size is no guarantee of power

Farkas would probably try to apologize. Jaw slack and still blissed out from his orgasm he'd try to get his brain to work again. "Sorry," he pants, head falling against her back. His hips twitch of their own volition. "Feels so, so fucking good." Poor Harbinger who can't even talk. Too shocked by the overwhelming sensation of fullness - his cock, thickening and pulsing to keep every ounce of cum securely inside her. "God, I -" Farkas whines, hips grinding into hers. She can't speak, too lost in how fucking good he feels. Inching toward overstimulation but his kisses on her sweaty back are somewhat grounding. "I love you." Farkas groans, his voice low and cock twitching inside her. The Harbinger can barely string together a response, her head still spinning because his big hand cups her lower stomach. "Fuck, can feel myself." Farkas' laugh devolves into a whimper, her muscles clenching around him. "Sorry baby, does it feel okay?" "Yeah." She answers, face buried in the mattress because he's so fucking big. His cock refuses to soften, body seemingly intent on keeping her full. "You feel okay, Farkas?" "Yeah." He grins, purposefully shifting his hips just to feel how tight she still is around him. "Wanna do it again?" "What?" "We're already here." Farkas grinds his hips into hers, relieved to feel the knot starting to relent. "Might as well, right?"

He looks haunted. Dark eyes catch on your attire as always, those sharp teeth biting his lip as if he must physically hold back whatever he wants to say. Vilkas stares up at you, the weight of too many emotions in his watery eyes.

"I'm sorry." His reliable opening line even before the divorce. When he'd come home late or cancel your dates to attend to work. When he missed family events and forgot anniversaries. Vilkas is eternally sorry.

You lean into the door, arms crossed as if you aren't terribly excited to see him. Shouldn't you be disgusted? You divorced this man nearly four years ago. He moved out but it seems neither of you really moved on.

"Why are you here?"

The same script. This little game you both play, a dance you perform for no audience but each other. Like you have to preface this interaction to remove whatever guilt it could summon. Vilkas' mouth opens but no words come out, the usual excuses apparently not good enough this time.

Vilkas can't lie anymore. He knows you see right through him but his brain's too fucked to come up with an excuse. He wants to see you, he's sick and lonely and would've crawled here if the expensive taxi hadn't picked him up in time. His coat's falling off but he can't fix it, stumbling closer to you.

"Please." It's the only word he can summon despite not really knowing what he's asking for. Please forgive him? Please let him in? Please pull the answers out of him that he can't bear to voice himself?

For some reason you nod at him. Vilkas can never fathom why you put up with him. The first time he showed up here he expected you to slam the door in his face. He wanted to be ignored praying that it would finally give him enough closure to move on with his life.

But you answered. You opened the door, eyes wide and wearing clothes he'd been missing. He'd floundered for something, anything to say to you, and landed on a favored apology. You'd listened to him instead of shutting him out and he'd become addicted to your presence once more.

He knows this house like the back of his hand. For the first time in nearly five years Vilkas knows exactly what he's doing. You taste like the toothpaste he still buys because it makes him think of you. Vilkas' heart breaks a bit more because you kiss him just as you always have, like you never stopped loving him.

"Sorry I taste like booze," he mumbles into your mouth, mindlessly hanging his jacket on the coatrack he'd owned since college.

"It's okay." Your words feel more weighted. Vilkas can almost fool himself into thinking there's a deeper meaning. He toes his boots into the shoe rack you'd instructed him to use too many times.

Nothing exists but you. You, who he planned his entire life around. The center of his universe. The reason he graduated and got a job and made it through so many shitty years. Your hands in his hair and his hips pinning yours to the same wall he'd patched after Farkas' game controller slipped out of his hand.

Vilkas really tries not to cry in front of you. He lets you believe that this is just a hookup, a late night lapse in judgment. It's far easier than explaining that these half drunken visits are the only thing holding him together. His kisses grow firmer, clearing his throat and wishing these awful fucking tears would go away.

Every fucking day he's barely making it through - terrible sleep in an unfamiliar apartment, meaningless work and drinks with annoying friends. That hole in his chest growing bigger and more ragged with every day until he gives in and crawls home to you.

Vilkas would happily die here, his face shoved in your shoulder and wrapped in your embrace. It takes too long to recognize the awful sounds as coming from him, sobs coming from too deep within him. Your lips on a cheek he's neglected shaving and the calming sound of your voice break through the haze of his mind.

"It's okay." You tell your ex husband, body firmly pressed to his. It's never been like this - your tears only come after he's gone. Uncertainty leaves you shaky in his grasp but Vilkas clutches you to his chest like a lifeline.

"It's not fucking okay." Vilkas' voice cracks, his chest heaving against yours. "You, you're, I can't -" his voice breaks off and there's a momentary flare of anger. He can never just talk.

Pulling Vilkas down the hall is easy. He stumbles after you, calloused fingers around your wrist as if he could possibly lose you. He doesn't argue when you drag the sweaty shirt off his body or toss his stained jeans into the hamper. Your heart is in your throat because this shouldn't feel right - it shouldn't feel so good to have your ex husband collapsing into a bed he's been vacant from for years.

Your eyes burn when you wipe at his tears. Vilkas stares up at you, barely visible through the darkness but you've always felt his stare. The sheer intensity in the way he looked at you has never wavered.

"Can you tell me what's going on in your head?" You whisper, shivering at his warm hand sliding over your stomach. Vilkas curls close to you and the vulnerability of this moment undoes years of work detaching yourself from him.

"It's bad."

There's a beat of silence. What the fuck do you say to that? Vilkas' arm wraps around you, drawing you closer. He smells of cheap alcohol and cologne you've bought dozens of times. His fingers catch between yours, almost like he's holding your hand again.

"What do you want?"

Putting that question out there is terrifying. Your heart races as you await an answer that seems to take an eternity. You try to stare up at Vilkas through the darkness but the curtains are drawn, you can't gather any clues from his expression.

"What do you want?"

He always fucking does this. He gives and he gives until he's absolutely hollowed himself out. Doing what you want, what Farkas wants, caring for everyone but himself until he collapses and you have to clean up the mess. You jerk upward, old rage and new anticipation mingling into a single mess inside you.

"No." You jab at his muscled chest, thrilled to feel his hand seeking yours across the mattress. "Tell me what you want, Vilkas. Not what you think I want to hear or what the 'right' answer is."

"I want." He pauses and you fall silent, in awe of this. You'd given him the exact speech years ago but he'd fallen silent, content to let the marriage fall apart in fear of upsetting you. You can practically hear the gears in his brain grinding together.

"I want to wake up in this bed." God, the exhaustion in his voice undoes all of your anger. Vilkas' hand rests atop your thigh, his fingers chilly. They always are when he gets this nervous.

"I want to shower here. And use your soap." He's done this after hookups before, you shouldn't get your hopes up - but the hammering of your heart refuses to quell.

"I want to make you coffee. I want to drive you to work and call you on my breaks." A habit he'd picked up during your shitty post college jobs after too many days apart to afford rent. "I want my life back."

What the fuck did he just do? Vilkas lets the silence fall over the two of you once more and wishes he could disappear. He'd said too much. You're worryingly still and he wonders if you're going to kick him out. He readies himself when you shift - are you going to shove him?

Your cheeks are hot and wet under his palms but your kiss makes everything feel safe. You're grasping at his bare chest, shaky hands on his skin but you're crawling closer to him. Vilkas tugs at his own sweatshirt around you, hope blossoming in that jumbled mess of his chest.

"You want to come home?" Your words are too good to be true. Vilkas nods before he processes your words or what they mean - of course he wants to come home. All he's ever wanted is to be near you.

Farkas cannot remember the last time he took something this seriously. Exams were a breeze after a few study sessions with his grumpy brother and work is more monotonous than difficult. Friends are fairly easy to keep and bosses are impossible not to impress but this moment has his brow sweating. Farkas swipes at his face, eyes narrowing in because he cannot fuck this up. It's his one shot to do something important, all eyes in the room are on him just waiting to see how badly he'll do.

"C'mon man. Just do something."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Farkas mutters, shoving at his brother. He needs to focus. His hands quiver, drink entirely forgotten at his side. Farkas holds his breath, heart racing in his chest - this is his moment.

With a sickening crash the Jenga tower explodes, one piece still clutched between clammy fingers. Athis and Ria are cheering but it sounds far away - he's failed. Vilkas laughs and claps him on the shoulder but Farkas is already slumped dramatically over in his chair in defeat.

"Oh no, did he lose?" His eyes snap back open at the sweet sound of your voice. He hadn't heard you enter the bar but here you are, grinning down at him in that way that makes his stomach twist.

"No. It was strategic -"

"He lost. Badly." Vilkas adds, instantly making Farkas regret getting his brother out of his shell. He wants to turn and smack him but you're laughing and it does something funny to his heart.

"Scoot." You instruct, already squishing into his seat. There's plenty of empty chairs but he loves when you do this, squirming into the old armchair until you fit right against his side. Farkas lets his arm drop around your shoulders and it feels so natural, his chest fluttering when you take a drink of his beer.

"You could order your own." He teases, deeply enjoying the way your nose wrinkles up at him.

"I can never finish one by myself." It's the same answer you've always given him. He’s not complaining.

This is comfortable. He isn't sure what to call it but it's been this way for years, the casual touching and something that’s dangerously close to flirting. Your legs resting over his or grabbing his hands when it gets too cold out. Farkas falling asleep on your shoulder and leaving behind his sweatshirts because he knows you sleep better in them.

It isn't a relationship. You're friends, just friends in a different way than he is with any of the others. Friends that always end up kissing after two beers and disapprove of any potential partner the other has ever brought up. Friends that have moved beyond any teasing from the others because they've grown used to this closeness.

"Sorry you lost, big boy." Farkas feels your warm hand patting his cheek in faux comfort and the loss feels a bit less devastating.

"S'alright." He mutters, enjoying your touch more than he should. Farkas watches you relax against him and take another sip from his drink before joining in on whatever conversation the others are having without missing a beat. The smell of your shampoo is stuck in his nose and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

This is his favorite place. His arm’s gone numb but you’re absently playing with his fingers, practically in his lap because you refuse to get your own chair. He isn’t sure what conversation’s going on around him but everything feels perfect. 

There’s that old tug in his chest, the one that always finds him when he looks at you for too long. Something desperate and sad that wants so badly to be more to you than your silly friend. Farkas has spent years beating that urge into submission but he’s a little drunk and you're so close to him.  

He wants the one thing he knows he can’t have and it makes him sick. Farkas combs through your hair, laughing along to Aela’s work anecdote and chokes down how badly he wants to be more for you. He wants to be your partner, to ask you on dates instead of orchestrating these group gatherings just to ensure he has a reason to be around you. To climb into your bed without some bad excuse about being too drunk to drive home. Farkas has known for a long time that he’s not the right guy. He’s the guy people want for a party or a night out, never a partner. But that doesn’t stop his old yearning to belong with you. 

"What're you doin'?" Farkas grumbles, voice thick with sleep. The stars are out and your alarm's a few hours off but there's a nervous sheen of sweat over your back and panic flooding your veins. Your hands are numb where they’re squeezed against your chest and every shadow in the room feels more and more like a threat.

What the fuck were you dreaming about? You can't remember but you can't catch your breath. Something inside of you is spiraling and your breaths are getting shallow, anxiety stealing your breath and making your ribs fucking ache.

"I'm here." One thick arm drags you into the warmth of his body. Farkas' lips breeze over your shoulder where he nuzzles into your throat. His body wraps closer until you're enveloped in his hold, one thumb tracing calming circles that cut through the fear.

"Nightmare?" You're nodding, counting each breath you take to ensure they're even. Kisses are left along the nape of your neck and it's such a stark reminder - you have to be safe because Farkas is here. He'd never let anything terrible happen.

"Yeah." you mumble, grabbing for his hand. You feel his smile against your skin when his fingers twist into yours. "Sorry I woke you up."

"Nah, don't be sorry." He's yawning, already half asleep again. His muscles flex and that panicky feeling in you settles a bit. "You want some space?"

"No." Space is the last thing you want. You want to be smothered in him, to smell the way your expensive body wash lingers on his skin and feel the comfortable weight of his muscles crushing you close enough that you swear your hearts are syncing up. You want to share every breath because something about Farkas makes all the scary parts of life feel easy.

Sleeping with him is natural, you'll never understand why more people don't do this with their best friends. The rhythm of his heart and the warmth of his skin is far better than being alone. Waking up with his fingers still twisted in yours and half the blanket ripped away from you. Who needs a boyfriend when you have a friend like Farkas?

Sleepless hours pass and with it your anxiety quells. Soft snores puff against your shoulder but there's something new building. The swell of his muscles around you and the hips pressed to your ass grow to be too much to bear. Arousal simmers deep in your gut, the beat of your heart growing louder with each minute.

"You're wiggly." Fuck, his voice is so deep where he speaks against your throat. "'Nightmares again?"

