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Brynjolf knows Riften like the back of his hand, thanks both to growing up there and his particular line of work. More than just the main streets and side-roads, too.
He knows the secrets that lie beneath the surface. Spends half his time in the Ratway, and is uncomfortably familiar with Beggar's Row, too. People hide things there, sometimes, when they hope none will bother to look past the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting, damp straw; and he knows where those beggars hide what little coin they manage to gather, slipping it into his own pocket with less guilt than one might expect.
But he has never been an upstanding citizen, and never really had to deal with moral quandaries. Survival is the key to everything - and stealing, in its own way, is survival. So he's learned over the years. So he will continue to believe.
Coin sits heavy in his neat pouch, evening beginning to give way to night as he wanders. Leaves the busier paths - even at this time of night, there are still plenty of people out in the marketplace, peering out of the slightly-smeared windows of the Bee and Barb. Brynjolf ducks from the more populated side of the city, into the side alleys around the backs of the buildings.
Guards are more hesitant to come here, at this time of night, even though Brynjolf knows they'd look the other way for him. That's one of the benefits of growing up how he has, making Riften his home, although there are few others. Half the seedier side of things here are already known to him; most are because of him, even, so he has no fear. No, Brynjolf walks these streets unafraid, knowing that there are daggers hidden beneath his clothes should he need them. There's a sword heavy at his side, within easy reach.
To most people, he is a familiar face. He's known. It's why it doesn't immediately strike him as odd that there's an oppressive sense of being watched as he walks, not until it feels less like curiosity and more like hunting. Oh, that's different, and he doesn't like it one bit.
He's made his way down to the canal, by now. The water is familiar too. Comforting. Even as the feeling of being watched grows ever more pressing, Brynjolf doesn't feel afraid, exactly. A little apprehensive. He flicks one of the daggers from beneath his sleeve into his hand, a comforting weight under his hand, the worn leather fitting nicely to his fingers as he adjusts his hold.
It never hurts, after all, to be prepared.
Tonight he's taking the long way back to the Ragged Flagon, still growing used to the changes that have come in the wake of Mercer's lies and betrayal. Oh, Brynjolf read his words, the old and archaic language coming back all in a rush; oh, he'd felt the overwhelming and painful guilt as he'd welcomed back Karliah, mourned Gallus together.
So he takes the long way back to his home. The walls are damp from the canal, are cool with Skyrim's night air, mossy and cracked stones building up the foundation to the city. Not the best smelling by any means, but Brynjolf doesn't mind.
No. No, he doesn't mind, until there's the should of shifting feet behind him, a body pressing him into the wall, a blade pressed against the side of his throat. Brynjolf's breath shudders in his throat as he calms the instinctive panic that rises up in him, readying himself for a fight until he registers who, exactly, is behind him.
The little upstart smells familiar, after all. Earthy, woodsy, with something deeper beneath that Brynjolf has never been able to fully explain except as being something that reminds him of magic, a comparison he's solidified after Nightingale Hall. Oh, this is the upstart after all, the sharp blade against his skin humming ever-so-slightly with whatever enchantment has been inscribed upon it.
Brynjolf says, "I see you've caught me, lad," and makes no attempt to pull out of his grip. All Juillen does in response is laugh slightly, shifting to put his dagger away before his weight - he's surprisingly heavy, for someone his size - is pressing Brynjolf fully against the wall.
"You didn't want to confront me outside?" Juillen asks. His voice is low. Soft.
"I wasn't sure who it was, at first," Brynjolf says. "Easier to find someone to clean up down here."
"Are you saying that you'd have killed me?"
"Aye."
"What happened to, not the Dark Brotherhood, eh?"
"Self-defence," Brynjolf sniffs. "But it's only you."
"Only me." Juillen lets go enough that Brynjolf can turn to face him; green eyes meet hazel, and Juillen's lips curve up into a little smile that doesn't fully reach his eyes. Not for the first time, Brynjolf thinks that he's missing something about him. That there's something he hasn't realised, some pieces he hasn't yet put together. "Because I'm harmless, aren't I?"
