to seek you out, searching the mortal plane to ensure no one else has captured your heart.

Robes you never touched pool around him as Miraak kneels at your grave. It's unremarkable, obnoxiously plain as if those in your life are unaware of how vibrant you'd once been. Clawed fingers trace the rough edge of your headstone and rage bursts forth within him. A hatred for himself that leaves poor Miraak nauseous.

He left you. Without a word or a proper goodbye. He'd known that it would be the last kiss, the last touch, a final farewell that he gave you no warning of. Miraak collapses into the grass, clutching at the spot in his chest where you reside. The throbbing, raw pain that he refuses to let heal.

Intoxicating. Addicting. There are far too many words he'd use for you but he cannot avoid the final one - gone. Miraak can no longer remember the taste of your lips or the exact tone of your voice. Try as he might the memory has faded with time, leaving behind nothing but a craving that can never be sated.

How many years have passed? He cannot be bothered to count. Miraak has spent generations hidden away in Apocrypha's shelves, gathering knowledge and power among the shadows. His names have been forgotten to time and though his pride is hurt he supposes it is best to shy from a spotlight. His followers grow slowly, painstaking effort for so many years to avoid drawing attention.

Rumors of another born with a dragon's soul reach his ears. Miraak disregards it - Dragonborns have come and go without him paying too much mind. He's getting close to a breakthrough, can feel it. Getting distracted now would be foolish.

The Last Dragonborn is quickly becoming a thorn in his side. Miraak dislikes the meddlesome way their name keeps popping up - reports from Nirn, prophecies of the First and Last, the rate at which they're slaying dragons. It's all terribly annoying.

Miraak cannot recall the last time his feet touched this soil. Nirn is brighter than he remembers, sunlight piercing eyes far more accustomed to shadows. The crumbling remnants of his temple are familiar enough as he stalks through the hallways in search of his rival.

The Last shall not kill the First. He will make sure of that. Miraak will continue this unnatural life, he will ascend to godhood as intended. Failure has never been an option. He happens upon the doors of his old office, flung open so carelessly as someone noisily rifles through his belongings.

Miraak watches as this mortal being claws through his desk. Mildew has eaten away many of the books he'd once cherished but he cannot be bothered with nostalgia now. Magicka crackles around gloved hands, a sickening green that has stolen all other color from his life, and he prepares to end that damned prophecy.

The Last Dragonborn turns, unaware of his presence and Miraak is fairly certain he's dreaming. Your eyes sweep over his shelves, a mouth he's craved for millennia pinched into a frown. Too many feelings swirl in his gut and his spell gutters out, gloved hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

Your hair is shorter. Oh, how Miraak longs to run his fingers through it once more. He'd never had a reason to see you in armor but Miraak recognizes this body, has spent far too many evenings with his face pressed to that crook of your shoulder.

The Last Dragonborn turns to him and Miraak cannot think. They look at him with your eyes, mouth opening without saying a word. He should defend himself, should kill this intruder and get on with his life. But Miraak cannot bring himself to raise a hand against you.

"Are you Miraak?" Thank the gods for his mask. Miraak's knees buckle at the melodic way your voice wraps around his name. He's clutching the door and failing to maintain a shred of composure. He'd forgotten how easily you could cut through all his bravado with a single word.

"Who are you?" He demands, comforted by the sharpness in his voice. His chest heaves with each breath, the wounds he'd nursed so carefully raw and bleeding at the sight of you. Your nose wrinkles and dozens of memories pop into his rattled mind of that exact expression, you tucked securely into his lap and lashing back at one of his many advisors.

"The Dragonborn." Your voice scoffs and Miraak's old heart plummets. It must be some joke from the gods. Some sort of cosmic punishment. The one prophesized to be his demise wears the face of the only love he's ever known.

Those lips he'd once kissed twitch into another frown. How Miraak wishes to sweep you into his arms once more, desperate to feel you melt into his touch. His arms ache but he forces them to remain still, the old pain in his chest growing with every second that passes.

Eyes that gazed at him with adoration are now guarded. He is unfamiliar, nothing more than a threat. This Last Dragonborn is not you, they have no memory of how deeply in love you'd been so long ago. Miraak is ashamed to admit that he cannot count how many years it has been since he lost you.

"How did you find this place?" He sounds breathless but still cannot bear to reach for his weapon. Miraak watches your brows tighten, hand on the hilt of a sword that remains sheathed.

"Dunno." Miraak could cry from the simplest word. "Just had an instinct, I suppose."

Your heart drew you here, Miraak is certain. Some fragment of his beloved must be nestled somewhere within this Dragonborn's soul. Miraak wishes once more he could draw you closer, to be allowed to feel your warmth one last time.

"Do we know one another?" Your voice is hardening and Miraak knows the moment of relative peace is ending. The grief is horribly fresh, after all these years he is losing you again.

