Vilkas is well prepared for this. He's spent years pretending that there's nothing wrong with his emotions. He can convince his fellow Companions that he's handling this separation well enough - moving back into his old bunk in Jorrvaskr, living out of a suitcase, existing without you. Even if it feels like he's dying he'll respect your decision.

He should get over this. Vilkas knows that he should find some way to move on. He heard that you've moved out of the city and wonders if it's to get away from him. Maybe you're moving to be with someone else. Vilkas grows horribly bitter within the confines of his mind, imagining the life you must be leading without him.

Under all the wounds he hopes that you're happy. Even if you couldn't be happy with him.

Why the hell are you back here? Jorrvaskr hasn't been your home for years. Yet here you stand, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. New recruits and seasoned warriors you don't know. Farkas is leaping up to greet you, the same boyish smile on his face.

"You're here!" He greets, squeezing you into a hug that leaves you short of breath. "Perfect timing. Vilkas should be finished with his assignment and he'll be back soon."

Farkas leads you around the room. Names and faces are a blur. Vilkas will be back soon. Do you want to see him? Terror steals your voice once Farkas directs you to a seat near the fire.

"That is why you're here, right? To see him?"

You should probably lie to him. Make up some story about being back in Jorrvaskr for some official business. Something about Dragonborn duties. But he's looking at you with wide eyes full of hope and you can't bear to lie.

"Yes." Your throat is tight. "I want to see Vilkas."

It's pouring out. Vilkas lumbers through Whiterun, his eyes trained to look anywhere but at the home you'd shared. A family has moved in. They planted flowers in a yard you'd once dreamed of turning into a garden. His stomach turns sour at the thought.

He longs for a bath and his bed. He was hungry but that sensation's died down over his long walk. He can wait until breakfast. It's late, everyone in Jorrvaskr's likely already asleep. He'll clean up and hopefully sleep through the night.

You jump as the door's slammed open. Sharp eyes sweep through the hall, pinning you in place. Vilkas is coated in blood, his greatsword heaved over one shoulder. His hair's dampened from the storm outside and under all that armor you can see the sharp inhale of his breath.

"Why are you here?" His voice is tight, controlled. You catch the sag in his shoulders and dark circles under his eyes - he's tired.

"I'm here for you." Your simple answer floors him. Vilkas doesn't like the many sets of eyes observing every little move he makes. He stalks toward his quarters and prays you see the hand beckoning for you to follow.

He can't find the right words. Every emotion is tangled in his chest. Vilkas turns to you, trying to be casual as he unlatches the armor weighing him down. You're watching with that same intensity he's tried to forget, the one that makes him feel like he matters.

Your hands on him is like a cleansing. A blessing from the gods. Your kiss is better than he remembers and Vilkas is suddenly reminded of how weak he is for you. He falls to his knees, dragging you to his level in a desperate attempt to not break this kiss.

"Missed you," you're panting against his mouth, shoving at the remaining pieces of armor. Vilkas is certain this must be a dream but is willing to indulge, pinning you to the floor.

He remembers every little thing about you. Vilkas flattens his tongue where it trails up your chest, selfish hands grabbing your waist. He knows how to wring every little reaction out of you. His hips rolling slowly, almost enough to please you. The perfect amount to make you whine.

"You're so mean." You sob, hips twitching under his. Vilkas grunts in agreeance and buries his face in your shoulder. He's aware that he's mean - and you like it.

"I know, sweetheart." Vilkas knows he's made himself too vulnerable but he can't care about that. You are here. For once Vilkas can't seem to worry about the future, can't do much of anything but lap up every bit of attention you're willing to give him.

He doesn't move from atop you. Even after you're both half asleep and pleasure has ebbed from your body he can't pull himself away. Your fingers run up his back, tracing these scars you once knew so well.

"Vilkas." You feel him shiver, his excitement reinforcing your decision to come back. There's tension in every muscle you touch.

"What?" He tries to be gruff but it has no bite. Your lips are against his cheek and he can't believe this is real.

"Do you still love me?" He can't answer that. It feels too much like a trap. How could he ever stop loving you?

"Because I never stopped loving you, Vilkas."

Vilkas is snappier than usual. He's tried to clamp down on it but he can't quit snarking at people for harmless remarks. They're too loud, too close, all of their smells too strong. Jorrvaskr is his home but like clockwork, every few months it becomes suffocating.

He's experienced this dozens of times. He knows what to do. But even after hours locked in his chambers that stubborn flame of arousal refuses to die. Vilkas' cock is sore but it still throbs in his hand, insistent and needy as if he hasn't wasted an entire afternoon jerking off.

