#arnbjorn

"I can't breathe when you're near me, and I can't breathe when you're not—that's how fucked up you've made me."

Vilkas is panting as if he's just run across the Hold. Dark eyes glimmer with something dangerous and one hand reaches toward you. Too stunned to speak, you let him grasp the front of your armor. Vilkas tugs and you're stumbling closer, grateful that the cloudy evening doesn't reveal the flush in your face. "Say something." He seethes, face pressed so close to yours. Alarm bells are entirely smothered by butterflies in your gut. Kissing him is terrifyingly easy. This annoying, headstrong, contradictory man kisses you like his life depends on it. A chair crashes over and his body backs you against Jorrvaskr's broad table, needy hands keeping you close. "I need you." Vilkas whines into your kiss like it's an admission of love. He lets you grasp his face, staying so still while you trace his features. In the low light you feel his sharp cheekbones and the stubble along his jaw, chapped lips open as if he has more to say. "Do you love me?" "Yes." He answers without a thought. Vilkas leans into your touch, lips brushing yours once more. That brief touch is enough to elicit a shiver down your spine. "You're all I think about. You're under my skin." Vilkas mumbles into a messy kiss. Sharp teeth catch on your lower lip and your arousal grows with every beat of your heart. "I need you."

Mercer spits the words at you. He fucking hates you for making him state it so plainly. The blade is steady at his throat even as your grip grows sweaty. "That's what you wanted, right?" Blood dribbles from his lip as his face splits into a mean grin. "To fuck me up enough to steal my role?" "I don't care about your shitty Guild." You lie, pressing more weight to the knee on his chest. Mercer's eyes flutter closed and he gulps, the skin of his throat scraping dangerously over your dagger. "I never want to see you again." Your words and his following dry laugh echo around the room. There isn't a single other soul in Snow Veil Sanctum left alive - only the two of you and this horrible truth between you. He tastes like blood. Your blade clatters to the ground when you climb atop his chest, chilly fingers twisting into the front of his armor. This horrible man is cradling your face and wiping at the messy tears dripping down to his face. "I hate you." Another lie. There's no fight left in Mercer when he stares up at you, a mixture of your blood smeared across his face and thumbs at the mess on your cheek. "I know." He nods, kissing at your wrist. The truth balloons in your chest but you can't face it quite yet. Can't make your mouth form the words. You fall to Mercer's chest instead, heart falling into rhythm with the man who lured you here to kill you.

"I love you. Don't you dare say it back."

Teldryn turns his back on you before you can process his words. Your arm still tingles where he'd grabbed and wrenched you away from an Ash Spawn. He's already walking away from you, hand resting on the hilt of his sword and helmet firmly back in place. "What?" You sputter, hustling after him. "You don't get to say that and walk away -" "I do." So smug. You grab his armored elbow and Teldryn allows you to swing him around. You hate that fucking helmet of his - always concealing his expressions. "This would be much easier if I could see your face." "What would be easier?" "Confessing our love for each other." "We aren't doing that." Teldryn gives a weak wiggle of his arm but doesn't pull free. "I merely saved your life. Again." "I love you, Tel." He freezes at your words and for one petrifying moment you worry you've misread the situation. Teldryn clears his throat and corrects the scarf tied around your face. "I told you not to do that." His head shakes but thankfully the playfulness has returned to his voice. "How will you make it up to me?" "I'll buy you dinner." Teldryn nods at your offer and falls into step beside you, a gloved hand reaching for yours.

Mercer refuses to look at you. Despite shaking his shoulders and threatening his life he continues to stare anywhere but back at you. "I'll fucking kill you." You seethe, wrenching at the front of his armor. Mercer finally meets your gaze for the briefest moment. "You don't get to just say that." "You wanted to know why I won't work with you." He shrugs, one hand failing to loosen your grip on his clothes. "That's why. Move on." "Oh fuck you." You're so sick of him. Dealing with Mercer has been the hardest thing you've done in your life. His temper, mood swings, secrecy, and the awful fact that you're desperately attracted to him. It's beyond annoying. Releasing his armor, you decide to rid yourself of him. You have to dig Mercer out from where he's burrowed in your heart and move on. Clearly he can never reciprocate your feelings so this is all a waste of time. "If you don't want to work with me it's fine." You whirl around again, shocked by Mercer's disheveled state. He's barely standing, braced against his desk. "You don't have to make up some bullshit lie to throw me off." "It's not a lie." He gulps, voice less certain. "I love you and it's fucking killing me."

"Don't mock me by acting so surprised. You had to know about my feelings for you."