"No." It’s thin and breathy because he's just so fucking close. His knees tucked behind yours and you can feel every breath he takes. He stretches, hand catching on your shirt and it takes every ounce of strength not to lean into his touch.

"What's goin on? You need somethin'?"

You should just go to sleep. Rationally you know that it's the smartest choice, you shouldn't tell him what you need. Arousal overflows through your body when he kisses your shoulder blade once more. Such an innocuous affectionate act that is your undoing.

"Can we," you pause, suddenly so nervous. You've kissed this man more times than you can count and it's gotten heated quite a few times but something within you doesn't want him to stop.

"Can we what?" He's more coherent now, clearly waking up a bit.

"Farkas." You huff out his name and wish he could just understand. "I want you, I want to,"

Suddenly the kisses over your back aren't sweet. Farkas' tongue trails up your spine and a filthy moan slips from between your lips. Sharp teeth press to your throat just enough to make you lightheaded and his pelvis shifts toward yours.

"This what you want?" He murmurs, rolling his hips against yours. It's almost too much all at once but you're nodding, grabbing at his hand.

"Yes, please." You gulp, blood heating from his satisfied hum against your skin. "Do you want -"

"Yes." It's sharp and to the point. No humor is in his voice when Farkas returns to kissing down the most sensitive spots on your throat.

"Farkas," you're panting his name but you can't get enough of him. Strong arms flex around you, drawing you into his warm chest. His breath tickles your throat and his hips grind into yours, cock straining through his sweats where it rests against your ass. He's mumbling your name and one large hand slides so easily up your front, flattening your back to his chest like he can't bear for an inch of space to exist between you.

Everything feels so easy with him. Maybe that's why you're such good friends. Farkas’ lips press sloppy kisses over every inch of skin he can reach and his free hand thumbs your sweats out of the way. The rumble in his chest makes you feel lightheaded and his fingers are tickling your inner thighs.

"You sure 'bout this?" He mumbles, pausing his movements.

"I'm sure if you are." He raises a hand in front of your face while you answer, offering you two fingers. That smirk is evident in his voice when he speaks.

"These'll need to be wet, then."

Fuck, even his fingers feel divine. Rubbing just enough on your tongue to make you wonder what his cock would be like. Shamelessly you drool on his fingers, moaning at the sensation of your best friend rubbing his erection against your ass. He barely makes a sound when he pops his fingers from your mouth but you feel his breath hitch.

He feels too fucking good. Both the fingers stretching you so carefully and the calculated swirls over your clit have you barreling toward an orgasm far faster than you want. You grab at his arm, desperate for him to pick up his pace or fuck you harder. You just want more.

"Ready?" His voice has never been so rough. You nod, face hot and neck slick from his messy kisses as Farkas draws his fingers out of you. There's a few seconds where you hear nothing, just the shifting of his body and the incessant racing of your heart before you feel him.

Thick and hard his cock slots between your thighs. Farkas whines your name when he thrusts a few times, coating himself in the slick mixture of fluids between your legs. His thumb traces leisurely little circles over your clit that make you feel high. With a whimper his cock presses into you and you suddenly understand the need for preparation.

Farkas is thick, stretching you just enough to break through whatever self restraint you had left. With only a few thrusts you're falling apart in his hold, orgasming the first time his full cock stills in you. Sweat gathers down your back and Farkas' little laugh is interrupted by a whine of your name.

"Feel so fucking good." He mutters, slow thrust already enough to make your eyes roll back. "Knew you would."

It feels too good. His arm raises under your head, muscles flexing around your throat just enough to make you dizzy. If you had a bit of sense left you'd be embarrassed by the litany of sounds you're making but there's nothing, no words exist in your brain other than his name. Farkas' movements are slow and controlled, his cock angled so perfectly to make you see stars over and over until you're limp in his hold.

"This what you wanted, baby? Wanted me to fuck you back to sleep?" He grunts in that filthy voice that drives you wild. You're nodding, slapping at his arm because you're sick of this sweet treatment. You want him to choke you tighter, to fuck you harder, to make you forget anything and everything that isn't him.

"You look nice." It's an understatement - you are devastating. Farkas can hardly look at you without getting choked up. He knows that the bride and groom are the center of attention but you are all that exists to him. When you smile up at him his heart breaks a little more.

He’d been hesitant about attending this wedding - he barely knows Athis’ family. After hearing you agree his mind was made up, following you like the loyal puppy he is.

"Thanks." Your voice is smaller than he's heard in a while. "You too."

"Wanna dance?" You ponder his question for a beat, staring out at the sea of people you barely know. Farkas wonders if he's somehow pushed the unspoken boundary too far. His palms are sweaty but your hand is in his before he can say another word.

The music is slow and melodic when you join the hoard of couples. Farkas' face heats at the thought of people thinking he's your boyfriend, a broken kind of excitement that leaves him jittery. He wants to be that guy. Your arms are around his neck and your body sways with his while something inside Farkas claws for acknowledgement.

He holds your waist and wishes that he could give you everything. Your eyes are shimmering under the strings of lights and for a moment Farkas despises everything that he is. He wishes to be someone who can give you everything you deserve - a man who can be serious, who doesn't make jokes out of everything. Someone who knows what to say when you need help and impresses your family when you take him home to meet the parents. More than the friend who fucks you silly but can’t bear to say how badly he wants you.

"You alright?" You ask, fingers nervously fussing with the lapel of his coat. It's a bit hard to breathe with you gazing up at him but Farkas nods.

"Yeah," he lies past the lump in his throat. If this is the closest he'll ever get to being yours he has to savor it. He's not good enough for you - Farkas knows that he's the friend you go to for comfort or a quick laugh but he isn't boyfriend material. Time and time again that's been proven to him.

He's fun for a night or a weekend, good for a quick romp or flirting at the bar but no one ever looks at him like he's worth staying for. He's funny and outgoing but no one has ever looked to him for anything serious. Why would they? Farkas knows there’s nothing in him that’s worth anything.

Your head rests against his chest and Farkas wonders why you've stuck around for so long. Surely you've already gotten bored of him. Tears sting at his eyes when he brushes a selfish kiss to the crown of your head. This moment will be over soon but for the next few minutes he can pretend to be a man that deserves you.

The dance ends but you don't leave him. Your arms are steadfast around his neck. Song after song you remain with Farkas on the dance floor. He can't fathom why you're still here with him but he loses himself in your touch, twirling with you until his stomach turns.

"We should sit," you laugh, gripping his arm to remain steady. Farkas almost can't stand how you look at him, the way it almost feels like he matters. The garden is empty when you wander in and somewhere deep in his mind Farkas knows he should call it a night.

"I liked tonight." You comment, taking a seat on an old bench. Farkas sits next to you but can't seem to summon any words, choosing instead to follow your lead and look up to the stars.

"Yeah, good wedding." His hand inches impossibly closer to yours and he feels like a lovesick kid. Your pinkie finger just barely links with his and Farkas' heart leaps into his throat. It feels terribly romantic but he doesn’t pull away, staying in this moment with you. 

"I liked being with you tonight." You clarify, shoulder knocking into his. He can't speak, too stunned to digest that information.

You liked being with him - do you mean what he thinks you mean? Your head rests on his shoulder and you continue staring up at the starry sky but no words could convey how he's feeling. His mouth flops uselessly and Farkas knows that he's left you hanging but there are simply no words that could accurately depict the depth of what he's feeling.

He'll never be the guy who says the right words. Farkas is glad that you can't see his face when he presses a kiss to your head once more. He’s adored being by your side all night, listening to someone’s grandma call you a ‘beautiful couple’ and the smear of your lipstick on his expensive shirt. He can only pray that you know how deeply your words have affected him.

God, it fucking hurts. You’re a fool for getting your hopes up but somewhere deep down you assumed that maybe he felt the same way, that Farkas had some sort of feelings for you.

The dress you'd liked so much lies crumpled in the corner of your room. Your face stings a bit after wiping off the makeup and the ends of your hair still curl a bit. You'd spent so much time preparing for this night, building up some semblance of courage to start that conversation with you. You'd planned for seemingly every possibility - Farkas making a joke or getting flustered or needing more time to think. None of your plans included his silence.

"He doesn't feel the same way." You tell your reflection, willing the tears to just fucking go away. "He doesn't feel the same way and I'm okay with that."

You have to be okay with that. You feel foolish for letting it get to you this badly. Farkas had never made you any promises but sometimes the way he looked at you made you think that he felt the same. The times he clutched you close or grabbed your hand when a man approached you at the bar it felt like it could be something.

"This is done." You're sniffling but continue staring at yourself in the mirror. "I'm an adult. I'm not going to feel like this anymore."

You expect the big changes to be the hardest, adjusting the way you interact and speak with him after you've been this way for years. But it's the little things that eat away at you - waking up alone in your bed and not responding to any of his texts. Getting ready for work without him hogging the mirror.

With your own drink in hand you take a seat near Vilkas. You're fairly certain he's glaring at you but it's the farthest you can get from Farkas and the last thing you want is to make a scene. Soft brown eyes track every step you take but you can't look at him. Your resolve will break. Instead you look toward Vilkas, surprised to see him on his own.

"You're here again?" You tease, taking a sip from a drink you know you won't finish. Vilkas' nose wrinkles like he's going to growl at you but he sighs instead.

"Better than home alone." He mutters, kicking one booted foot onto the table. "Why're you over here bugging me?"

"I think," your voice is pitched low. You don't want the rest of the group overhearing. "I think maybe Farkas and I are going to just be friends."

"Explains why he looks like a kicked puppy." Vilkas' sharp eyes shoot to his brother and you can't help but follow. Farkas is leaning out of his seat, so obviously watching you two.

"That what you want?"

"I guess it's what he wants." 

"What the fuck are you doing?" His keys are crashing against the counter and the front door slams in on its hinges. Vilkas glares up from his couch but makes no comment. It only fuels the unfamiliar rage flaring in Farkas' chest.

He can't stop seeing it. No matter how hard he tries he can't keep his brain from recalling that moment. You completely ignoring him, sitting next to his brother, heads bent low and whispering. Both of you staring over at him but he couldn't hear a word. A bitter bolt of jealousy twists through him and every nerve feels raw and exposed.

"What are you thinking?" Each word drips with venom. Farkas doesn't falter when Vilkas stares up at him with that withering glare. The anger feels much better than the cold emptiness he's been left in since the wedding.

"Is there something going on between you two?" It feels awful to say it but the memory won't fucking go away. Farkas watches his brother shoot upward, stalking around the coffee table until they're face to face.

He hopes Vilkas hits him. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him. His brother's temper has cooled lately but Farkas knows what buttons to push. The rage and confusion and flat-out pain has nowhere to go. He needs to bleed it out, to flush it out of his system.

"You have to be fucking kidding." That cool, flat tone again cuts through whatever's been building in his head. "After all the shit I took about getting a girlfriend you don't say that shit to me."

"You two looked awfully cozy." What the hell is he saying? His brother would never do that. Farkas is shaking and his heart's beating too fast. Everything feels like it's spiraling out of his control and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"Don't make it my problem that you can't man up and ask her out."

It's a knife to the heart. Farkas stumbles back a step and holy shit, is he crying? The world blurs around him but Vilkas' hand is on his shoulder. His grip is a little too tight as always but he's dragging Farkas onto the couch, his limbs like jelly.

"What did she say to you?" Farkas gasps, grabbing blindly for his brother's arm. Vilkas sighs and grumbles something about emotional bullshit but thankfully he doesn't disappear. Farkas' stomach is in knots, has been ever since last night when he saw you two whispering about something.

"She said you're just gonna be friends. No more of that touchy shit."

His ears are ringing. Have they always done that? Farkas swears that something deep inside him breaks or dies as it dawns on him how badly he’s fucked everything up. You’re done with him.

"Did she say why?"

"No." It's short and harsh. Farkas isn't sure what he wanted to hear, if a reason would ease the pain any. "Want me to take a guess?"

"Can't hurt."

"She probably got sick of waitin' on you to make up your mind." Of all people, Farkas cannot believe that Vilkas is saying this. Vilkas who decided at least ten times to stay away from his girlfriend before he finally admitted he loved her. Who sat on this very couch and moaned about what an awful man he is and how all he does is ruin people.

"I think she tried to tell me something." It's too hard to say. "The night we went to that wedding for Athis' sibling." Why is it getting so hard to breathe? Farkas thinks back on that night in the garden, your head on his shoulder in what he thought was a peaceful quiet.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing." He fucked it all up. Farkas let you slip through his fingers and there's a terrible sense of finality hanging over his head. He fucked up everything and you're already gone.

It's just some party. A shaky breath does little to settle you when you shoulder open the door, holding it for a few people. You just need a few more minutes to gather yourself. The rest of your friends are in there celebrating some work event and you can’t spend another night rotting on your couch.

You can do this. You can talk to him like a normal person. Farkas is your friend, he has been for so many years. It will be good to go back to normal, to just be friends without all the touching and kissing. The healthy thing to do.