It's because they're here. With their soft skin and alluring scent. They've disrupted his internal rhythm. Before the Dragonborn's arrival Vilkas could anticipate every change in his hormones, able to suppress the ruts with meticulous planning. Now he's reduced to nothing more than the young man he'd once been, ruled by his body's cycle. They've ruined him.

How long has he been clenching his teeth? Vilkas relents, pain zinging up his jaw with the movement. He scrubs at his face but the pain does little to distract from the instinctual twitch of his hips. Like they're searching for contact. Thinking of the Dragonborn had been a mistake.

Vilkas has never felt it before - not with such ferocity. The urge to fuck, to bite, to claim. Their friendship is barely more than coworkers but Vilkas can't shake the urge to sink his teeth in. To bend the Dragonborn over his bed, to feel them squirm while taking his cock, and bite until his scent is forever twined with theirs.

He's insatiable. Vilkas brings himself to orgasm once more but it's fucking useless. He's still hopelessly horny. Sweaty sheets stick to his back as he forces himself to stand. On wobbly legs Vilkas laces his trousers, grumbling to himself about needing to bathe. He should get out of town for a while, head down to where the river deepens. Cold water and silence may help regain composure.

Something in him tightens before the door fully opens. Vilkas takes a cautious step back but is too slow to hold his breath. The Dragonborn stares up at him with flushed cheeks, their delicious scent already invading his mind.

"What're you -" he mumbles, bracing a hand on the doorframe. Vilkas nearly buckles as the Dragonborn steps into his bedchambers. Waves of arousal are battering at his already weakened control. They're concerned, hands so wonderfully warm where they cup the clammy skin of his face.

"Sorry I, I wanted to check on you." Something as simple as their voice already has him melting. Vilkas can't contain the groan in his chest, forcing his eyes to the ground. He's sick, a depraved monster that they should flee from.

"I'm fine." He lies, salivating at the sensation of the Dragonborn's fingers curling around his jaw. They're staring up at him with an intensity that only fuels the need burning through his self control. Vilkas grits his teeth once more and struggles to form a plan. He must not harm them.

"You, you're so -" they stutter, eyes fluttering closed. Vilkas wrenches back but the Dragonborn follows him, taunting him with their proximity.

"You should get outta here." Vilkas is nearly moaning the words because the Dragonborn's nose is on his throat. There's a brazen inhale against his skin and that urge shreds all common sense - bite them.

"I want to help you." The Dragonborn whispers against his skin. Vilkas feels their body slide closer. He's at war with himself - he should tell them to run but they're kicking the door closed. He should handle this himself but the Dragonborn is here, looking at him with such blatant lust.

Vilkas has always been weak. The years of training and practice mean nothing when the Dragonborn's teeth clamp on his bottom lip. Instinct is the only thing that remains and Vilkas can repress his want no longer.

They taste divine. Somehow better than Vilkas had imagined. He finally feels a sense of relief only when they're mewling under him, gripping the bedsheets while Vilkas fucks them like his life depends on it. Sweat pours down his back and his hips are terribly sore but he can't think of that now, his brain consumed with the pulsating heat of the Dragonborn around his cock.

Can he even orgasm again? Vilkas isn't certain. He came too many times fucking his own hand but that doesn't stop the selfish way his hips thrust into the Dragonborn. It's the first bit of relief he's felt in days and somewhere deep down Vilkas is terrified of how easy it would be to get addicted. He's had partners during ruts before but this is something new, heightened to perfection purely because it's them.

It's difficult to keep his teeth clenched. The curve of their shoulder, delicate nape of their neck, their scent enveloping his chambers, it's all too tempting. He catches their hand running through their hair, clearing it away from the very place Vilkas is desperately trying to ignore.

"Knock it off." His attempt to sound stern fails as another weak, barely there orgasm steals his breath.

"Knock what off?" Their false innocence does not fool him. Vilkas hunches over the Dragonborn, cock throbbing where it's buried so deep within them.

"I know what you're hinting at." He seethes, indulging in a whiff of their pheromones. It ignites something dangerous and possessive in him. "I won't do it."

Farkas can't seem to figure it out, this itch that refuses to be scratched. He ate breakfast and lunch, practiced with his blade until his muscles nearly gave out, took a nap, and ran a lap around Whiterun. What more does his body want from him? He's given it food, water, and exercise - the only things it's ever craved but that itching sensation remains. Like there's something tapping at the back of his brain just out of reach. It's maddening.

He's left pacing through Jorrvaskr's lower halls, watching the rhythm of his feet as if the answer will suddenly present itself. He's filled all of his body's needs but his back is too tense, his senses heightened as if anticipating an attack. Has it been too long since he saw battle? It's been a little over a week since his last mission, the bloodlust has never gripped again so soon.

Something enticing tickles at his senses. Thoughtlessly Farkas follows his nose, excited by the prospect of finally finding what his body is so sure it needs. He rounds a corner and stills, suddenly too aware of what it all means.