"Harmless," Brynjolf says. Slowly, considering. "No. No, lad, we both know that's not true."
"Oh," Juillen snorts. "Tell me, then. Do you think I'm dangerous, Brynjolf?"
"I don't know what you are."
"Don't you?"
Brynjolf exhales. Tips his head back against the wall. "You don't talk about yourself that much."
It’s a fact that irritates him, if he’s honest about it. He likes the boy as well as he likes anyone. More, even; and yet he hardly knows anything about him at all. Not where his scars came from. Not where he came from, not really. All he knows is that the man is bright, lethal with a blade, and a pretty little thing when he bothers to show off.
Brynjolf is, after all, only a man. He has eyes - and Juillen is handsome, albeit in a rough and half-wild way, cocksure and comfortable in all that he is.
“I’m not all that interesting,” Juillen shrugs. Brynjolf supposes that means he should overlook the Daedric symbols carved into the rings he wears, then. Or the weapons he carries, the amulets, the prayers and blessings that he's heard Juillen offer up in the dark of the night.
He doesn't say anything in response to that. Smiles, though; willing to accept the lie for now, not going to push something that the man clearly doesn't want to talk about - for all that he's a Nord, and the people of Skyrim follow the Divines, he makes few judgements on people for following any others. Especially with who the Guild follows.
Lady Nocturnal is, however, one of the more forgiving of the Princes, even if she does now own his damn soul. Brynjolf can't really bring himself to be that upset by it, given he'd already dedicated his life to her service, but realising that he wouldn't be going to Sovngarde, instead guarding the Sepulcher and existing in the Evergloam.
"Well," Brynjolf says. "I'll take your word for it, lad."
Things change - others stay the same. Home stays the same, for Brynjolf, because he's carved out this niche and made a name for himself. The only real difference is Juillen's presence and the armour he wears, no longer the original colours but black as the night, as the shadows they all work to hide in. The newest member of the Guild watches him across the Flagon, like a hunter stalking prey, and he finds himself reminded of the pressing sensation of being watched he'd had that night on the streets of Riften.
There's something predatory in it, really. Sometimes Brynjolf thinks he catches the slightest hint of bright green around the edges of Juillen's irises, brighter than the summer grass or the deeper hues of an emerald; a sharp contrast to the otherwise hazel colour of them. Sometimes he thinks he can see his nostrils flare, like a hound following a scent. He's never owned them himself, but he's seen them.
He supposes that they're past the point where they're strangers to one another. He's not sure that he would call them friends, exactly, but they're not strangers. There's something else to what the two of them are. Perhaps it's due to Mercer's lies and the betrayal, and knowing the truth about Karliah - or maybe it's something else. Juillen is handsome, is pretty. Brynjolf likes that in a man.
There are options here. And it isn't as though bedding another man is frowned upon in the Guild; certainly, it wouldn't be the first time. He's seen Rune with the men he brings back, or beds in the inn, or in the side alleys. He's seen him with Thrynn, even, not that he's ever bothered to bring it up. So it isn't as if he has a problem with it, but he'd like to know for sure whether there's even half a chance before he brings it up.
Juillen vanishes sometimes, for a few days, coming back smelling heavy and earthy, like he's been lost in the woods. Like magic, more than usual, like it's been carved into his very bones, written into the heart of him.
He seems wilder in the days surrounding those absences. A little more irritable, snapping at every perceived insult; and in the flickering candlelight of the Flagon, night overhead and dimming the light that filters in, Brynjolf fancies he can see a sharp edge to his teeth. Wonders what it would feel like to have those at his throat.
Where do you go, he wants to ask. What do you do beyond the city walls?
Brynjolf thinks he could follow him; stick to the shadows and tail him, track him far enough he gets a good sense of what he's doing before he comes back. Could - and he decides that he will one night, watching as he chooses a pair of daggers over his usual sword, as he changes into something less notable as Nightingale. If he were pushed, Brynjolf would liken it more to something worn by the Brotherhood, but that's not his business.
"You're following him?"
Brynjolf blinks, slow, and turns to where Rune's sitting at the edge of the pool in the middle of the Cistern, feet just barely dipping below the surface.