Something in your chest falters when you spot him. Farkas leans close to some girl, giving her that smile that sends butterflies through your stomach. It's difficult to reign in the blast of emotions hitting you like a truck. You told yourself to only be friends. He doesn't belong to you. The cool grip of jealousy steals any hint of your excitement when her hand raises to his bicep and you watch him flex under her touch.

The arms that held you together when the world felt too cruel to keep going are flexing under some other woman's impressed hold. You catch a hint of Farkas' laugh but everything feels hollow, empty. Someone bumps into you but you can't move, can't seem to tear yourself away from the sight shattering your heart.

You're his friend. That's it. You're gulping back the wave of tears when you finally get the energy to turn away from him. You already made that decision weeks ago but seeing this makes it seem final, like he's closing the door you've left cracked. There’s a flash of pointed teeth in that flirty smile and you can’t fight back the memories of how they felt on your skin.

"Hey!" Someone greets but you can't seem to focus on them. Your body feels too shaky and can't hold the tears off for much longer. Swiping wildly at your face you bolt for the doors you just entered, regret burning in your chest.

Home is good. Home is safe. Home is far, far away from Farkas and whatever he's doing tonight. The tears spilling down your face aren't enough, the twist of rage has grown too large to be sated by one good cry. You wish you could claw it out of your chest, to rid yourself of every horrible emotion he's left you with.

Any knowledge that you've already decided to stop loving him does little to comfort you. When you're choking on ugly sobs and clutching a pillow to your chest because it feels like you're on the brink of falling apart, rationality feels like a forgotten concept. It won't stop hurting.

Your throat is ruined and your cheeks burn. You aren't sure how many hours have passed but it doesn't stop. The tears refuse to cease even when the raw skin of your skin protests. In the aftermath of your anger there's an unsettling emptiness that you sit with, staring blankly at the mess you've made of your home.

Never in your life has a guy made you feel this way, so confused and intense. It's hard not to think of the nights Farkas has spent curling up to you in bed and that way he looked at you in the mornings. It hurts so fucking good to think about him, to recall the way he seemed to crave your touch and the late nights laughing about nothing.

Heaving out a sigh you attempt to gather yourself. Farkas is your friend and clearly nothing more. Your conviction wavers but you tell yourself that it has to be over this time. Cleaning up the mess you've made you swear that you will get over whatever this is.

"Wow," the girl sighs, one hand on his arm. "You're really strong."

"Thanks," Farkas laughs and swallows the urge to leave. He has to get over you even if it takes stomaching the touch of this stranger. Vilkas is right, Farkas waited too long to make a decision. Losing you is solely his fault.

Her touch feels wrong. Nails a bit too long where she grips him. His stomach turns when takes a daring step closer. There's nothing wrong with this woman. It’s not her fault that she’s not you. Her smile doesn't have any dimples and her eyes meet his with passing interest, none of that electricity you've always sent through him.

Farkas tries his best. He's never had trouble maintaining conversation but this is a struggle. He can't seem to absorb anything she's saying - too busy glancing at the door, both praying and fearing that you'll walk in. For the thousandth time his fingers flex around his phone and he wishes he could just call you. The spare key to your apartment is still on his keyring but something in him knows that he's not welcome.

A firm grip on his collar is the only warning he gets. Vilkas hauls him to his feet and Farkas stammers out some halfassed apology for the bewildered woman staring after them. He doesn't struggle, what's the point? He's earned another verbal lashing and his brother's the best person to offer it.

"What now?"

"You're not acting like yourself." Vilkas grumbles, shoving him down a less populated hall. "You're acting like me. Knock it off."

"Do you have a monopoly on emotional issues?" Farkas snorts and shoves aside the hand still on him. "Mind your business."

"Get your shit together, man." Has the world turned upside down? Farkas has always been the sane, grounded one that keeps his brother from biting people's heads off. Somehow he's ended up on the receiving end of a lecture. Everything is wrong.

"I don't know what to do." Farkas admits, scrunching his face against the threat of tears. "I - I'm her friend but I've never been a boyfriend before. I'll fuck things up with her. I don't know the right things to say or do -"

"So being alone is better?" Vilkas' laugh cuts to the bone. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing and I haven't been dumped yet."

"It's different." Farkas can't put it into words. The immediate, intense attraction he watched with Vilkas and his girlfriend isn't the same as what you have. His feelings for you were slow, they grew over the years into something comfortable but never spoken of. It's never been a whirlwind romance, just the slow creep of love that he never fully acknowledged. 

"Is it better to lose her?"

No. He can't lose you. Farkas isn't himself without you. The reason he laughs and plans all these silly get-togethers. You, who can take away all his stupid little worries and let him snuggle up in your bed. He can't lose the only person who really knows him.

"I already fucked it up pretty bad, huh." He gulps, astonished by how messy everything has become. "You think it's fixable?"

"Probably." Vilkas shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with this level of emotional intimacy. "You should go try instead of moping around with me."

Seated on your couch you stare numbly at the screen. Some TV show is playing but you can't really see it, your eyes still bleary from crying. Dinner cools on the table but your stomach's too uneasy for a single bite.

Farkas isn't your boyfriend. You aren't even sure he's your friend anymore. He's just a man you think you've been in love with for a long time but made it clear he isn't interested in a relationship. He's the friend you've kissed more than some boyfriends and the only person you've truly trusted - and he's become a stranger.

Thinking of him feels like poking at an old wound, painful and irresistible. You wonder what he's doing at the party. Is he still flirting with that girl or has he moved on to someone else? Nauseated at the thought you just can't stop from speculating if he took someone home, if he's moaning someone else's name.

A crash from the porch hardly draws your attention. You turn slowly, too tired to do much of anything. The front door flies open and Farkas bursts into your apartment, face bright red and sucking in deep breaths. His eyes instantly find yours and that same old thrill runs through you before you can stomp it out.

"There you are." He sighs, tugging the neck of his shirt. He's across the room in only a few short strides and Farkas falls to his knees before you. You're still stunned by his entrance, curled up on your couch like you're terrified of his touch.

"Where else would I be?" Your voice sounds stiff. It has to. You don't know why he's come to you or why he's in such a state but you can't ask, there's no energy left to be vulnerable for him.

"I'm in love with you." He blurts out the words that turn your world upside down. "I'm sorry I'm such a fuckup who couldn't make up his mind and made you feel like this but I'm in love with you and I think at one point you loved me too."

God, you did. You do. With tears in his eyes Farkas' hands hover above your legs, afraid to touch you. Your heart breaks all over again when his lower lip wobbles around a whisper of your name.

"Do you think you could love me again?" Farkas sniffles, red rimmed eyes gazing up at you. You deliberate for a moment - you could turn him away. He's put you through so much yet that old tug at your heart stops you.

"I never asked you for anything." You try to remain cold, to not give him too much. "I never asked you for a big commitment or to be the perfect partner."

"I know."

"You decided all that shit on your own." Your voice cracks and Farkas nearly crawls into your lap. His big hands covering your thighs feels so good, the warmth of his skin a comfort you didn't realize you'd missed so terribly.

"You never asked what I wanted, you just chose for me and took that choice away when you decided you weren't good enough."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Fat tears spill down his cheeks and you can't stop yourself from cupping his face. "What do you want? I'll give you anything, I swear."

"I just want to be with you." You laugh, tears burning down your raw face. "I want everything to stay the way it used to be, to have sleepovers and share everything."

"Yes, I want -"

"But I want it to be official." You try to sound stern. "No more guessing or jealousy, I want to be a couple for real." He's already nodding, messy kisses pressed to your palm. "What do you want though, Farkas? Do you want to be friends again?"

"I think I want to marry you." He mumbles, eyes falling closed as you comb through the mess of his hair. "I want to be your boyfriend or your husband or whatever you'll let me be.” 

It almost hurts to hear after all you’ve been through. To get everything you want but only after your heart’s been beaten and broken for weeks. Those wide brown eyes turn up to you, brimming with tears but he doesn’t turn away. There’s no joke to lighten the mood or break the tension, just the man you love looking at you like the fate of his world is in your hands. 

“I love you.” It’s odd to say aloud after years of ignoring it. It makes your voice break again and there’s fat tears spilling down those cheeks you’ve kissed so many times. “I love you, Farkas.” 

Vilkas is going to be sick. His brother’s always been affectionate but this is a whole new level. Draped around your shoulders, voice sickly sweet when he professes his love to you as if this shitty dive bar is a romantic getaway. 

“Thanks for getting his head on straight.” He wants to scoff and ignore your words but being in love has made him soft. 

“If I knew how annoying it would be, I wouldn’t have done it.” He lies, turning away from the sight of his brother kissing your cheek. “I regret saying anything.” 

“Don’t talk to my wife like that!” Farkas gasps in mock anger. 

“She’s not your wife, idiot. You’ve been dating for what, two weeks?”  

“We’ve basically been dating for years so that counts.” 

“No,” Aela interjects, wagging a finger at a clearly annoyed Farkas. “You told us all those years that there was nothing going on between you so it doesn’t count.” 

A rhythm has long existed in your days, a reliable current that carries you through life's monotony. Wake up, walk the dog, coffee, work, dinner, sleep. Little details will change and habits come and go with the seasons but underneath it all these basics have always existed. Life marches on, work never ceases, the dog always needs walking. It's not exciting but it's reliable, comfortable.

Meeting him turns everything upside down. A friend from work had invited you to a gathering - 'less of a party, more than a hangout' is exactly how Farkas described it. You still aren't sure what to expect when you show up at the bar and he's so eagerly dragging you into a gaggle of people already a few drinks deep.

"Aela, Skjor, Athis -" he lists them all as if you don't work in the same building. You may not know them well but you've passed in the hallway enough times to put names to faces. It's sweet how insistent Farkas is to befriend you even if it's a little odd. He reminds you of a puppy bounding around the office, smiling and inviting you to whatever event he's attending that evening. Concerts, trivia nights, movie marathons, and finally he's worn down your self imposed isolation.

This evening is surprisingly easy to get through. The drinks are good and conversation flows naturally, inside jokes are explained and once the initial hesitation wears off it feels good. It feels good to be surrounded by people you hesitantly consider calling your friends after only a few hours together. Aela's got her arm thrown behind you on the couch when Farkas twists, that bright grin on his face.

"Oh, finally!" He heaves out an over the top sigh, beckoning toward the table. "Forgive Vilkas, he loves a dramatic entrance."

For one moment, everything fades into the background. Dark eyes sweep over the group and halt when they reach you, an expression on his face that's less than a smile and more of a snarl. His thick brows pull together when he falls into a seat beside Farkas. It's painfully obvious that the two are brothers but this man, Vilkas - just one look at him makes your chest tight. His black shirt does little to mask the expanse of muscles underneath, a tattoo that looks suspiciously like a pair of wolves taking up one impressive arm.

It takes a while for conversation to continue but thankfully, it does. Vilkas' arrival is only a hiccup in the evening. It's difficult to melt into the background again, to simply enjoy their conversation because your attention is too focused on him. It's like you can feel the weight of his stare on you, never blinking away even when your eyes meet. The intensity should be intimidating, he’s practically glaring at you from across the booth but all you can think of is how pretty he is.

When the group splinters off you consider drifting beside Farkas, letting him be your shield against the loneliness but Vilkas is still here. It's like an itch you can't scratch, an incessant pull to speak to him. He'd hardly said a word all evening, only to chastise his brother for whatever dirty joke he'd made, but you want to hear more of his voice. 

Sharp and quick his eyes catch the way you take the empty seat next to him. He doesn't look offended, closer to confused. You wonder if there's an unspoken rule that people don't approach him. Vilkas' head tilts back and selfishly you admire the column of his throat, tracing down his body in search of more of the tattoos Farkas had offhandedly mentioned earlier.

"You're new." He comments, voice flat.

"Farkas has been trying to get me to come out for ages," you peel at the label of your drink, failing to ease your nerves. "Guess he’s decided I'm his charity case."

"Nah, that's me."

The lights are a dreamy yellow and the music has quieted to a pleasant lull in the background. Vilkas' gaze never softens, not even when you shamelessly watch the way his perfectly pink lips form your name. His hand is so warm where it rests on your thigh, every little squeeze of his fingers sending your heart into overdrive.

Talking to him is dangerously easy. It feels so natural, like you were destined to understand one another. The rest of the group has dispersed to their own booths or into cabs home but Vilkas is here listening to you like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Chairs scoot closer and knees knock together but there's this urge in you to get closer to him. His eyes drop so obviously toward your mouth, one hand wavering in the sliver of air between you.

"Would it be okay if I kissed you?" His words hang for just a moment, a dusting of pink over his cheeks that makes him look so sweet. Your throat is dry and you're probably nodding a bit too eagerly.

He tastes like beer and his blunt fingernails in your hair send shivers up your spine. You feel a hint of sharp teeth and arousal steals any hint of rational thought, grabbing at the front of his shirt for more. His heart races in that muscled chest, your greedy hands sliding up his front eliciting a sound in his throat that drives you mad. Vilkas' lips hover near yours even when he stumbles away, every breath labored.