The Dragonborn stares up at him, pausing where they've gathered their hair back. Their face looks a bit flushed and Farkas is vaguely aware of his heart racing. Arousal leaps through his body, stealing all rational sense.

Oh, he thinks. It's that.

"Hey big guy." They greet him with a smile that steals his heart. Farkas feels a bit guilty for the sudden urge to bend his friend over the nearest surface and fuck them senseless. He's never been too good at keeping track of these things but they've always been relatively easy for him to handle.

It's never felt like this. Farkas struggles to remain calm as his body seems to heat from sharing a room with them. The need climbs through him with every rapid beat of his heart until he's nearly salivating at the sight of the Dragonborn unfastening their armor.

It's like he can't breathe. Normal air isn't enough. Farkas takes one accidental step closer to them, nearly tripping over his own feet. The Dragonborn's little laugh sends his mind spiraling into a stream of fantasies of how his name would sound on their tongue.

"You alright?" They ask when his face is planted in their shoulder. Farkas nods, too busy filling his lungs with their scent to respond properly. His Dragonborn sounds quite nice. Farkas smiles to himself, glad to feel a playful hand ruffle his hair.

"Lemme help you." His offer is entirely selfish. Farkas is salivating at the warm skin under his lips. They're nodding, guiding his hands to the buckles of their armor.

Farkas can control himself. He reminds himself of this as the Dragonborn's armor falls to the floor, allowing him to fully indulge in their smell. Their scent, their sweat, all of it so perfectly scratches the itch that's eluded him for days. His hips rut against their backside, cock twitching and leaking from the slightest contact.

It all moves so fast, so easy. The fluid movement of the Dragonborn's hands in his hair, their lips on his, their tongue in his mouth. He falls to the floor, dragging the Dragonborn with him. Farkas can't bother moving to the bed. He can't think about anything other than being inside them.

"Farkas," they pant into his mouth and he nearly collapses atop them. The Dragonborn's legs are a vice around his waist, hips raised just enough. It's almost too easy to fuck them, to drown himself in their scent.

"Yeah?" He rasps, barely recognizing that they want his attention. His vision is blurry but Farkas focuses, trying to listen. His thrusts slow, cock grinding needily into the Dragonborn.

"D'you want this?" There's something like fear in their eyes that makes his heart drop. "Or was I just the closest person when your - y'know, hormones hit."

"I want you." Farkas' face is buried in their throat, teeth scraping against skin he longs to bite. He knows that it's wrong, that he shouldn't be confessing his love while restraining himself from claiming them, but he can't help it. Something in his soul demands them.

"Only you." Their fingers tighten in his hair as his thrusts pick up again, that animalistic urge overtaking him. Farkas fucks into his Dragonborn until they're a moaning mess, fairly certain he's already orgasmed but he can't tell. The pounding arousal doesn't relent.

He can't stop. Even when he's coated in sweat and certainly dehydrated Farkas can't stop fucking them. He licks up their spine, cock twitching as he slides back into his Dragonborn. They're still so eager in his hold, so vocal that Farkas can't bear to tear himself away.

His Dragonborn. All his. Farkas doesn't realize he's muttering it into their shoulder, his body folded over theirs as if he can consume them. Is he dreaming? It feels too heavenly to be real, to have the Dragonborn moaning his name and pleading for his touch.

Your head shifts as you follow his gaze up. A fortunate night for there to be no clouds, so you can see it all. And being out in the plains of Whiterun, without a tree or mountain nearby to block your view, the sky stretches beautifully all around you.

"The sky in Apocrypha always remained the same." Miraak's voice is soft but somber. "For so long, it was the only one I knew - the only one I could recall."

Sympathy squeezes at your heart. You press closer to him, your side curled against his own and your head brushing his shoulder. You're lying flat on your backs, barely fitting on the single bedroll you'd situated on a small clearing. Not that you minded a reason to be this close, where you can feel his warmth seeping into you.

A few moons had passed and there is still stark reminders of his time in Apocrypha. He seems to be learning - and relearning - rather well from your travels together, but there are still shadows of his past looming relentlessly. And in the case of restless, anxious nights, much like tonight, you do your best to stay up with him, hoping your companionship will triumph over that of his haunted memories.

"It makes you feel small, does it not?" You ask, reaching a hand out and stretching your fingers. "Puny, like ants on a log."

He huffs. A brief chuckle, but a chuckle all the same. "Indeed."

You start to slowly move your hand, fingers tracing the stars. You squint as you try to visualize the connections between them. The constellations merely twinkle back at you.

"You are anything but puny, Dovahkiin." Miraak announces gently into the silence. "A hero known amongst men and mer. Your power and influence reach beyond this plane."