"Aye."
"Is he in trouble?"
"You don't care about that," Brynjolf says. Rune huffs a laugh, runs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head.
"I don't," he says, "but Sapphire and I were betting on how long it would take you to get curious enough to stalk him."
"And?"
"And I've won," Rune shrugs. "She owes me fifty Septims. Thanks for that."
"Aye, well," Brynjolf shifts his armour into a more comfortable position. He's glad Juillen has only just left; and that he knows Riften better, ensuring he'll be able to catch up to his slight head-start. "Isn't it a bit much t'bet on your elders, lad?"
"No. The two of us were just the only ones brave enough to let you hear. Not like the two of you are subtle about the staring."
Brynjolf scoffs. "What staring," he says.
"Vex and Delvin know too," Rune says. "They've got a hundred or so riding on which of you's going to push the other against a wall first."
Brynjolf decides not to declare that he thinks he'd be the one preferring to get pushed against the wall, as well as the fact that it has, technically, already happened, and turns to leave; his sword is comfortable at his side, and he's got a member of the Guild to follow.
He catches up easily enough.
A good thief is quick and light on their feet, which Brynjolf is doing his damndest to emulate right then. He keeps a careful distance between himself and Juillen as he goes, doing all he can to keep the man in sight. The colour of his clothes helps him blend into his surroundings, melting into the trees as they grow thicker, as the sky overhead darkens.
This feels more like Juillen’s natural habitat, he realises as they go further away from Riften’s walls. The man’s rough edges and how intent he is at working alone have always spoken to something outside of growing up in a crowded city. Yes, Brynjolf thinks; the boy belongs to the wild. It’s the best explanation for all his rough edges, not yet smoothed down like cobblestone paths.
They don’t stop until they come to the edges of a pond. It’s one Brynjolf is only passingly familiar with, but that Juillen seems to know well, setting down his pack and stretching in the moonlight. Brynjolf watches his stretch - watches his hands move to the edges of his clothes, stripping them off, setting them away in the leather backpack until he’s bare in the cool night air.
He has more scars than Brynjolf thought he did. It makes his mouth feel dry as he tries to swallow. He hadn’t meant to - he does his best not to consider his idle attraction to him, for the most part, but seeing him so naked and suddenly almost vulnerable…
Brynjolf shudders, closing his eyes in a silent prayer to control himself, and almost misses the first sound that escapes Juillen’s throat. It’s a tight, pained thing, short and cut-off like he’s bitten down on it. He opens his eyes again, sees him curled over on himself, hands clutching at his upper arms as something beneath his skin ripples and stretches.
Limbs lengthening, stretching; Brynjolf hears what he recognises in the back of his mind to be bones as they crack and realign themselves. Dark fur covers tanned skin, face pushing out into a muzzle, body hunching over and growing, the stooped posture of something halfway between two worlds. He’s not entirely certain he’s still breathing as he takes the beast in, the lines of powerful muscle covered over by the fur, the tail low at the side of his thigh.
It takes a few moments to realise his fear, and by then it’s almost oppressive. He takes a half-stumble backwards, presses his back against a tree and exhales quick and sharp. The lad’s a - he supposes it makes a few things make sense, but still - he’s - he’s a -
(Brynjolf, half-hysterically, thinks, didn’t know the lad had met the Companions and chokes down a laugh at the old rumours of the most faithful members and their curse. He doubts that’s true, but defaulting to bad and overdone humour is better than being struck dumb with fear.)
The problem with Juillen being a werewolf and Brynjolf having followed him, is that he doesn’t entirely understand how the whole thing works. He can guess that the Breton has heightened senses - alarming in its own right, because Brynjolf is sure he’ll be able to smell him - but what he wonders is if the beast calls for violence. And, if it does, is it indiscriminate? Is coherence lost entirely to bloodlust, or is there still some degree of rational thought?
Brynjolf doesn’t know, but he knows what a cracking branch sounds like. Can understand the footfalls on the ground, the heavy lupine breathing, the shadow that stretches out in the moonlight as Juillen rounds the tree.