"Sorry -" he mumbles when your face flushes bright. You've caused quite the scene but you don't want him to move away, not yet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"No -" he's gone before you can squeak out another word. Your hand still lingers where it had cupped his face only moments before. He's wrenching his coat off the rack before swiftly departing, the only signs of his presence a shrill ring from the door's bell and the tingling of your lips.

What the hell happened? Farkas looks at you with obvious concern but he’s caught up in some conversation with Njada. It’s the perfect time to scoot out the door, cool air doing little to calm the fire raging under your skin. You still aren’t certain what caused him to leave so abruptly - had you moved too quickly? He was the one who asked to kiss you but the squirming in your stomach makes you fear that something went wrong. 

Life moves on. You wake up the next morning, head throbbing and face unwashed. You find your eyes wandering to strangers with a hint of interest when you're walking the dog as if Vilkas will simply appear in your life once more. Your heart races at work when Farkas approaches your desk, throwing himself into the spare seat as if it belongs to him.

Please don't ask about it. Please don't ask about it. Please don't -

"What happened with Vilkas last night?"

Is it possible to grind teeth into dust? Your fingers halt over the keyboard when you turn to face him, trying and failing to hide the overwhelming weight of shame. Even after a sleepless night thinking through every bit of the night you don't have an answer. 

"I've never seen him like that with anyone." Damn him and his sweet expression. It softens your heart even after you'd spent ten minutes in the mirror telling yourself to never think about Vilkas again.

"What do you mean?" Thankfully, he doesn’t seem bothered by you. Instead his annoyance lies with his brother. It’s an odd relief to know that you haven’t scared off your new friends. 

"He doesn't really talk to people." Farkas shrugs, fiddling with your pens. "I don't think I've seen him kiss anyone since like, high school."

"Would explain why he stormed off."

"Oh no, that's normal for him." Farkas' smile makes your stomach sour - it feels too much like pity. "He's not good with people - getting up and leaving is his signature move. Especially if the conversation gets sappy or emotional he just storms off. Don't take that personally."

Time keeps rolling. All you want is to forget about Vilkas. He's interrupted the rhythm of your life. Every time you agree to go out your stupid heart wonders if he'll show up even when you know he won't. It's nice to be around Farkas again, to listen to Aela tease him and laugh at their bickering but it's hard to not remember that first night.

The next time you see Vilkas only leaves you tangled in more knots. You're sitting on Farkas' couch, some movie droning in the background under the group's various conversations. Farkas is trying to egg you into gossiping about some clients who he's certain are having a secret affair but your scolding words trail off.

"I thought you weren't coming." Farkas beams up at his brother, ignoring the way Vilkas rolls his eyes. Your stomach flips when he huffs out a sigh and takes the only remaining empty seat right beside you. Does he feel the crackle of electricity when he gets so close? You wonder if it’s just you that notices it, the way it gets a bit harder to breathe when your eyes meet. 

"I didn't plan on it." Vilkas grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. Both times you've seen him he looks exhausted. You wonder what he does for work. Farkas mentioned something about his brother struggling with insomnia but after that last encounter you're less than keen on asking such a personal question.

Vilkas' conversation with you is clipped, almost detached. It hurts to realize that he wants to pretend nothing happened. In the many times you've replayed that kiss you've wondered if he was drunk despite the single drink he'd nursed for hours. You can't decipher what emotion lurks behind those eyes when he looks at you, like he wants to devour you. Like he hates you.

Vilkas swears he's going insane. He stares up at the familiar pattern of his ceiling and tells himself that he should get up, should take something to help him sleep because he has work in the morning. He should stop thinking about the way you'd kissed him, addictive and dangerous. Instead he remains on his couch, back aching and stomach twisted into knots.

He still doesn't know what came over him that night. The sound of your voice had become a part of the music itself, your expressive eyes and the way you blushed when his hand so stupidly fell onto your leg. Vilkas sucks in a deep breath and clamps down on his mind, struggling to sever that memory entirely. Thinking about it won’t do him any good. 

He isn't a boyfriend. He's barely a friend. If he'd been blessed with any other brother Vilkas is sure he would've wound up completely alone in the world. He's nothing to nobody and it's so much easier that way. No one else should be caught up in his mess. His fingers trace the familiar scars on his hand when he hears his front door open.

"Hey bud." Farkas' voice is too happy. It sickens him. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No." His brother flops onto the free end of the sofa, clearly undeterred by his harsh tone.

How the hell can he explain to Farkas of all people? His brother practically oozes emotional availability. He always makes time for the people he cares about, has never failed to attract friends and partners, a beacon of light in people's lives. Vilkas can't find the words to make Farkas understand what it feels like to know that there's something broken in you. To be odd and unsettling, to put people on edge with nothing but your presence and hate yourself with such ferocity.

"You kissed her, man. And then you pretend you don't know her. I don't get it -"

"I know I'm sorry." He spits, finally looking at Farkas. He looks puzzled, head cocked to the side just as he's always done. "I fucked up. I'll stay away for a while."

"No dude, she likes you!" Guilt creeps into his chest, stealing away whatever warmth was left in him. "I think she likes you a lot. Even after you ignored her."

"No she doesn't." Vilkas pushes the heels of his hands to his eyes as if he can force out the things he doesn't want to think about. He doesn't want the mental image of you looking up at him, lips a little swollen after he'd kissed you. Or the way your eyes lit up when he'd entered Farkas' apartment like you were happy to see him.

You don't like him. You can't like him. He's a wreck and all he does is fuck things up. Farkas is only around because they're related. His friends stick around because Farkas is their epicenter, Vilkas is merely another orbiter. You don't deserve to be hung up on someone like him when you could do so much better.

He has to stay away from you. Even as Farkas plans out some happy fucking relationship that will never come to fruition Vilkas vows that he will stay out of your way. He can barely hold himself together - you should be with someone nice, someone normal. Someone like Farkas.

With a bitter laugh Vilkas sinks into the comforting embrace of self loathing, making his peace with the decision. Your kiss had lodged something deep in his heart that he couldn't quite name but absence will cure him of this, he's certain.

Doing things on your own is scary but you're resolved. It's a band you like, you got the day off work, you bought a ticket months ago, you're going. It's hard to think past the confusing tangle of excitement and anxiety but it feels nice to disappear into the jostle of people. Shoulders bump together, the crowd moves in waves with the music, you can lose yourself.

Nothing exists outside of this room. No dark, emotionless eyes tracking your every move even when he refuses to speak with you. No confusing push and pull with the man who makes your heart do backflips. No questions or confusion or second guessing, it's just a hundred people screaming lyrics back at the performers. For a couple of hours life is simple.

You only regret the decision to get so close when the pit gets a tad rougher than you like. Bodies press too close and a shoe goes flying. Panic flares in your chest because suddenly the crowd isn't a pleasant sea, it's a volatile ocean threatening to swallow you whole. Your hands are shaky when they raise to keep bodies back but it’s futile.

Men a foot taller than you block your view and someone's elbow jabs painfully into your side. You can't breathe, can't see the band or the exit, can't see anything but the backs of identical shirts fresh from the merch table. There isn't enough air in the venue and the panic only fuels itself, swelling until you know you have to get out.

Your skin prickles when a deep, smooth voice murmurs your name. One muscled arm rises between you and the crowd allowing you space to breathe. Your cheeks burn and you're sucking down deep breaths that smell like sweat and weed but somehow they're held at bay. Your thanks die on your tongue once you look to your savior and find the face that's haunted every sleepless night.

Vilkas smiles down at you, expression as soft as that first night. Your heart pounds and you scramble for something to say when he takes one step toward you. He's still holding off the oppressive sea of bodies, creating some semblance of safety just for you.

Wordlessly, he lets you step into his space. One arm wraps possessively around your body and Vilkas draws you closer, body swaying in time with yours. Your heart's in your throat but you don't speak, don't want to question this moment of peace. Your vision’s stopped tunnelling and you can hear the music once more in this little piece of heaven with him. The bass thrums deep enough that you feel it in your chest, head bobbing to lyrics you know all too well. 

"What are you doing after this?" His breath is warm when he leans closer, speaking right against your ear. Your breath hitches and you consider rebuffing him. He'd left you hanging last time, shouldn't you do the same to him? Part of you wants to deny him, to tell him you have plans with someone just to see if you can hurt him back. But the smaller part of your heart still hopes that there's something between you.

"Nothing. You?" You whisper back, indulging in the way his eyes sparkle under the stage lighting. He's looked at you like this before, like you're the only person in the world, moments before he'd turned your world upside down.

Everything's a blur. Vilkas' lips on yours, his hands shamelessly roving over you, his stubble scratching at your skin and his voice whispering your name. His nose bumps against yours, those sharp teeth you’ve thought about all week biting into your lower lip just enough to wreck you. Your hand finds his and your heart races when you lead him to the venue's restroom, elbowing through the crowd in search of a moment alone. 

All your life you've made good decisions - went to school, got a job, got an apartment, all of it. It’s very boring and respectable. For once you want to be stupid and selfish. Vilkas follows so easily, one booted foot kicking the bathroom door closed behind you.

God, he feels too fucking good. His skin's sweaty where his chest presses to yours, hips grinding together once he's got you firmly against the cold tile wall. Vilkas' breath is hot against your throat when he whimpers your name like he's begging you for something he can't say. Balling his shirt into your fists you drag his mouth to yours, need pounding through every inch of you.

"This really what you want?" He mutters against your lips, seemingly ignorant to the desperate way you're holding him.

"Yes," you pant into his mouth, egged on by the way his cock throbs against your thigh. "Is this what you want?"

"You're all I want."

Something about him makes every little touch electric, nearly overwhelmed by sensation when Vilkas draws you into another kiss. His hand so gracefully holding the nape of your neck, his teeth cascading down your throat, his fingers working at the buttons of your jeans. You can hardly breathe when two thick fingers stroke over the fabric of your underwear and he tenses in your hold.

"Fuck," Vilkas mumbles into your kiss, your hips jerking involuntarily in search of more. "Too fucking good for me."

It's quick and feverish, clawing at clothes and his body pinning you against the wall. The music thumps away behind the thankfully locked door when Vilkas rolls the condom on. Your blood pounds and your thighs are already burning but he's there to hold you up. A sound you don't recognize bubbles out of you when his cock slides into you, his kiss awfully sweet even when he's pulsing deep inside you.

"Vilkas," so shamelessly panting his name against his shoulder, your hips grinding into his because he won't fucking move. He's just still, cock throbbing and lips pressing chaste little kisses over your face. Even now he's too fucking confusing.

"What do you need, baby?" That little petname makes your knees buckle. Vilkas' chuckle is way hotter than he has any right to be when his hips roll once, arousal blasting through your senses.

"I don't know." God, have you ever sounded so needy? "Just, more."

You're sure half the venue hears you moaning his name but you don't care. You don't care about anything other than this man fucking you until you forget how to speak, strong hands keeping you upright and cock hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back. Sharp teeth hurt just enough to feel good when they bite down your throat, surely leaving marks in their wake.

You never want this to end. You cling to Vilkas, fingers twisted into the back of his shirt, sure that he'll disappear the moment this is over. Your heart aches but the rest of you feels too fucking good to hold off any longer, orgasm stealing away your breath. Shivering and sensitive you break apart in his arms, wave after wave of pleasure like a fire under your skin.

He finishes a handful of seconds later, shoulders tense and nose buried in your hair. There's a whimper that sounds dangerously like your name and his body sagging against yours. All you can smell is his cologne and he's tilting your face up to his. His brows furrow and foolishly your heart's leaping in your chest. His lips part once more as if he's going to say something, that soft expression still there.

"I -"

A knock at the door cuts off whatever he was trying to say. You nearly slip in a hurry to tug on your clothes, wiping at the mess of your face and loudly washing your hands in the sink. The man waiting for the restroom gives you a knowing look when you slink past him, Vilkas' footsteps at least reassuring you that he hasn't disappeared. Yet.

What was he going to say? It's eating at you already. That sweet look on his face, all rosy cheeks and soft eyes. You want to storm back in and curse that man for interrupting what could've been your one moment of vulnerability.

"Want a ride home?" Damn him and that flat voice of his. He looks over at you with that expression that you hate. He's closed off again, arms folded over his chest as he follows you out of the venue. You want to say no, to refuse him and for once be the one that disappears. But you really don't want to wait for another ride.

"Sure." You don't sound as detached as him but it's a good attempt. The ride is quiet, Vilkas' eyes trained faithfully on the road when you give him directions. He hands you his jacket and it feels like an apology that he can't bear to say aloud. Maybe you're reading too much into it.

It's almost a disappointment when your building comes into view. You already know his answer but you turn back to Vilkas, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders.

"Wanna come inside?" Tears prick at your eyes because you already know. For just a moment his mask slips and you see it - the guilt, the fear. Vilkas blinks a few times before he stares up at you, his voice raw when he breaks your heart.

"I shouldn't."

"What the fuck are you thinking?"

Vilkas can't quite answer. He pinches the bridge of his nose against what is surely going to grow into a much worse headache. Farkas paces around the kitchen, excitement and rage coloring his tone. He still isn't sure how he ended up here. The thought of his own empty home was revolting and he couldn't bother you again, not after how he'd acted.