A weight forms in your belly, a small stone of uneasiness. "I know," you murmur. "But sometimes I welcome feeling small, and feeling ... insignifcant."

Your hand drops, limply lying at your side. Miraak's arm shifts slightly, his hand seeking yours. Rough, warm fingers glide over your own.

"Why?" He questions.

You look at all the stars again. If you had no responsibilities, perhaps you could lie here forever, until you'd counted every star and speckle, until you could recognize every constellation.

"I can envision a life where I am just ... me. Not the Dragonborn, not any other fancy title. Just another simple soul, without any power or destiny to my name." An emotional tendril wraps around your heart but you keep going anyway. "It seems so quiet. So peaceful."

Silence stretches on for a moment. Miraak's fingers still from their lazy strokes along the back of your palm. He tenses ever so slightly against you.

"Do you long for such a life?"

He tries to deliver it as an innocent question and nothing more, but you hear the tension behind his tone. The worry.

You hum. "Sometimes." The pause that follows is brief, but you still feel the weight of his anticipation.

Your hand stretches, twining your fingers with his own. It feels like a perfect fit, and no matter what, it fills you with a sense of comfort and ease.

"But then I realize I would have never crossed paths with you, and I long for this life more."

He breathes a silent sigh of relief at your words, and a smile graces your lips. You lean your head further against his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear.

"Perhaps in this life, we were fated to meet because of your power - our power." He gives your hand a squeeze, the pad of his thumb brushing your own. "But I wish to believe than in any life, in every life, we are fated to meet anyway."

There is a skip in your heart rate, and a warmth blooming in your chest. "You do?"

"Yes." Miraak's voice is so low and soft that were he not right up against you, it might be drowned out by the distant sounds of the plains. But despite its hushed volume, you can make out the sincerity behind his words. Like he is drawing them out from somewhere deep inside him, like his very heart is bringing them to the surface. "I would find my way to you in any plane of existence. Were we mere crop farmers on Skyrim, or grains of sand on the shores of a sea, or stars out in the endless sky. I would find you, and we would be two halves of a whole, much as we are now."

His body shifts, turning a little as he brings his free hand up to your head. He brushes away any hair that had fallen onto your forehead, placing a feather light kiss there instead. "My fate is you. It has always been, it always will be."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you wish to say something back, but you’re unsure how the words will come out past the lump in your throat. Instead you grasp at the shoulder fabric of his robes and lean your head up to find his lips with your own.

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.

Ignoring the truth in his statement, you choose to hold your tongue. He looks devastatingly handsome but you can't think of that now, not when your inner thighs burn so badly you can't put on the slim armored pants. He chuckles, kissing along the lines of your undergarments once more.

"Knock it off." You warn him, ignoring the tingle of arousal. Brynjolf's green eyes glitter in the low light and he stills, clearly awaiting some sort of instruction.

"You're supposed to be helping me."

"Oh, I'm sure I could help you -"

"With ointment." You remind him, jabbing a finger at your injury. Brynjolf's lips ghost over the skin, just enough contact to make you shiver.

"'Course, lass." He murmurs before dipping two fingers into the sticky salve. It has a sharp smell that tickles at your nose but it cools the overheated skin, pain from his contact diminishing quickly.

Brynjolf works two fingers over your inner thighs until the pain dulls to nearly nothing. It's quite relaxing, one leg kicked over his broad shoulder while he works.

"There ya are." He sounds pleased, fanning at your skin to help the ointment dry. "Feel better?"

"Feels fine."

"'Fine'?" Brynjolf huffs out a halfhearted laugh. "Wonder what I can do to make it all better."

"Bryn." The warning in your voice is weak at best. His fingers curl at your hips and draw you closer. Big shoulders angle under your thighs until you're in nearly the same position that caused this.

"Yes, lovey?" He whispers and the huff of his breath over your skin is arousing. Rationally you should laugh it off or shove him away. You should remind him that the still hasn't shaved and you'll likely end up sore once more if he continues. Instead you roll your hips against his lips and watch those pretty green eyes roll back.

Brynjolf doesn't even bother removing your undergarments. His mouth works over the cloth, his saliva and your arousal making them nearly transparent. His tongue traces up your cunt, dragging the fabric in a way that's exciting and not nearly enough.

"Taste so fucking good," he groans into the crevice of your thigh, biting playfully at the skin there. His stubble scratches and burns but his tongue is so fucking distracting. He kisses at the already pink skin, cheeks smeared in ointment he'll be reapplying soon.

Another of those messy kisses against your cunt that's almost enough to feel good. It's frustrating and too arousing to change. Brynjolf's licking over your clit, tongue flat when it drags along your cunt. He's mumbling apologies into your skin, stubble scratching at your thighs but you're too busy chasing the pleasure of his tongue to care.