Brynjolf laughs into his mug, cheeks flushed from a the last few drinks. You can't think - Brynjolf's hand still rests on your knee as if he hasn't turned your world upside down. "Ya alright?" He glances over, those pretty green eyes glittering in the candlelight. Your stomach is still flipping but you try to not, tongue too thick to speak. "I didn't -" you stammer, fully aware that you're making a fool of yourself. "I had no clue." "C'mon." Brynjolf laughs, elbows landing on the table. Your heart flutters and he's leaning close enough that you can practically taste the drink on his lips. "Bryn, are you teasing me again?" "'Course not." Suddenly so serious. His brows tighten and he assesses your expression. "You didn't know?" "You've always been so nice to me, I didn't know you felt that way." "Don't worry about it, love." His smile feels forced. "Doesn't have to change a thing." "I have feelings for you too." The blurted words are less than poetic but they get the job done. Brynjolf stares as if he doesn't quite believe you.

"I can live without you. I just really, really don’t want to."

Farkas fidgets with a buckle on your armor he's already checked twice. He can't quite meet your gaze. He smiles, placing a hand on your shoulder. You try to answer but your entire brain is still captivated by his words - 'don't die, okay? I can't live without you.' The short pause before he'd spoken again. 'Well, I guess I could. I've done it before. I just really, really don't want to.' "I'll be fine." It's tough to speak around the emotions tightening your throat. Farkas nods once and you're painfully aware of this moment slipping through your fingers. Metal smacks against metal when you grab at his hand, wordlessly begging him to stay. "You okay?" "I'm fine." It's a lie, your entire world is crumbling and rebuilding around the knowledge that Farkas could somehow feel the same way. "What did you mean by that?" "By what?" "That you - can't, you know." The weight of his soft brown eyes is suffocating. "Live without me." "Oh." Farkas smiles again and has the audacity to shrug. "It doesn't have to mean anything, Harbinger. Sorry." "But what does it mean?" He has to answer first. You must be sure. If you're wrong it will ruin everything. "I like you, I guess." Your best friend's freckled cheeks flush and he rubs at the back of his neck. "Sorry if that makes it weird." "Can we kiss?" It's a little breathless but Farkas is already nodding. It's quick, a chaste press of his lips to yours and leaves your heart soaring.

"Fine! You win! I’m in love with you. Are you satisfied? Is the game over now?"

Arnbjorn glares over at you, hair ruffled from the amount of times he's fussed with it. Thankfully the blade he'd been forming is left on his workbench instead of wielded against you. "All your fucking teasing and for what? Is this funny for you two?" "What?" You feel your face tightening, an unfamiliar emotion twisting at your chest. Usually getting under Arnbjorn's skin is your favorite activity but this feels bad. You love watching his face flush from your flirtatious comments or his strong hands hauling you off his workbench but this isn't playful. He's angry. "This stupid game you're playing with me." His laugh is unsettling. "What's the goal, Listener? To get me to admit some fucked up feelings for you two to go giggle over?" "No -" "What do you win? Bragging rights?" "Stop it." Smothering your face in your hands doesn't hide the onslaught of tears. Your voice is too thick and you feel childish curling away from Arnbjorn as if you can protect yourself from his hatred. "I'm sorry." You hiccup, so uncertain where you went wrong. "I'm sorry I made you mad, I'm sorry I said I love you." It's silent for a moment. Calloused hands are so gentle when they pluck your hands away, allowing Arnbjorn a clear view of your face. "You can forget it." You sniffle, unable to meet his eyes. "You were being serious?" It's too hard to answer him. "Listener, talk to me." "Yeah." You aren't sure how to react when his lips fall to your cheek. There's a mess of tears and ruined makeup there but he kisses you anyway. Your poor heart flips at the sensation of Arnbjorn's hands cupping yours. He doesn't say another word, merely cradling you to his chest until your tears have dried.

"Don't you get it? I would do anything for you. Anything. That's terrifying."

Miraak, the First Dragonborn and the man prophesized to die by your hand, glowers at you across his desk. Shredded pages flutter in a light breeze and torn books lie in a heap at his feet. It looks sacrilegious. "I would give it all up for you." His voice is sharp when Miraak stalks around the desk. He kicks at the pile of ruined books in his wake. "I have defiled Mora's domain seeking a way to free myself from your shackles. Laid waste to centuries of work attempting to counter whatever spell you've cast over me." "I've done no such thing." Fear and confusion mingle deep in your gut when Miraak stands before you, shoulders heaving with every breath. Under the mask you see eyes glimmering where they watch you, too many pupils tracking every little movement. "What have you done to me, Dovahkiin?" The sheer exhaustion in his tone almost makes you pity him. Truly there is no answer - you are no magic wielder, working best with a sword and shield. You've employed no mages to sway him. You've done nothing but chase this man across the planes to end the power gathering in his name. "Nothing." Your honesty breaks him. Miraak's blade is tossed at your feet and this ancient man falls to his knees. There are no words to describe the sight of Miraak, the man that has been your enemy for longer than you've lived, kneeling for you. "Truly?" His rich voice breaks, a hand wavering over yours. Sheer devastation sweeps through Miraak as the realization plants firmly in his mind - you have done nothing to him. There is no magic binding his soul to yours. It is merely his undying attraction for the one person who will end his unnatural life.