"I don't know." Vilkas speaks a little too honestly. He's standing in the middle of his brother's apartment despite the late hour, clothes still smelling of you. He remembers the way you'd looked at him, all full of hope for a happy ending when he'd dropped you off, then the way it had shattered. 

He can't give you that. He's a fucking idiot for letting himself slip. He should've left you alone but you'd looked so scared at the show, stumbling behind some assholes who couldn't handle being near the barricade. And when you'd stared up at him so lovingly, cheeks rosy and his bite marks on your throat, he'd been saved only by some guy having to piss.

He'd almost admitted something that would ruin you both.

"I don't know what I'm doing." Farkas stops in his tracks and for once Vilkas doesn't bottle up that awful pain that keeps him up at night. His voice falters when he turns to his brother and wants to beg him for an answer.

"I'm not what she wants. I can't be."

"Why not?" It's such an easy question, isn't it? It should be.

Why can't he just be what you deserve? He wants to be - god knows he wants to be good for you. He wishes that he could be another man. Someone who doesn't panic at the prospect of being known. Someone who can stomach being complimented. Someone strong enough to withstand rejection, who doesn't leave first because the thought of being left again is too fucking scary.

"I'm -" Vilkas rubs at that spot on his chest again, the spot that aches when he sees you. "I'm no good, Farkas. You know that."

"I've never understood why you said that shit." Finally, his brother sounds mad. It's so much easier when people are angry with him instead of pitying him. There's a finger jabbing into his chest and Vilkas bites his tongue, staring back at his brother's twisted up face.

"I know you like her. We all know you like her. So man up and treat her right or leave her the hell alone."

"I want to, but, I can't -" Vilkas stammers, desperate for his brother to stop looking at him like that. Farkas has always been so understanding but his voice has hardened. It shakes him.

"She's my friend. I don't like seeing either of you like this." Thank fuck Farkas' glare softens, a hand slapping his shoulder. "Work your shit out or let her go."

Everything about this feels horribly pathetic. Farkas pats your knee and something in your chest crumples. The office is nearly silent, most others have gone home. You probably should too.

"Listen, I love my brother." Farkas sighs and leans back in your chair. His work shirt's wrinkled and there's bags under his eyes. You wonder if Vilkas kept him out again.

"I know. I'm sorry about this whole mess between us."

"I've tried talking to him. I just -" there's a bitter laugh that sounds nothing like the Farkas you've grown to know. "I don't know how to get through to him."

"It's not your problem to fix."

"He's my brother. I want him to be happy. I want you to be happy." Your stomach sinks when those eyes turn to you again, brimming with pity. "But if it's not right, don't get caught up in his mess."

It's like a punch. The marks of Vilkas' teeth are still fading from your skin but you've hardly heard from him since that night. You’ve only seen him once in passing and it was only the back of him, exiting the bar mumbling something about having work to do. You rub at your throat, that dull pain stealing your breath when you remember how he'd looked at you. Like he could fall in love with you.

"I don't get it." Your voice finally cracks. All the pain that's built up spills out and Farkas is there, patting your back where you slump into your desk. The tears are hot and your sobs are ugly but your friend is here, steadfast beside you as your heart finally cracks open.

"He's always had these issues." Farkas sighs over your sniffling. "He's always been rough but he's gotten so isolated over the past few years. It's like this spiral of self loathing. He can't see that he matters to anyone."

You want to argue, to find Vilkas and shake him until his eyes open to the people around him. The friends that wait for him, the brother that adores him, and well, you. Whatever you are to him.

"You can't be the one that fixes him, though." The chair creaks when Farkas leans closer, shoving at the mess of your paperwork. It elicits a wet laugh from you that feels so wrong given the situation.

"I know." You sniffle, swiping at the mess of your face. "I want to help him, though."

"He has to figure his own shit out. If he can't," Farkas pauses, clearly torn. The ache in your heart only grows with his words and you aren't sure how much more it can bear. "If he can't you gotta let him go."

Slowly but surely, life returns to normal. Your rhythm returns. You wake up, drink your coffee, and walk the dog. You stop paying attention to strangers who remind you of him. You do your work and laugh with your friends in the break room. You go out with them once or twice but it feels wrong, like his absence is somehow a presence of its own. The spot next to you always feels a little odd without Vilkas there.

The marks of his lips are long gone but you remember how they felt. In the dead of night when sleep feels impossible you recall how he'd looked down at you, stripped of all those barriers he kept between himself and the rest of the world. Vulnerable and softened when he'd cupped your face and gotten painfully close to admitting something.

So many things fade over the weeks you spend without him but your anger over that never will. You're obnoxiously curious - 'I' what? What would he have said next if that man had waited a few seconds more to knock? How different could everything be?

It feels silly to wrack your brain over something that was probably nothing. Maybe he needed to leave. Maybe he was going to ask you about the ride home.

Maybe he was going to say something important.

It's just for closure. You tell yourself that even when you're storming up the stairs and standing in front of his door, triple checking the address Farkas had texted you along with a warning. It's just to get over him. You need some closure for this final question so that you can start whatever healing process will stop this horrible need from clawing at your heart. 

I'm going to get answers and leave. I'm going to get closure so that I can get over him. I'm going to say farewell to this confusing chapter of my life and move on.

All thoughts disappear when Vilkas opens the door. He's rubbing at his face, shirt half unbuttoned so you can see the tattoos on his muscled chest. There's a hot flash of arousal but you cling to your anger, trying to shove aside the endless pit of attraction to him.

"What're you -"

"What were you going to say that night?" Arms crossed and face blank you watch him blink in the dim hallway light. Vilkas stares at your attempt to mimic his cold, detached demeanor and you pray it's working.

"Which night?"

"The night of the concert." Your face flushes at the onslaught of memories. "In the bathroom. You started to say something before we were interrupted."

He's quiet for a beat. You wonder if you've made a fool out of yourself driving all the way over here to hear him say that he's forgotten or it wasn't anything special. Vilkas' hand rubs at the center of his chest when he leans into the doorway, mouth opening and closing a couple times before answering.

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

He could lie. He should lie. But he's exhausted and you're here, still so gorgeous even when you're glaring at him. Vilkas considers his options and tries to rub away the pain blooming in his chest at this fucking wreck he's caused between you.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he says honestly. He'd meant it that night and means it now. Even when you look at him like he's vile he knows that he's earned nothing more. He’s precisely where he should be - on the receiving end of your disgust and rage. It’s exactly what he’d wanted but that doesn’t stop it from hurting. 

The tapping of your foot stops. Vilkas knows that the right thing for you to do would be to leave him, to turn your back and go home with that information. After weeks of silence he's answered your question - but you're wearing his jacket. Some scrap of hope manages to bloom despite the wreck he's caused because you're still looking at him.

"Does that make you mad?" He breathes finally, unable to stomach the silence any longer. Your hair is messy and you're in cute mismatched pajamas. Selfishly he wonders if you spend as much time in bed thinking of him as he does you.

"Yes." You bite back, stomping closer. Vilkas is thrilled by the finger you press to his chest. "Yes it makes me mad that you didn't say it back then. It makes me mad that you felt that way and avoided me. It makes me mad because you're so wrapped up in your own bullshit you won't let anyone try to help you."

This is what he deserves. Your anger, your hate. Some sick part of Vilkas is relieved that you finally gave up and can see him for the mess he is. This has to be it - you’ll yell at him, tell him that he’s a fucking wreck, that he’s ruined your life, and you’ll be free of him. He can take it. He can withstand whatever you need to get out of your system.

"I should go home." You say but don't move. Vilkas wants to crush you to his chest, to let you cry or hit him or hate him. To hold you because even though he's fucked everything up he wants to be there for you. 

"Wanna come inside?" He repeats those  words you had said all those weeks ago knowing that you'll reject him. He can take it. It'll close the book on whatever fucked up mess he's made between you and you can move on with your life. He’ll stay away from the friendly gatherings for a few months until he’s sure you’ve moved on. 

"Yes," you say because you've always been braver than him.

Even if you hate him it still feels like home to kiss you. He lets you shove him to the bedroom, kisses rough and tears on your cheeks. He allows you shove his clothes out of the way because it feels so fucking good to be wanted by you. To see your pupils blown wide with lust and have your hands on his chest like you own him. Vilkas wonders just how long he's belonged to you.

He doesn't deserve this. Vilkas shouldn't get to feel your fingers threading through his hair or hear the little whimpers you make when he finally guides his cock into you. His heart fucking hurts when you gaze up at him with love in your eyes, love that he’s never earned. He’s not worthy of a second of your time but here you are, tangled in his bedsheets and moaning his name. 

It'll be a one time thing. He just needs to get you out of his system. Vilkas tries to keep these things in mind but it's so fucking hard. He wants to crawl into your skin, a selfish monster who wants you even if he knows he'll only ruin you. He can't give you the life that you deserve but for this one night he can pretend.

The sound of his name on your tongue, high and breathy like you're pleading for something nearly makes him orgasm. The sting of your nails on his shoulders, your thighs squeezing around his middle, the taste of you still dancing over his tongue. Every thrust of his hips Vilkas has to restrain himself from cumming far too early. He wants to feel you over and over again, to memorize the way you moan so he can pretend it's only for him.

You just feel too fucking good. Vilkas loses himself in your touch, the usual noise in his head gone because you're here. You're in his bed, shivering under his touch and begging for him to fuck you harder. It's like a dream. Sweat drips down his forehead but he can't slow down, can't bring himself to savor it another moment because you're so close.

"Love you," he hears himself mumbling over and over, he needs to shut the fuck up but he can't. Admissions and promises and whatever his fucked up brain keeps repressing come tumbling out. You're trembling in his arms, pulling the back of his hair and he can't hold out. Vilkas collapses into your hold, wave after wave of pleasure ruining whatever composure he had left.

Nothing's ever felt like you. Nothing has ever been so intense, so immediate and all consuming. Almost sheepishly Vilkas rolls off of you, wincing at the sensation of rolling the condom off. An uneasy silence settles between you and every instinct tells Vilkas to run, shame flooding his body at what he's done.

He's already in too deep but he has to get out. A clawing, terrified need to disappear chokes out the few moments of quiet he'd gotten in his brain. He just wanted to give you closure but he's given you an opportunity to hurt him, to leave him behind like he deserves. Your hand is on his chest and Vilkas swears he's going to choke. He fucked it all up - he was supposed to separate himself from you, to give you enough space to get over him but he can't even do that right. He can't even leave correctly.

"Did you mean what you said?"

"Yes." He doesn't bother pondering it. There's no point in lying. You are entitled to his honesty.

With eyes squeezed shut, he feels the mattress dip when you get out of his bed. Vilkas scrambles for whatever shred of dignity he has left but his mouth is dry. He needs to let you walk away from him but why is it so fucking scary? When he cracks open an eye his awful heart melts at the sight of you in his shirt, a nervous smile greeting him.

"Is it okay if I stay?" You waver a little and guilt sparks in his chest - you're sore. He can't stop hurting you.

Yes.

No.

He wants you to stay but knows you should go. You need to get away from him before he destroys you. Vilkas stares up at you, so thankful for and loathing your eternal patience with him.

"Yes."

That little smile shouldn't break his heart. He shouldn't be falling for you when he can't be what you need but stopping it feels damn near impossible. Vilkas feels like he's flailing and your touch is like an anchor.

"I'm going to the bathroom. You'll still be here when I get back?" It hurts that you have to ask but he can't blame you for the hesitation. He's less than reliable.

"Cross my heart."

Farkas is going to yell. He isn't sure what's waiting for him upstairs but he knows there's a good chance it'll make him mad. He's kicking himself for answering your 1 am text asking for his brother's address but what else could he do?

With one last glance at his phone he uses the spare key to Vilkas' apartment and enters. He's bracing himself for fighting or begging or some other emotional display that he really isn't ready to witness before noon but it's silent. Slinking through the apartment he sees clothes strewn around and your shoes kicked under the table.

Nervously, he steps down the hall. The apartment isn't too big and he's certain Vilkas would kick his ass for sneaking around his home. He'd sent plenty of warnings to you both that if no one answered him he'd have to go snooping. Just to make sure you're both alive.

Sunlight floods Vilkas' bedroom. It's an odd sight. Farkas has always known his brother to keep the curtains drawn and sleep until noon. Another sign that puts him on edge. He peeks around the corner, just to assure himself that everyone's alright and his heart stops.

"I love you," his brother murmurs against your cheek. Your face is cradled in one hand and the other brushes through your hair. Farkas rushes out of the apartment and prays that this is a good sign that maybe the dramatics are all over. Phone in hand he hustles down the stairs, already dialing Aela’s number. 

Days turn into weeks, time melting into months and your little group finds a new rhythm. Once or twice a week everyone turns up for dinner or drinks or whatever little activity Whiterun has to keep you all entertained. It’s shocking at first that Vilkas appears, even more startling when he keeps showing up. It usually takes months to convince Vilkas to show his face but Farkas is satisfied that his accidental job as matchmaker has ultimately proven to be a success. 