And Brynjolf is not a small man by any stretch of the imagination, usually a notable bit taller than the other man, but when he’s like this it seems that Juillen towers over him. His eyes are green as they lock onto Brynjolf’s face, which explains the ring around the outside of them, and he leans in close to sniff at the side of his neck.
“Easy, lad,” Brynjolf says. Reaches a hand up to Juillen’s shoulder, hesitantly, resting it there only when the wolf doesn’t snap at him for it. The fur is thick, coarser than he might have expected but still fairly soft. A rumble comes from deep in the wolf’s throat that might be surprise at the touch. “Easy. It’s just me.”
A growl. Brynjolf closes his eyes. Shivers.
“I got curious,” he says. Doesn’t say I’m still curious. Doesn’t bother to say that he’s not even sure Juillen can understand him. “I’ll head back to the Flagon -“
Another growl. Bared teeth, and a pointed head-jerk of a nod towards the abandoned pack by the pond. Brynjolf blinks for a moment before understanding takes hold.
“Watch the pack? Aye, alright. I’ll be here.”
His fear has settled into a cool kind of calm. Whether that’s a good thing or not, he doesn’t know, but it’s better than being reduced to a nonsensical and gibbering mess. So Juillen wants him to wait; he wouldn’t refuse, because it’s a sensible thing to ask for, and he’s been reminded of the claws and teeth he currently has besides that.
Juillen sniffs at him a few more times before he backs away and vanishes into the trees. Brynjolf feels his knees half-buckle, using one hand on the trunk of the tree to steady himself as he moves closer to the edge of the pond, where the moon is clear and the leather backpack can stay within his line of sight. He hooks one strap around his wrist, in case he should doze off - unlikely, given he can still feel his heart pounding throughout his whole body - and settles back to listen to the sound of the forest at night.
He sleeps.
This is an accident, and he hadn't meant to do it, especially not when there's a damn werewolf wandering around the forest, but Brynjolf sleeps. Wakes to the first light of the dawn, grey light filtering down and illuminating the early fog, the dewdrops hanging on the grass. He opens his eyes and finds Juillen curled beside him. Still wolfish, and one bright eye open to peer at him.
"Apologies, lad," he says. Stretches out, quiet grunt escaping him, and leans back against the tree. "Must've felt safe."
Juillen nudges his head against his shoulder. Brynjolf, instinctively - he's not owned a dog since he was a child, himself, but muscle memory takes over - scratches behind Juillen's ear, fingers sinking into the thick fur.
"Didn't know about this," he says quietly. "Could've mentioned it, lad, but... I understand. We've all got our secrets."
Juillen lifts his head again and stares. Now, Brynjolf isn't all that good at reading the face of a wolf and working out the intent behind it, but he's sure that what the lad wants to say is there's more to it than that, but... well. Everyone has secrets. He has his, he won't do anything to bare anybody else's.
"I won't tell anyone about this," he says, still scratching him behind the ears. "Not their business, is it? Rune might think I've been eaten by the wolves out here, since he saw me leaving, but he knows how to shut up when it's needed. Don't need to worry about any of that."
When Juillen gets off of him, Brynjolf half-misses the pressure and the warmth of him, but he decides not to complain; especially once he processes what's happening the before him, the way his limbs are shortening again. Juillen's body curls in on itself, every part of him tensing before it relaxes once again, and Brynjolf finds himself meeting human eyes once again.
"There you are," he says, far softer than he means to. It's hard to keep his eyes from wandering, once he realises that Juillen's nude. "Good morning."
"You're lucky," Juillen says, voice rough and raw, "that I've got better control than a lot of people do. Some of 'em would've killed you."
"I think it would've been my own fault," Brynjolf says.
"Well." Juillen sniffs, and reaches to open his pack and find his clothes. "I'd rather not hurt you."
He stops, when Brynjolf's hand twitches in an aborted motion to grab at his wrist. Which he hadn't meant to do.
"Brynjolf?"
"Sorry," he says. "I - sorry."
"I need to get dressed, Brynjolf."