"I'm not drunk enough for this. Or maybe I'm too drunk. Either way—I love you and it's your fault."

Brynjolf continues swirling you around the dance floor as if he hasn't said that. His little laugh when he notices your shocked expression pulls you back to reality. "What?" "Need one more of those fancy wines before I say it again." This was supposed to be an easy job. In and out of the Blue Palace dressed up as wealthy merchants. Pocket a couple pieces of jewelry and made it back to Riften before the sun rises. Blending in has been easy. Brynjolf plays a lord well, oddly accustomed to wearing fine clothes. His hand in yours and directions whispered into your ear are too easy to misconstrue as an affectionate lover. "How the hell is it my fault?" "Dunno." Brynjolf laughs in a way you rarely hear - he can finally relax. For the first night in ages he's let down some of his walls and the first thing he does is admit those feelings he's buried too deep. "But I do. I love you." Applause fills the air as another song finishes and you still. Brynjolf's hand is still on your waist, your body pressed immodestly to his and his eyes impossibly soft. He's gazing down at you like you've already broken his heart, a hint of sadness there. "Wanna get another drink?" He suggests, clearly attempting to end the situation. "In a minute." You grab the lapel of his expensive coat and earn yourself a confused look. You drag Brynjolf closer, noses brushing when you finally utter the question that's been nagging at you all night. "Do you really feel that way or is this part of the character?" "Not a character." Brynjolf's smile heats your blood. "I've got more coin than half the folks in here and I've got feelings for you."

"I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me for falling for someone I was never supposed to have."

Cicero's wide eyes pin you in place. He's messing with the fraying sleeve of his favorite outfit, seams popping loose under his blunt fingernails. "Cicero could never be angry at you, Listener." He croons, his voice terribly small. It's like you've been struck in the chest. "Your foolish Keeper will never be with you." "No -" "I could never deserve your attentions." He clears his throat and you watch tears gather along his lashes. "Cicero was never supposed to have his pretty, smart, Listener." Everything in you crumbles at the sight. This man that you've grown to love stands before you as if he's an insult to your presence. Your Keeper, the man you've tracked across half the country and torn your guild apart just to keep him close. He's blinded to your affections. "It's okay, Listener. Silly Cicero is fine!" He forces a smile as a tear drips down his cheek. "Let your Keeper have your jacket, there's a stain." "No, Cicero." You swat at the hand trying to take your coat. "My apologies, Listener." "No, Cicero." Fuck, it's too hard to say aloud. How had he been so brave to stand before you and confess his feelings? Your Keeper pauses again, big wet eyes staring at you. "I - fuck, I'm sorry." Why is it so hard to talk to him now? You've stitched each other's wounds and fallen asleep cuddled together behind your desk. You've spent nearly every minute with Cicero but admitting that you like him is too hard? Cicero giggles when you kiss him. His laughter melts into a whine and gloved hands dance over your face. He clutches you close, kissing every inch of his beloved Listener's face. "Oh, lovely, perfect Listener." His soft words send your heart into a frenzy. "Your Keeper will take care of you, don't worry."

Miraak always knew it would end this way. This is the only natural conclusion. He feels terrible that he's hurt your feelings but the sword aimed at his chest was the only possible ending. "I'm not mad at you, my dragon." He tries to soothe you but doesn't dare to move. You've got him pinned and Apocrypha jostles around you, dragons flapping far overhead. Only in the final moments of his life does everything become clear to him. "I could never truly have you." You're sobbing but haven't driven the blade through him yet. "A man like me was never supposed to love someone like you. It's my own fault." Miraak dares to raise one hand, petting back the mess of your hair. "Stop saying that." Your voice is thick with tears. Guilt only spurs him on and Miraak finds himself cupping your face, seemingly ignorant to your weapon held at his heart. "I love you." He murmurs, certain to make his last words count. "I'm sorry for loving you, Dragonborn. It's my fault." His throat threatens to close when you collapse into his hold. The blade falls somewhere nearby but Miraak gathers you close, indulging in the weight of your body on his. "Please don't go." Your broken little voice breaks his old heart. Miraak wonders if the gods will allow him to borrow a bit more time.

"Stop talking. Just stop talking before I say something that changes everything between us."