“It’s weird to see him smile.” Aela grumbles playfully, earning herself one of his brother’s nasty glares. 

“Stop. It is weird.” Farkas agrees and gets nothing but a scoff. He’ll never say it aloud but it’s a relief to see his brother changing, softening the roughest of his edges to keep you around. It can’t be easy to do all that internal work but Farkas is proud of him. 

“Delete your dating apps, folks.” Hands clapping together Farkas draws everyone’s attention, too aware that Vilkas doesn’t like too many eyes on him. “Ten bucks and I’ll find the love of your life.” 

“What about you?” 

“Seems unethical to provide services to myself.” Farkas laughs and prays that it’s funny enough to deflect anyone from thinking about his love life. Or lack thereof. 

I believe in my heart that Farkas gets off from performing oral sex. Whether he's eating you out or sucking you sloppy style I just know he's cumming from just grinding into the mattress. His eyes roll back when your hand presses to the nape of his neck to urge him on, arousal building from the needy sounds you make when you beg him to keep going. His jaw aches and his throat's sore but he doesn't care - you taste too good to stop.

This man has to love praise. Farkas could fuck for hours as long as you keep telling him what a good job he's doing and how good he feels. Coated in sweat and exhausted but he's your good boy, he wants to do so good for you, to make you feel good, he can't just stop. He'll run himself ragged just to hear you praise him one more time.

Orgasm denial. He loves it when you ruin him, bringing him to tears because you feel so fucking good but you always stop just before he cums. Edging him until he's begging for release, cock so hard it hurts but you deny him over and over. He's addicted. Overstimulated to the point where your hand on his chest or the briefest kiss leaves him a whimpering mess, his cock leaking because his orgasm's so fucking close but you keep him right where you want him. Of course he knows the safe word but it's never too much, always just enough to drain his brain of anything that isn't you.

"Fuck," Vilkas pants, chest heaving with every breath. Sweat drips over the delectable expanse of his stomach and rough hands raise to hold your hips. Your thighs burn but every grind of your hips atop his takes you closer and closer to orgasming. He'd come into your office grumbling about anything and everything - the new recruits need more training, there aren't enough bodies to take on all the jobs from Whiterun, he's drowning in work and his sword chipping was the icing on the cake of his awful day. Now his skin smacks against yours and your toes are curling from the sheer pleasure of it all. Vilkas' jaw clenches against those needy little sounds you hear from the back of his throat. His cock throbs so deep in you and you swear this man will be the fucking death of you. He looks so pretty spread out under you, pliant and easy to control. There's stars in his eyes when Vilkas gazes up at you, so close to orgasming. "Should I be nice to you?" You pant, grabbing at his stubbled jaw. Vilkas moans into your touch and nods, calloused hands urging you to keep fucking him. Thank the gods his bad day seems so far away now, he can't think of anything but your body on his. "Please," his voice breaks and you know he's almost there. There's a thrill of authority when he whimpers again, completely happy to be held there by you. "Use your words, princess." God, you can practically see the arousal shoot through him. Vilkas' hips twitch and his cock pulses at your words. "Yes," he whines, dark eyes narrowing to meet yours. "Please be nice to me. Let me cum." "Good boy," it's the last think Vilkas hears before he's completely lost in the pleasure only you give him.

"Bryn," you chastise for the tenth time. "This is a terrible idea." "Why's that, lass?" He muses, somehow able to act completely normal. "We're going to get caught." You hiss, glaring at him over your shoulder. You want to hit him - how the fuck can he look so composed? Brynjolf just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your back as if he isn't currently buried in your cunt. The slightest shift of his hips sends shivers up your spine and you nearly collapse onto the desk. "We'll only get caught if you don't keep it down." He murmurs, quill scratching absently over whatever parchment sits before you. It's the most delicious form of torture. Brynjolf's cock throbbing inside you without moving, so close to the pleasure you know he can provide but he's still. One hand casually rests on your thigh as if he's merely keeping you balanced in his lap. "Bryn, I-" you bite back the whine in your voice when his hips shift once again. "I can't, I need you." "You offered, lass." He coos into your ear, sympathetic kisses pressed down your throat. "Remember? Askin' me if there's anything you could do to make my day better." "Yeah," you admit, though this wasn't what you had in mind when you saw him. His face had been in his hands, eyes glazed over where he stared down at the endless sea of documents. It had been an innocent enough offer. "I know you want more, love." The faux kindness in his voice makes your eyes roll back. "I could fuck you over this desk if you're so needy for me."

"More, please." Farkas moans into your skin, hips twitching against yours. You reach back and tug at the sweaty mess of his hair, rocking your hips until he's moaning again. "God, yeah, feel so fuckin good." He whimpers against your throat and wraps a muscled arm around your waist. He'd nearly fallen in the front door, completely exhausted from a week on the road. You'd thought that Farkas would be asleep the moment he stepped out of the bath but he'd beckoned you into bed with him. He'd missed you so terribly every day he was away. Even if he's too tired to fuck you properly he's still so needy for you. His cock slides against the mess of your undergarments, dragging over your cunt. It's not nearly enough stimulation but it's all you can manage after covering all his shifts in addition to yours. Both of your bodies are battered and tired but Farkas can't resist the urge to touch you. "Missed you," he mumbles against your ear, messy kisses left down your neck. "Missed you so bad. Never leavin' home again." Your muscles ache and Farkas seems half asleep but his hips rut against yours until he's a whining mess. His eyes flutter closed when your nails tickle over his scalp again, breathy whispers of your name the only word he knows. It's been a hell of a week but he feels right at home here, barely awake and wrecking your favorite pair of underwear.

Sometimes he wants you writing under him, pinned down and moaning his name. He wants to make you beg for every shred of attention he graces you with. Miraak wants you to break apart under him, so overstimulated that he is the only thing that exists in your universe. He wants you to look up at him with those wide eyes and beg him to make you cum again, to whimper his name until your voice breaks. His words so kind, touches featherlight and nice even when he's got you folded in half and aching for release. "I love you, my dragon." He'd coo, so sweetly cupping your face completely in contrast with the harsh thrust of his hips. "So good for me, my angel."

Other times he wants you to fuck him like you hate him. Filthy, angry, downright degrading sex. Miraak wants your hand around his throat when you ride him for your own pleasure. To tell him what a monster he is and what a saint you are for letting him touch you. He wants to be breathless, to be used by you. He wants to plead for every little touch, for you to shove him into the bed and kiss him just like that first time, when you knew it was the worst fucking choice you'd ever make. Like you're disgusted by how badly you want him. "Yes, yes, I'm your filthy fucking monster." He'd growl, sharp teeth on display when he snarls your name.

"Just do it already."

"No. I told you I'm not doin' that." Vilkas rolls his eyes and bites back whatever insult his tongue has lined up next. Your crossed arms, the guarded way you're standing a few steps away from him, the way you won't meet his eyes - it's unlike you. Usually he's begging for an inch of personal space yet he quickly decides that this distance is far worse.

"We don't have an option."

"Of course we do. I can wait."

"You plannin' to starve?" He barks, stomping closer. He notices the nervous flush in your gaunt cheeks and can hear the way your heart kicks up when he grows near but your glare is gone. He's heard your stomach growling and seen the way you struggle to eat the salted meats he's offered - it's not enough.

"I'll be fine -"

"We've been snowed in here for days. We're out of options." Grinding his teeth together, Vilkas swallows back against his temper. He sees the fear in your eyes as they stare up at him, hands nervously playing in front of your chest.

"I can't ask this of you." Your voice wobbles, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes and his rage fizzles out. He's choking on words he can't bear to say aloud, choosing instead to grab your wrist and tug you toward the bed.

The blizzard began five days ago. If the mission had gone as intended, a branch of the Silver Hand would be extinguished without issue and you'd both be warming up in the grand hall of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas snorts at the mental image of your nose pressed to a frosted window demanding that he, your 'very best friend', play in the snow with you.

Instead, you'd taken an arrow to the gut and Vilkas' pack was abandoned in favor of speed. He'd carried your broken body to the nearest village and pleaded with the one healer to patch you up enough to get home. He didn't give a shit about the villagers glowering from their porches, he knew how terrifying he'd appeared; a bloodied stranger limping in to town and begging for help fixing some half dead vampire didn't inspire much warmth from the locals.

Vilkas is relieved that you fall to the rickety bed at his side. This abandoned cabin doesn't offer much but coverage as you wait for the storm to pass, expired rations enough to keep Vilkas alive and a couple blankets to stop your shivering. Your fingers are chilly when he feels them on his chest and he stomps down on the fucking ramming behind his ribs.

"What if I hurt you?" You whisper, big eyes staring down at his face. Vilkas fights to convince himself that his heart is hammering because he's about to let a vampire feed on him, that it has absolutely nothing to do with the idea that your lips will be on his skin. He forces his gaze to remain locked in yours, staunchly refusing to look at your uneasy grimace.

"Just stop before I'm dead." He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut. It has to be because he's looking at you that he's so flustered; your wide, worried eyes and the way you bite so nervously at your lower lip. It'll be over in a moment and he can forget everything.

Fuck, he's wrong.

Your lips sear into his skin when they press to his throat. Your hands are pressed to his chest and he knows you feel the breath he sucks in, praying that you interpret it as mere nerves. His skin is tingling when you lean in closer, lips lingering over his throat just close enough to tantalize him.

"You sure?" Your breath ghosts over his skin and fuck, all those walls he's built up are crumbling. Vilkas spirals from the threat of your mouth on his skin, entire body suddenly alive.

"Get it over with." His words are missing their usual venom. Excitement colors his cheeks as anticipation chokes out whatever quip he tries to make, mind going blank when you bite him.

Sharp and quick, Vilkas feels your fangs sink into the sensitive skin of his throat. He'd worried about the pain or discomfort but he hadn't prepared for this - the shameful, all consuming arousal flooding his brain. Fists clenched at his sides he swears to withstand this without making a scene.

Vilkas fights to tame his mind, though each slight shift of your body against him leaves him wishing once more. The feeling of you relaxing into him, fingers curling into his shirt and lips resting easily against his throat, it takes time to curb the need to touch you. This is a necessity, an offer to keep you alive. Nothing more.

He will get through this. He repeats those words to himself over and over, gritting his teeth and forcing his body to remain rigid against the bed. It is for survival. It means nothing. He will remain calm. He will not make a fool of himself.

It takes all of his willpower to disregard the little fucking noise you make as his blood flows over your tongue - the soft sigh of contentment. His jaw aches from holding back the filthy sounds your touch summons, even the hint of pain feels good because it's you.

Vilkas isn't ready for your tongue to run over his throat. It's quick - the sensation of your fangs slipping from his skin and tongue skimming over the little marks but it's enough to wreck his self control. Some needy little sound rumbles through his chest and he's grabbing for you, dizzy from the loss of blood and drunk on your touch.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?"

Vilkas gazes up at you, completely speechless at how beautiful you look. Loose hair falls in pretty strands over your worried eyes, cheeks fuller and more flushed after feeding on him. And oh, the way your parted lips are smeared with the bright red of his blood - he can't look away. Vilkas watches numbly as his hand raises to your cheek, thumb swiping at the stain on your soft lips.

"No." He mumbles, distracted only by a tickling on his neck. He watches your eyes dart to where you'd bitten him and instinctively Vilkas arches his chin back, pleading with you for one more touch.

Fuck, your tongue traces up his throat once more and Vilkas sees stars. His need for you consumes every thought, each nerve in his body alight in a way he'd never felt before when you press a little kiss to his wound. Some desperate sound claws up his throat and Vilkas can't clamp down on it anymore. He needs you.

"You should rest." You instruct, tugging a blanket around his body. Vilkas wants to thank you or curse you for breaking down his walls but his mind is shamefully empty. He gazes up at you, one hand closing around your hip in a silent request for you to stay.

Thankfully, you remain at his side. Vilkas' eyes drift closed once he feels you curl into his chest, whispered thanks and apologies occasionally floating to his ears. He doesn't say a word, too focused on the feeling of your finger tracing little circles around the mark you've left on his throat.

Frida blinked hard in the sunlight that seemed to burn her eyes. She had already grown accustomed to the dim lantern-light of Cidhna Mines, even though she could only have been trapped inside for a few days.

She took in a deep breath of the cool, open air. The dirty smell of the city and the faint rotting odor was preferable to the thick atmosphere of dust, death, and unwashed bodies that permeated the mines, inescapable and almost tangible. The clean air with which she greedily filled her lungs nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Madonach and her fellow escapees ran ahead of her, weapons drawn, locked in battle with Thonar and the guards. For once, Frida didn’t join the fray, instead leaning against the stone wall, her newly-returned pack of belongings dangling from her arm. Her body still cried out in pain from her fight with the guards before she had been beaten down and dragged off to the mines; the flowering bruises on her midsection where they had repeatedly kicked her while she was down, the shoulder that she had had to force back into place, and the several barely healed wounds from their swords. In this moment, her bloodlust had been replaced by pure exhaustion. She didn’t want to fight—she just wanted to get back to Breezehome and forget about all of this. But how could she get back to Whiterun? She had made her way to Markarth in a drunken stupor, completely unaware of her actions. She could only hope there was a stable near the city with a carriage to rent. And more importantly, where had Farkas gone? Hopefully back to Jorrvaskr, since the city was so dangerous, especially for a friend of a perceived criminal.