"I know that, lad."
"Did you want to look at me? Is that it?"
Brynjolf closes his eyes. "You know I find you attractive. Don't you?"
The single beat of hesitation tells him everything he needs to know, but Juillen answers anyway. "I know," he says. "You've not been the most subtle about these things, I'll be honest. I see you watching - but I watch you too. You've seen me, haven't you? Don't you want to know what I've been imagining?"
"By the Divines, lad," Brynjolf breathes. "I thought - I never realised that you were interested. Your imagination... what have you thought about, then?"
"You, under me," Juillen says easily, without hesitation. "I saw you in the baths once, you know. I saw you in the water, what you looked like. Gods, Brynjolf, your thighs... the things I think about your legs, honestly."
Brynjolf has to admit he’s in the same boat here, visions of Juillen atop him coming to mind far more easily than he would like. He sucks in a breath, too-sharp and too-fast, through clenched teeth, and knows his face is reddening and flushing.
In his youth he might have been embarrassed about how easily he wishes to give up control to someone so many years his junior. These days Brynjolf has moved past it, has learned how to indicate his interests when he seeks out someone to take to bed, and the fantasies of this man before him had been coloured by whisperings of his own inclinations. Oh, how Brynjolf has hoped those were more than word-of-mouth, that there was a grain of truth in them.
“Do you want me to fuck you here?” Juillen asks, the question coming out breathy and all in a rush. “Are you - would you not rather a bed, Brynjolf? No interest in furs beneath you, so long as you can take my prick?”
Brynjolf swallows around the lump suddenly in his throat. He’s not sure how he should answer that. Truthfully: he’d have him anywhere. On the other hand: half of his fantasies have involved his face turned to the side with his cheek against soft fur blankets, a play at a marriage-bed.
“I,” he says, “will take whatever you’re willing to give me, lad.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” Juillen says. “You shouldn’t offer me that. You have no idea what I would do to you.”
“What, then?”
“Brynjolf,” Juillen says. Growls, really, the rounded vowels of his name resonating and rolling in the back of his throat like a snarl. “You - I - you don’t understand. You don’t know. By the gods, Brynjolf, I’d have you before all of Riften if I could, to make sure they know you’re mine, you’re off the market. I want to - claim you, mark you, make you mine.”
Brynjolf does not say would you wed me, lad, because he has some remaining scrap of self-control and dignity. Juillen seems to read it in his expression anyway, exhaling shakily, settling himself down on his knees to better meet Brynjolf’s eyes.
“I would take you to the Temple,” he says, “and I would beg Mara to bless us and our union, do you hear me? I’m sure that some would prefer we not wed, but… I would, Brynjolf.”
“Aye, lad,” Brynjolf says. “I hear you.”
“Let me take you to an inn,” Juillen says. Reaches for his hand and takes it between both of his own. “A bed. No; let me take you to my home. My bed. Ours, if you would have me.”
“Your home?”
Brynjolf had assumed that Juillen, like the rest of the Guild, had no options for somewhere to go save for the Flagon or other inns across Skyrim. But he gets a careful smile as Juillen reaches for his clothes and begins to dress.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s a trek, but I think we can get a carriage from Riften. So long as you’re willing to wait, I mean. We could always get a room at the Barb…”
“Could have you in my bed at the Guild, lad,” Brynjolf says. Swallows down his own apprehension at inviting someone to his own private sanctuary. “We wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“A private room?” Juillen sounds surprised; impressed almost. “I suppose Mercer was good for something after all…”
Brynjolf scratches at his nose, suddenly embarrassed. Juillen’s smile, when it comes, is small and sweet; fleeting.
“I’m teasing,” he says. “Let’s go back to Riften, then. I’m not sure I can wait much longer.”
They make it back and the only reaction any have is Rune raising his eyebrows suggestively and Vex clearing her throat in a way Brynjolf is certain is a kind of judgement on their decorum; but they stay silent enough, not drawing unnecessary attention to them, allowing Brynjolf to lead Juillen through the sharp corridors until they can close the heavy door behind them.