He doesn't bother responding. Rune dips once more, lips so easily finding Brynjolf's warm skin. The divot between his pics, the soft skin over his clavicle, taut muscle in his shoulder. Rune kisses up Brynjolf's chest, indulging in every little breath that catches in his throat.

It's delicious, everything he was missing during their last dalliance. Brynjolf's hand curls around the nape of his neck, urging him on despite the almost shameful silence he's lapsed into.

"You always move so fast?" Rune breathes the words against Bryn's stubbled throat. There's a displeased grunt but Brynjolf's fingers tangle into his hair.

"Yeah." Brynjolf mumbles, breath catching as Rune's hand brazenly slides down his stomach. "No point in wastin' time."

Wasting time? Rune can't fathom feeling that way. Brynjolf's cock throbs against the palm of his hand and each kiss along his jaw brings their lips closer. It's all so wonderfully intimate, Rune can't imagine breezing past this for the sake of time.

Brynjolf is remarkably patient. Rune expected him to rush but he seems fairly content to let Rune do as he wants with him - cheeks flushed bright red and biting back every moan but he's patient.

How the fuck is he expected to last like this? Brynjolf wishes Rune would relent with this slow, sensual stuff. It would be far more efficient to pin him to the mattress and fuck him to tears again, why bother with all this kissing and touching? He's already hard, they're already in bed - what more do they need?

It feels nice, he supposes, but no one's ever been soft with Brynjolf. The point of sex is to orgasm. The rest of this is just unnecessary. He grips the headboard and withstands the tongue tracing around his nipple without interrupting. A light, unfamiliar type of arousal shooting through him and Brynjolf finds himself short of breath.

Rune's palm is surprisingly soft when it finally grips his cock. Brynjolf anticipates it - a few rough strokes, a filthy kiss and just enough contact to make him cum. At least this part will be easy, he supposes. Brynjolf braces himself, muscles along his back tensing for something that never occurs.

Of course Rune's kiss is devastatingly tender. His tongue is soft and he shamelessly sucks at Brynjolf's lower lip. There is no rough jerk, no speeding things up. Instead Rune grips both of their cocks in his broad hand, the movement somehow graceful.

"Rune -" Brynjolf gasps his name but it dissolves into an embarrassing groan with the first stroke. The pads of Rune's fingers slide along overly sensitive skin, the tips of their cocks bumping together with each motion. Brynjolf can't catch his breath, can't explain what the hell he feels, can't do anything but lie there and enjoy it.

"Not too bad, is it?" Rune mutters into Brynjolf's jaw. Bryn can't really respond. His head feels too fuzzy, hips rolling lewdly into his friend's palm. Precum leaks from him, slipping between their cocks and Brynjolf worries he'll finish simply from that. How shameful.

Rune almost can't bear the vulnerability. Somehow Brynjolf's completely broken down under him. Lips parted and panting something that sounds like his name. Chest heaving with each breath. Hips twitching wonderfully into his touch. Like Brynjolf craves it.

His head falls to Brynjolf's chest, back aching and muscles tight but Rune refuses to stop. It doesn't matter how long this takes - he will make Brynjolf understand what he's been missing. He keeps his movements even, predictable, gentle. Brynjolf fucking whines under him and Rune chances a look upward.

A stray tear streaks down his cheek. Rune's heart leaps and he fears that he's hurt his friend - wouldn't he say something? He stills, cocks throbbing together in his hand. His mouth opens to speak, to ask if something's wrong, but Rune's cut off.

"Keep goin'." Brynjolf's voice is so small but the request nearly wrecks Rune. He's nodding, shamelessly kissing at the sweaty skin of Brynjolf's chest and thankfully continues stroking their cocks.

It's slow. That delicious knot of arousal in Rune's lower stomach is tight but he refuses to cum first. Brynjolf, always the most serious among their Guild, is writhing under him like a blushing virgin. A few more tears coat his cheeks but he's whining Rune's name with every pump of their cocks.

When Brynjolf orgasms Rune swallows the broken whimper of his name. Sticky hands cup Brynjolf's face, cocks leaking between their bodies but this feels necessary. Bryn's body twitches under his and Rune continues kissing him, heart thumping at the intimacy of it all. He can't think of anything to say, can't explain how deeply all of this has changed him.

"Still a waste of time?" He jokes, huffing a laugh into Brynjolf's cheek. Joking around is easier than confronting the monster of feelings gathering swiftly behind his ribs.

"'S so good." Brynjolf mumbles, chasing Rune's mouth. "Next time you gotta let me do somethin' though."

"Next time?" Rune teases despite the eager fluttering of his heart. Brynjolf sobers a bit upon realizing what he's said but Rune can't let him overthink it. His lips descend again, kissing at the annoyed frown.