Farkas.

The raven-haired man was the one person who never left her mind while she was fighting for her life in Cidhna Mines. She needed to get back to the other Companions, of course, and Lydia, and her other friends. They had all resided in her mind when she had to summon motivation to escape. But Farkas, her sweet, strong shield-brother, was constantly on her mind, the one person she just had to see again. While she lay sleepless on the hard ground, his gruff voice echoed in her mind, reminding her why she had to get out. She needed so badly to see him again—to receive assurance that he was safe. She needed to feel his calloused hand on hers, hear the rumble of his voice, lose herself in his ice-blue eyes….

“Frida!”

Her head snapped in the direction of the voice, her heart soaring when she saw her shield-brother sprinting toward her. “Farkas?” she breathed, dropping her precious bag.

When he reached her, Farkas wrapped her in an embrace. Immediately her bruised ribs screamed in pain, and she took in a sharp breath. “Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Farkas immediately loosened his grip on her, still keeping her in a gentler embrace. “I’m so sorry. I just… I’m so glad to see you again.” He pulled away, resting his large hands on her shoulders to look at her. Frida’s heartbeat sped up as his intense gaze met hers.  “I… I swear I spent so long trying to find a way to get you out, but I couldn’t; and I was about to go get the other Companions so we could bust you out but, uh… u-um, I’m glad you’re okay.” He trailed off and shifted his gaze as his mind seemed to catch up with his emotions.

Frida smiled at his sudden shyness. “Don’t worry. Thank you, Farkas, but I’m okay.” She lifted a hand to rest on his jawline. “I’m okay.” Her heart pounded hard in her chest as his ice-blue eyes stayed fixed on hers, the wild concern in them almost intense enough to knock her backwards. Damn. Only one person in all of Tamriel was capable of rendering the Dragonborn into such a vulnerable state. The most powerful woman in Skyrim… brought to her knees by a simple but handsome warrior.

Farkas leaned his cheek into her palm, then inclined his head to slowly look her up and down. She suddenly felt exposed before him. Her roughspun tunic and ragged pants felt too thin and revealing to stand up to his careful scrutiny. She escaped his gaze by wrapping her arms around him and pulling herself against his chest. His metal armor was cold against her skin. This was the first time she had ever embraced him—in all their travels together and all the time they had spent together in Jorrvaskr, they had never touched each other in such a way. Not that Frida didn’t think about it—she did, more often than she would admit to anyone. At night, as she laid in bed wishing the beast blood didn’t fend off rest, or in the middle of a long trek across the tundra when her mind began to wander. She would imagine a moment just like this, his hot breath ruffling her hair, his rough hands pressing softly against her back, his wolfish smell of leather and sweat.

It felt good. It felt right.

“Frida,” Farkas said in a low voice, as if he was worried that he would frighten her. “Um… I know you’re the Harbinger and you give the orders, but….” He pulled away and looked back into her eyes. “Come on. You and I are getting out of here. Let’s get you back to Jorrvaskr.”

For once she didn’t protest, the fatigue in her mind only letting her say, “Okay.”

Farkas hoisted her bag onto his shoulder, then moved to her side and held her close to him, letting her lean her weight on him as they walked. There were a lot of steps—by the time they reached the front gates of the city, her legs were trembling. Even as the pain rippled through her body, she couldn’t help but glance down at his hand pressed firmly against her waist.

By Talos, she was finally in the arms of the man she admired, and all it took was a near-death experience and a life sentence.

When they had finally, finally made it out of the city, and Frida had flashed a middle finger at two different guards, Farkas released his protective hold on her, opting instead to place his hand on her shoulder. “Look, a cart,” he said, pointing. They approached the carriage, and the driver looked down at them.

“Need a lift?” he asked.

“We need-“ Farkas began before Frida cut him off.

“Excuse me, I still have some of my dignity left.” She took a step away from Farkas. “We’d like to… whoa…” Her head spun and she staggered backwards into Farkas’ waiting arms. “…Um—hire your carriage.”

“Of course. Where to?” the driver asked.

“Whiterun.”

“20 septims.”

Frida reached for her bag on Farkas’s other arm, but he held her back as he produced a handful of coins from his own money pouch. Frida glared at him as he handed them to the driver.

“Climb aboard,” said the driver.

Farkas guided her around to the back of the cart. “All right, come on,” he said. Before Frida was aware of what was happening, one of his arms had caught behind her knees, sweeping her off her feet so she was draped bridal-style across his arms. She yelped in surprise, but he just chuckled, a low noise that began deep in his chest like the purr of a saber cat. He carefully climbed into the back of the carriage, carrying her effortlessly.

Frida couldn’t help but glance up at his face. It was so close to hers, close enough for his long hair to brush against her cheek, tickling her skin. His face was set in stone as he focused on carrying her as delicately as if she were made of glass. She saw his eyes flick down at her, then straight ahead again.

He set her down gently on the carriage seat and sat down across from her. She heard the flick of the reins and the carriage began moving.

Taking them home.

Frida reached for her bag and withdrew a loaf of bread. She took a huge bite and closed her eyes in ecstasy. It had been days since she had eaten anything that tasted this good. She took a few more ravenous bites before rummaging around in her bag again to pull out a red apple. She bit into it greedily, willing the sweetness to restore her energy.

Farkas watched her with a smile. Frida held out the remainder of the loaf of bread. “You want some?”

“No, thanks. You need your strength.”

Frida shrugged and tossed her apple core over the side of the cart. She laid down on her side and stretched across the seat. The wood was rough under her cheek. They rode in silence for a few minutes, listening to the rumble of the stone path under the wheels.

Frida broke the silence. “Thank you, Farkas.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “For what?”

“For waiting for me. Making sure I wasn’t alone when I got out.” She shifted her gaze to the floor, hoping it would remove the feeling of vulnerability.

“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffed, making her chuckle. “Of course I waited for you. Frida, I would go to all ends of Tamriel with you. Remember our oath when you became a Companion? ‘I’ll stand at your back, that the world might never overtake us.’ I mean that, sister.”

Frida’s heart fluttered in her chest. Yes, she remembered. Of course she did. She had replayed his words in her head every day since she had first been accepted into the group. It was a script that they were made to say for every new member, of course, but that evening as she lay in her new bed, she had let herself imagine him whispering them to her, just her.

“And you’re sure you’re all right?” he asked, interrupting her reverie.

“Yes, Farkas. You don’t have to worry.”

“What about the other prisoners? Those men who were in there with you, they never…?” he trailed off, but his eyes held a certain fear that she rarely had the opportunity to see.

“No,” she said firmly. Although the men who she had shared the space with had been deprived of female companionship for months or even years, most of their energy had been so drained and their bodies so broken from the hard labor that they posed no threat to Frida. At least nothing that she wasn’t able to fix with a few precise blows from her fist. “No, nothing happened.” She saw his eyes narrow with doubt, studying her face intently to find any sign that she was lying. She smiled softly. “I promise. I was stronger than them, even with my injuries. Do you even know me, Farkas? I fought them if they even looked wrong in my direction.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “I know, I know, you can take care of yourself. Thank the Nine that no one hurt you. I just… I do worry about you, Frida. I know you don’t see it, but when we’re walking through the city, I see the way the men look at you. You’re a pretty lady, and I can tell exactly what they’re thinking.”

Frida grinned, her cheek rubbing against the rough wood. “You think I’m pretty?” she asked teasingly.

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head, sister. The point is… I care about you. Probably more than you know. I know you’re strong enough to look after yourself, but, well….” His eyes shifted away, and Frida swore she saw the ghost of a blush creep over his face. “You mean more to me than I have the words to say. Knowing you were in trouble and there was no way I could help you… it tore me to pieces inside. I couldn’t think of anything but seeing you again, safe with me. And it wasn’t just then. I’m always worried for you. I do my best to protect you, and I want to always be there for you.” His eyes closed. “I’m sorry, I’m not good with words.”

“No,” Frida breathed, hardly audible over the pounding of blood in her ears. “No, I think you’ve said it plenty well.” She always knew, of course, that Farkas cared for her; as did Vilkas and Aela and all of the Companions. It was just part of being in the group. But there was a shyness in his voice, a defenselessness in the way he carefully chose his words, that made her stomach flutter. It brought to mind all the sleepless nights they had shared together, sitting across from each other by a campfire, sharing stories of their past battles and laughing until the sun showed its face once more. The feasts they had attended in Jorrvaskr, where she would glance at him across the table only to see his eyes darting away. The battles they had fought, two against ten, each of them throwing themselves in harm’s way to deflect the enemy from the other. All that time her admiration for him had only grown… had he always felt the same?

She took a deep breath. “I… I feel the same way, Farkas. I want to be there to protect you. I want to be by your side. I always have.” She sat up slowly, gripping her tunic to hide the fact that her hands had begun to tremble. She swallowed, wishing that she was facing a blood dragon instead of confessing her feelings to her shield-brother.

Farkas gave a small smile. “It’s more than that. The way I feel for you is stronger than just as a shield-sister. I… I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re strong and brave and smart and selfless and… beautiful.” His skin had taken on a full blush now. “Frida, when you were away from me, I realized… I love you.”

Frida’s breath caught in her throat. He loved her. All this time she had spent convinced that he thought of her only as a friend, while she wished he was holding her, and he felt the same way. All the moments that they had shared together that she secretly treasured, he had kept in his own heart. “I know it’s more, Farkas.” She swallowed hard. “I know because I feel it, too. I have for a long time. You’re the kindest person I’ve met on my journey. You’re my most faithful companion. I’m so grateful that our paths have crossed, because I admire you, so, so much, more than I can ever say. And I do—I-I love you.”

His face split into a grin. “Really?”

She smiled, relief washing over her after finally uncovering her affections. “Really.”

Farkas pushed himself off the bench and knelt at her feet. Reaching for her clasped hands on her lap, he enveloped them in his own. His pale eyes locked onto hers, and without breaking her gaze, he pressed her hands tenderly to his lips. Frida’s heart raced. This couldn’t be real. One hour ago she was still in a labor prison; now the man she had feelings for was anointing her with kisses. She almost couldn’t process it.

“My hands are dirty,” she blurted out. It was a stupid thing to say, of course, but she suddenly felt self-conscious.

Again he gave that chuckle that she loved so much. “Doesn’t matter,” he said before pressing another kiss to the back of her hand. The contact shot through her veins like a shock spell, making her heart palpitate and her skin tingle. Now that her skin was against his, she never wanted to break away. Maybe they could stay here forever.

She reached down to cup his cheek, running her fingers over his stubble.  “Gods, you’re so handsome.”

His skin took on an even brighter shade of pink and his pretty eyes shifted away from hers, clearly trying to fight off a pleased smile. Frida couldn’t help but smirk at how flustered he became at her praise. She had wanted to tell him that for so long. Now that their feelings were out in the open, she intended to say it as much as she could.

Farkas mimicked her, bringing up a hand to rest on her cheek. His hand was rough and calloused, but Frida had never felt anything more heavenly. “How long?” he whispered.

She smiled, a little embarrassed. “Since Dustman’s Cairn,” she confessed. “When you fought off all the Silver Hand and protected me. And when you shoved me out of harm’s way, and you were so apologetic after. You were so strong and I… well, I couldn’t help but be attracted to you.” She turned her head to touch a soft kiss to his palm. “But my feelings have grown ever since then. That was infatuation. This is something different. Bigger.”

He smirked, bringing his hand back down to clasp hers. “Dustman’s Cairn, huh? That feels like ages ago. All this time, and you never said anything to me?” She nodded silently, with no real defense. He smirked. “You really are a fascinating woman.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “How long have you felt this way?”

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Well… to tell you the truth, I was attracted to you from the moment I first saw you. When we first found you outside of Pelagia Farm, I knew you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. I always felt a little nervous around you, even though you were new blood. There was just something special about you.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But it was one normal evening in Jorrvaskr when I realized I had real feelings for you. I doubt you even remember it. You and Ria had just come back from a job. Your face and your clothes were stained with fresh blood, and you had this giant wound on your arm that Aela fussed over—but you had this massive grin on your face. You kept talking about how the battle made you feel so alive and you couldn’t wait for your next job. And you had a huge new sword that you had found and you wanted to show it to everyone who would look at it. That’s what made me realize how special you are. It was sudden and unexpected, but I felt like I really saw your spirit that evening.” He rubbed his hands over hers. “That was only a few months ago. It feels like I’ve loved you my whole life.”

He released her hands, but his warmth remained on her skin. Gods, it had only taken her a few minutes to grow accustomed to his touch, and now her body longed for it when it was gone. She wondered if he knew how powerful he was over her.