The Flagon is a haven for the Guild but it's still part of the Ratway, which stretches and twists beneath Riften like a rabbit's warren. Long corridors, almost like an attempt at a labyrinth, like they were designed for someone unfamiliar with them to lose their way instantly.
Brynjolf tries to ignore Juillen as he looks around the room. Maybe he's seeking some kind of personal effects, the little touches that make it a home. There aren't many. He's never been a man inclined to keeping trinkets, not like some are, and he's got very little in terms of mementos from childhood. The room has a bed, some drawers, a stand for his armour and a place to keep his weapons. It's plenty for him.
"Mercer could've made it a little nicer for you," Juillen says.
"It's plenty for me, lad."
Juillen frowns. "That's a little sad. Even Delvin has... trinkets, and the like."
"Never been anyone to give me any 'trinkets'."
"I'll do it. I'll spoil you rotten."
"You don't need to do that." Brynjolf can feel himself flushing; curses his Nord blood and his red hair, a combination that makes the blood come easily to his cheeks. He's not even wholly sure why he's embarrassed - the thought of being spoiled like some innocent little maiden, most likely. But he can't deny that he likes it. Thinking of himself almost like a wife... he likes that. Sort of.
"I will."
Brynjolf huffs a quiet laugh and lets Juillen take his hand when he reaches out for it. He lets himself be pulled towards the bed and down to sit on the edge of it. Fur and linen sheets below him, which he smooths his hand over, glancing up at Juillen through his eyelashes only to find that he's being stared at. Watched, hungrily.
"Is this still what you want?" Juillen asks. "Even now that you know... now that you know."
"I already told you, lad," Brynjolf says. "Anything you'll give me."
Juillen takes the hint. He leans in and kisses him.
His lips are chapped from the cool winter wind and their walk back. His mouth tastes metallic, and herbal, under something sweeter; the honey nut treat Brynjolf had offered him on the walk back, well-aware of what he'd likely been doing as a wolf. And he kisses well, as though he's practiced at it, as if he's experienced. Brynjolf lets himself make a brief, content noise, brings a hand up from where he was supporting himself to cup and cradle Juillen's jaw, brush over the stubble and beginnings of a beard.
He gives up any of his control over the kiss almost immediately. Lets Juillen lick into his mouth and kiss him passionately. Like a whore, a voice whispers at the back of his mind, and Brynjolf does a bad job at holding himself back from moaning into the kiss. He doesn't need to breathe, to think; all he cares about in the moment is Juillen, Juillen, Juillen.
The man in question growls low in his throat, a rumble that seems to come from the centre of his chest, as he uses whatever leverage he can get to push Brynjolf down onto his bed. He's momentarily grateful he hadn't bothered to fully kit himself out in armour and is just wearing leathers - those can come off easily enough with frustrated tugging at buckles while trying not to break their kiss for more than a split-second to breathe.
"Let me," Brynjolf gets out in one of the pauses, and Juillen sits back enough to let Brynjolf take his clothes off. After a moment's pause he starts taking his own off too, uncaring of where they fall when he drops them on the floor. Brynjolf might comment on it, at any other time, but he finds that he couldn't care less. He's in the same boat, even, letting everything fall to the ground until he's wholly bare, exposed, ready for Juillen to do whatever he likes to him.
"By the gods, you're beautiful," Juillen breathes. One of his hands rests on Brynjolf's chest, just over an old scar, one that his thumb brushes over. Brynjolf suspects it might be unconscious, as his thumb traces the raised edges of it. He'd long forgotten about that scar; it was when he was just a boy, barely more than ten.
"High praise coming from you, lad," he says. Juillen grins at him. A proper grin. His lad is a half-feral thing in moments like that - Brynjolf fancies he can see the wolfish nature in it now, the teeth slightly-sharper than a regular Breton's might be, that bright green flash in his eyes again. Hunger. Lust.
They kiss again. There's an added level of intimacy to this now that they're both nude. Juillen's already aroused, if Brynjolf isn't mistaking what he can feel against his skin, and the fact of that makes him moan into the kiss once again. He feels like a whore, but Juillen seems to like it. Maybe the lad likes thinking of Brynjolf as his whore - and, well, he supposes he isn't against it.
He's hard too, hard and aching between them, and Juillen seems aware of it, if the way he growls and pushes him down into the bed is anything to go by. If the way he's kissed again is anything to go by, wild and rough, harsh enough to bump teeth against his lips; wandering hands, nails dragging through the wiry hair on his chest, down to his cock. A rough palm over the head of it, teasing, finding him just sensitive enough that Brynjolf's hips twitch up into it, seeking out friction.
It's been, he realises, too long. He's not certain he'll be able to last as long as the lad might want him to.
"Fuck," Juillen hisses, moving his mouth to Brynjolf's neck. The words tickle, hot breath against hotter skin. "I'm not sure where to start. I'm not sure what I want to do first."
"You can have me whatever way you wish."
"You're giving me too much again," Juillen says. His hand moves, wrapping around Brynjolf's cock in a loose hold, just enough pressure to feel good but still light, still teasing. "I could do this for hours. Touch you just like this until you go mad and beg for more. I could... your mouth. I wonder how good you are with your silver tongue."
"Is that what you think of me?" Brynjolf finds his voice steadier than he expects, given the hand of another being wrapped around his cock as it is. "Silver tongue. You flatter me, lad, really."
"I worry I'll scare you off, if you know the things I imagine you doing."
Juillen sounds unsure of himself for the first time since Brynjolf's known him. Wary, maybe, as though this is something he's actually reluctant to admit. And it's hard to focus on being kind about it, distracted as he is, but he pushes his hand away and sits up. One of Brynjolf's hands goes to his cheek, cupping it. Tender, gentle.
Like a lover, Brynjolf's mind helpfully supplies. There's a lurching in his stomach, as if something has been torn out of it. An ache in his chest, his heart.
"Anything," Brynjolf says. "Please, lad. Little wolf. Take me."
"You shouldn't call me - that's - I like that too much."
"Should say it more, then."
A reminder that the lad is far past human - a growl low in his throat, and Brynjolf finds himself on the bed again, flat on his back, hips lifted off of the mattress and held up by Juillen's thighs. He blinks, a little surprised, and watches wide-eyed as Juillen takes two of his own fingers to his mouth and sucks at them, coating them shiny-wet with his own spit.
He would ask what Juillen plans to do with those, the words on his lips, the tip of his tongue, but the unspoken question is answered by the press of them to his entrance, a pressure growing steadily more insistent until one pushes inside, then the other. Brynjolf hisses out a curse between his teeth and lets his head roll back halfway onto his pillow, swallowing the noises he wants to make. Juillen is slow but methodical as he works him open; slow and steady, stretching him like he's afraid to hurt him, like Brynjolf doesn't know about the blood on his hands.
"Have you done this before?" Juillen asks. Brynjolf swallows, finding himself thoroughly distracted by the exploration of his body.
"Aye," he says. "A long - by the Nine, lad - a long while ago, now."
A bright, sharp, wave of pleasure that shoots through him. Juillen's clever, clever mouth curving into a smile, reaching that spot with his fingers again, and again, and again.
"Does it feel good?"
"A-aye."
"Think how much better it'll be when it's my cock," Juillen says. He looks a little surprised at himself, but wipes it away, transforming his face into a mask of cool arrogance instead. "I think that's what you want, Brynjolf."
"Please. Please, la- Juillen."
"Good. That's - that's good. Yes. It'll be easier if you relax."
Brynjolf tries. Relaxes as best he can, focuses on just the pleasure from Juillen's fingers fucking into him, the pleasant stretch of it as a third is added and he groans out what might be a prayer, might be a curse. He tries to relax, almost managing it until Juillen pulls out his fingers, leaving him empty.
"Relax," Juillen says again, adjusting his position. Brynjolf does, letting himself be manhandled and manoeuvred, until he can feel something else pressing into him. Bigger by far than fingers. More the sort of shape and size of something that can only be bought in the seediest shops in the rank underbelly of cities. "Let me have you, Brynjolf."