Farkas pushed himself up and sat beside her on the bench. He took her chin in his hand, and she felt the same jolt of electricity. His eyes locked with her own once more before his lips met hers, stealing the breath from her lungs. His kiss was soft and gentle, but the touch of his lips sent the  blood pounding through her veins. Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands wandered to his shoulders, the cold armor presenting a sharp contrast to the heat of her flushed skin. This was everything she wanted. This very moment was what she had envisioned for so long.

He broke away just enough for her to gasp for air. His fingers traced over her cheek, memorizing every scar and scratch. “I could never believe the Dragonborn would love me,” he whispered. “But I swear to you. I will always watch over you. I will always be here for you.”

You slip into Farkas’s room as quickly and quietly as you can, out of worry that one of the other Companions might get suspicious. You carefully close the door, turn around—

—And Farkas is standing at the foot of his bed, in nothing but a loincloth.

“OH!” You yelp, throwing your hands up in front of your face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

“It’s fine, open your eyes. I don’t care.”

You falter. “Wh- seriously?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

Slowly, you lower your hands and look at him. He’s sat down on his bed now, arms folded. Somehow he still looks just as big and intimidating as when he’s wearing armor. You can so clearly see his muscles rippling beneath his olive skin, but you try not to look anywhere other than his face — or arms.

You catch the inquisitive look on his face and snap yourself back to reality. “So,” you begin. “Werewolf.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is a gift given only to those in the Circle. Should you want to share the beastblood, you’ll have to prove your honor.”

“Right.” You cannot stop looking at him.

“Truth be told, if you want a more technical history, you should talk to Kodlak or Vilkas. I don’t usually put much thought into it beyond the gift itself. But- are you okay?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You smell different.” He stands up.

“That- is so weird,” you respond, momentarily distracted by bewilderment. “What do I smell like?”

“Normally? Just you. But now…” He steps closer until he’s barely a foot away from you. It feels like his bare chest is looking you straight in the eyes. “It’s different. Stronger. Sweeter.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, feeling something you’ve never quite felt before. Dread and thrill both building up in your stomach, like white-hot balls of metal expanding through your abdomen. Sharp bursts of adrenaline spiking through your body.

“Are you interested in me, new blood?” His deep, gritty voice had a strange new cadence to it, like warm honey pouring into your ears.

You inhale shakily. “I- don’t know how to answer that question.”

“Can I answer it for you?”

You don’t even know if the word “yes” had left your mouth yet before you were in Farkas’s grasp. One hand is gently gripping the back of your neck, and the other is caressing the top of your head, weaving fingers through your hair. His rough, salty lips are pressed against yours, hard. You reach out and place your hands on his hips, closing the gap between you. He quivers under your touch, then melts into it, grabbing a handful of your hair and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

After a few heated moments, he pulls back, much to your disappointment.

“Do you want this?” He asks, his voice sounding much darker now.

You look at him, confused. “Wh-“

“The beast-spirit inside of me. He wants you. Bad.” He fidgets with his hands, showing the first glimpse of true uncertainty and nervousness you’ve ever seen from him. “I don’t know if I can keep being gentle like this. I don’t want to-”

“Farkas.” You take his hands. “I don’t care. I’m yours.”

A lustful spark appears in his eyes. He grabs you by your waist, picks you up with ease, and pins you to his bed, desperately grabbing at your clothes and trying to pull them off.

He seems as stocky and strong as a tree trunk, every part of him laying over you like this. He reaches down and pulls his loincloth off, then lowers himself down, almost completely immobilizing you.

His hands wander up to your face, lazily at first, then grabbing you roughly and once more pushing his lips against yours. His hips begin to thrust slowly against yours, and you feel his hardening cock sliding up and down against your stomach.

“Mmm… you smell so good.” His hands travel across your body, greedily touching every part he can reach. Your own hand begins to drift downward, but he grabs your wrist and pins it above your head.

“You had your chance to lead,” he growls. “It’s my turn now.” He pins up your other hand and buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting, forcing high, breathy moans out of your mouth. His movement slowly grows more desperate, and you feel the same.

“Farkas…” you say pleadingly. He lets out a deep purr and snaps his hips against you in approval. He raises his head above yours. You stare into his eyes, and he stares back, perfectly mirroring the burning passion you feel. His soft raven hair hangs down perfectly around his broad, rugged face. He leans down and whispers into your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin and sending tingles down your back. “I’m going to make you mine.”

Without any more warning than that, he grabs your hips so hard you think he might leave handprints, and he pushes his tip inside of you. You let out a shuddering gasp, your hands shooting up and grabbing onto his biceps for dear life.

He begins to push further into you, his thick shaft throbbing and stretching you out. The pain felt so good. A keening moan escapes from your mouth. Farkas closes his eyes, and you can see the muscles feathering along his tightly-clenched jaw as he sinks deeper and deeper into you.

“Farkas,” you breathe out. “Farkas-” you yelp as he forcefully thrusts his full length into you. “Y-you’re so big…” you manage to stammer out. “Fu-uuck. Please, Farkas.”

He opens his eyes and smirks. He smirks at you.

“Please what, darling?”

“Fuck me,” you heave desperately, your nails digging into his skin. “Fuck me, Farkas, please, I-”

You’re cut off by his strong, meaty hand pressing over your mouth, covering half your face. He gives a firm but gentle squeeze. “Sshhh, shh-shh.” He purrs. “Can’t have you waking up the others.” He starts slowly thrusting again. “Or is that what you want? Does the new blood want all of Jorrvaskr to hear them whining like a dog?”

You can do nothing but squeeze your eyes shut, your whole body pulsating with the feeling of him inside of you. That white-hot feeling is back, even more intensely now, like a sun planted in your stomach.

“That’s right,” he groans, starting to speed up. “Good.” He squeezes your face tighter, his eyes closing again and his head tilting back in pleasure. His movements grow almost animalistic, shoving himself further and further inside of you over and over. Your body tenses up, vibrating with heat and ecstasy, his cock filling you up so deep you think you might pass out. Your moans are uncontrollable and muffled by his hand, while your own are nearly drawing blood from their death grip on his arms. He keeps pounding into you, grunting and moaning huskily, holding you solidly in place. Your hips snap back up in rhythm with his, your body twitching from the pleasure and strain. If not for him muzzling you, you would be crying out, screaming his name, moaning and keening in primal euphoria.

The ball in your stomach expands like molten metal, spreading through your body until it feels as if Farkas has filled every last inch of you. It builds and builds and builds-

Until he stops, hilt-deep inside of you. You squirm and cry out, frantic with lust and just on the edge of overstimulation from his huge cock. He hums smugly at your struggle, his face inches away from yours. “Look at you. Such a desperate little thing. You like being used like this?”

You nod, aggressively and pathetically. Farkas chuckles, and the deep, raspy sound of his subtle laughter is almost enough to send you over the edge right there. He shifts, taking his other hand and grasping both sides of your face, pushing his thumbs into your mouth.

“Stay quiet,” he growls, before continuing his merciless thrusts at the same pace he left off at. Without even meaning to, you clamp down on his thumbs between your teeth, letting out a flood of sharp, cut-off moans as he fucks you with reckless abandon. You almost can’t stand the speed and girth hammering into you, sending you into a state of complete, mindless hunger.

Through your feral haze, you see his bottom lip caught under his teeth, his eyes tightly closed, and his eyebrows knitted together. Then his mouth hangs open, and a small whimper escapes into the air.

The molten ball inside of you explodes, coating his length and squirting onto his thighs and stomach. You lay completely silent, convulsing and arching beneath him, consumed with bliss. You scratch helplessly at his shoulders, wordlessly begging, and Farkas complies, thrusting more sensually yet somehow rougher into you now. He covers your mouth again, and you allow the torrent of wild moans to erupt from within you as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm, every vein and ridge on his cock hitting you in all the right places.

Just when you think you might finally go unconscious, he pulls out and a thick ribbon of cum streams out onto your stomach. He looks to be reared back like a horse, holding tight onto your hips to keep from falling, head swung back as he shudders through his own orgasm.

Panting, he collapses onto you, practically forcing the air out of your lungs with his weight. You wrestle your arms out from under him and wrap them around his torso — or at least, as far around as they can reach.

“Fuck,” Farkas whispers hoarsely, enveloping you in his arms now and turning you both to your sides. You make a noise of agreement muffled by his chest.

“Are- are you gonna stay here?” He asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice. You make another noise, this one of more serene agreement. He exhales deeply and goes limp, pulling you closer to him. You were both far too hot and sweaty for his blankets, but not for your own skin against the other’s. Filled with contentment and… other stuff… you relish in his scent and the feeling of his body pressed against yours. You catch a glimpse of the moon from outside his window.

For a fleeting second, you forget about your sorrows when he greets you with a gentle smile, one that softens his icy eyes. He holds a tray with a small bowl of soup and a slice of bread. He teeters in carefully with it, bringing in the scent of warm spice with him.

“Thought I’d bring dinner to you, since you didn’t come up last night,” he says.

Something pangs in your chest. You remain mostly turned away, curled on your side on the bed, and facing the wall. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

He sighs. “I knew you’d say that. Well, best we wait anyway - it’s really hot. You don’t need a tongue burn. I may have given myself one earlier.” He sets the tray down on the nightstand.

Then he approaches to stand next to the bed. “Room for one more on there?” He asks.

You cast him a wary glance, gauging his face to see if he’s using another joke to lighten the mood. But no, he’s serious, an almost pleading look in his eyes.

You move sideways on the bed, even closer to the wall, so Farkas can clamber in. You sense the dip of the mattress and hear the creaking of the wooden frame with his added weight.

Then his arms are gathering you up - one sliding under your abdomen, the other draping over your waist. They meet at your middle, and he’s pulling you in until your back presses to his chest. The familiar warmth of his body surrounds you all over, half muscle, half softness - all comfort.

“I missed you,” he rasps, breath tickling the skin on the back of your neck. He nuzzles his face closer to your shoulder. “I know you needed space. But I don’t like being away from you too long.”

Hot tears build up behind your eyes. Hearing those words, so genuine and sweet, is an almost painful contrast to what you’ve been dealing with since yesterday.

A nightmare of a day had happened - one of those where nothing goes right. You had so many responsibilities as Harbinger now, yet you were unable to succeed at any of them yesterday. You couldn’t face any of your fellow Companions after such an ordeal, afraid you’d see disappointment - the same disappointment you felt in yourself. So you came to the solace of your quarters, where there was nothing to do but deal with your thoughts - restless, agonizing, shameful thoughts - alone.

But he was here now, and though the thoughts linger heavy in your mind, you aren’t alone anymore.

You draw in a deep breath, but your words come out choked anyway. “I’m sorry. For everything. I - I failed you all.”

You feel Farkas shaking his head before you’re even done speaking. He gives you a tight, tight squeeze, until you have to shut up.

“No. You didn’t.”

His hand splays out across your stomach as you take more unstable breaths, helping you ward off the sobs wanting to escape. He spreads his fingers out, pressing warmth into your middle.

“You messed up, sure. It happens.” Even when his voice is barely more than a whisper, it has that little gruffness to it, one you’ve found to be unfailingly soothing. It’s a lot like him in that sense - he appears tough and scary, when he is the exact opposite.

His arms tighten around you again, but more so in an attempt to pull you even closer to his chest. You can feel his heartbeat vaguely, steadily, at your back.

“But you could never fail us, love. You’ve done too much for us. And you’ll keep doing more.”

The tears race down your face now, but for the first time, it feels good to let them. Some of that hot shame you’d been feeling escapes with them, no longer sitting deep in your chest, but taking the form of wet warmth on your cheeks.

Farkas keeps his firm hold, letting you cry in silence for a moment. The repetitive sweeping of his arms and the feather light kisses he leaves on your shoulder do all the talking for him anyway.

Eventually, your ragged breaths subside, and the fresh tears are replaced by weak sniffles. You feel less of the weight within you, focused more on the weight of the body around your own. The warmth of him is seeping past just surface level, ebbing into your system, beginning its slow but definite domination over the dark feelings.

You reach your hand down until it rests over his, still covering your middle. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d probably be fine, but luckily, you’ll always have me.”

You are suddenly reminded of one of your earliest memories with the Companions. When you returned from that first mission, and you’d been sworn into the inner Circle, and Farkas had been the one to speak for you. You had barely known him then, and he’d barely known you, but still, he swore to stand at your back, that the world may never overtake the two of you. Back then, neither of you could have known how close you would become, but the bond formed in that moment was the unmistakable beginning of it all.

“Even when-” you start to ask.

“Even then,” he cuts in. He follows his words with yet another squeeze of his arms, and this time, it works a strained little laugh out of you, and he smiles. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

You want to tell him you’d never try, but you’re sure he already knows that. If there’s one thing that is consistent amongst the chaos that is your adjustment to the Harbinger life, it’s your relationship with Farkas. Strong, solid, full of warmth and support - a reflection of him.

“Now,” he speaks up, his grip finally loosening a bit. "You should really try and eat something. Don’t make me spoon-feed you.”

This time, you don’t protest.