"Take me," Brynjolf breathes. He'd close his eyes, but he doesn't want to take his eyes from Juillen's face. He'd hate to miss the moment where Juillen begins pushing his cock into him, the way he bites down hard on his lip to keep from groaning, the way his cheeks redden and his hands grip ever-tighter to the meat of Brynjolf's thighs.
Something under his breath, a language Brynjolf doesn't speak. Hips pressed flush against his own, and he curls his legs around Juillen's waist. Pulls him closer, draws him in.
"Perfect," Brynjolf gets out. "Please, lad. Please, more."
"I..." Juillen's voice has the barest strain in it. He doesn't sound too much like he's been caught unawares. "Brynjolf, I - I can't promise this - this will be like making love. I doubt I'm kind enough for that. I haven't been with another since the, ah, the wolf..."
Brynjolf elects not to mention the occasional novels he's purloined from other Guild members. The filth on those pages - even some of them detailing erotic encounters with werewolves; their size, girth, peculiar organ at the base of their cocks...
"Then don't make love to me," Brynjolf says, the last remaining parts of himself that he might call a romantic dying away in a lustful haze. "Mate me. Instinct, lad."
Bared teeth and another growl - all the warning Brynjolf gets before Juillen does just that.
He can barely focus on the sensation, busy losing himself to the pleasure, the drag of skin, sharp bursts of delight that shoot through him with every roll of Juillen's hips. Brynjolf isn't certain how long it's been since he took another to bed, but he knows it didn't feel like this, that it wasn't half this enjoyable.
"More," he breathes, a hand scrabbling at Juillen's skin, attempting to get hold of him, to gain some leverage. "Please, lad, more, more."
More, he begs for, and more he gets - faster movements, rougher, somehow enjoyable even though Brynjolf isn't convinced Juillen isn't just seeking his own pleasure. It's working nonetheless.
He loosens his grip on one of Juillen's arms, moves it to his own cock, breathless and letting out a groan as his thumb brushes over the tip, smearing what's already been leaking all over it. He hisses out a curse, knowing that his nails are digging in too tight on Juillen's arm, that he'll be leaving indentations and scratches once they're done.
Juillen seems not to care.
"Yes," he growls, bending over him even further, breath hot where it lands against Brynjolf's throat. "Yes, hurt me, Brynjolf."
Given half a chance, Brynjolf thinks Juillen might walk out of here marked up like he's had a night with a whore, deep scratches down his back like he's been buried deep in some girl's cunt. But he'll leave marks deep on his arms, enough that they'll linger, especially when he hits him right at the perfect spot.
Predictably, Brynjolf comes to his edge first, pushed over it by Juillen biting down at the side of his throat. The pain gets him, spilling over his hand and stomach, barely remembering to swallow down the shout that fights to escape him. Juillen follows soon after, hips flush against Brynjolf's skin, cock thicker at the base than he'd noticed at the start.
"Ah," Brynjolf gasps out, "shit, lad, I - you -"
Juillen rolls his hips slightly, still deep inside Brynjolf as he does. He hums. "I know," he says. His voice is rough, lower than Brynjolf has ever heard it, save for the days when he's just woken up. "A consequence of my... mm. D'you think it's an affliction?"
Brynjolf shifts, feeling something thick inside him, stretching at his entrance. "Not unless you do, lad."
"My gift, then," Juillen grins, lazy and slow, his teeth a little sharper than a normal persons would be. "A canine adaptation."
"To do with... your cock?"
"Just for a little while," Juillen says. "Helps with mating."
Brynjolf bites his tongue, holding down the moan that wants to escape him at those words. "Then I - I -"
"Shh."
"How long for, lad?"
"A few minutes. Maybe longer." Juillen laughs, tucking his face into the side of Brynjolf's neck, the side he'd bitten down on. "Maybe next time we could think to time it."
Brynjolf thinks, next time? but doesn't say it aloud, turning his face slightly to the side and pressing a kiss to the side of Juillen's head, smelling pine trees, woodsmoke, and the forest. His hair is soft, curls tickling the sides of Brynjolf's face. "Aye," he says. "Next time."