I think I wrote this at two in the morning last night. I'm not quite sure. Anyway, this is set in the same general universe as Silence, My Brother and Nero Fiddles, Rome Burns, and features my Bosmer Listener, Arthion, like the other two, but it's not a prequel or a sequel to anything, really-just a little vignette. Title taken from A Kiss, My Sweet Mother, which is a book featured in-game, detailing the Black Sacrament.
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That Most Profane of Rituals
In all the years he'd known Vilkas, he didn't think they'd ever gotten along. Like two clashing blades they had always met each other head on, neither one willing to give, each using all the mettle they could muster to push the other back, to prove that there was strength in hard muscles and unyielding metal or in lithe frames and malleable leather. It was Skyrim's eternal fight, Man versus Elf, neither willing to back down. For those reasons, he supposed they made love in much the same way they fought—clashing, relentless, and battling each other all the way. Of course, that was assuming they could even apply the term making love to what they did, this odd new fighting pastime. Love assumed that one did not wake up the next morning with claw marks all but carved into their back, after all; love assumed that there were gentle touches, affectionate words, and a quick marriage, for what was it that that inane priest had once told him once? Ah, yes.
"Typically, love in Skyrim is as earnest as the people who live here."
And what could be more earnest than an assassin and what said assassin thought amounted to little more than a hired thug?
Arthion wasn't a fool who got hung up on technicalities. Perhaps the Companions prided themselves on honour, but to a jaded mind like his, honour was as ridiculous a concept as the thought of escaping death in its entirety. There could be rules to follow, of course, and rules were a necessity if one wanted to keep anything running, but rules didn't need honour, and roughing a target up for coin didn't require it either. And yet, he thought to himself, his mouth curling into a satisfied smile as Vilkas' mouth met his neck, the elf's own fingers curling into the other man's hair, you pride yourself so oddly on it.
It made him wonder what the Companions would think if they knew what he had dipped his fingers into (present company excluded, naturally), and what the curved blade that hung permanently at his side truly symbolised. He wouldn't ever tell them, of course, but it was an interesting thought, almost as interesting as the ragged breathing against his skin, and the image of a man where there had once been a steel wolf.
He could feel the weight of Vilkas' hand as it pressed into the small of his back, partially divested of armour, and he huffed an amused breath into the Nord's dark hair, his fingers twisting in the dark strands even as Vilkas pushed back against him both physically and mentally, and, oh, if these were what sparks felt like, flashes of pleasure mingled with the occasional flicker of pain, then he could see why blacksmithing was such a huge draw. With a small 'hmm', Arthion shifted slightly so that he was closer—pressing, daring, challenging.
"Must you keep moving like that, elf?" Vilkas growled into his skin, and Arthion merely responded by trailing one hand down to the Nord's bare shoulder, his fingers curving into a cage, nails digging into the hard flesh without sound, something that drew a sharp breath from his companion. Vilkas couldn't see the smirk on his face, but Arthion made sure he heard it when he spoke.
"Must you keep stopping like that, Companion? Where's your vigour now?"
Perhaps their clashes were so sweet because of what they were, Arthion reflected even as he found his mouth claimed harshly. He was a being of shadow, tied to a darkness he wondered if he even understood sometimes, hands permanently stained with red, and whether it was the red of the innocent or red of the guilty was a detail that rarely mattered. Vilkas was a man who championed honour and integrity, who would despise everything Arthion was if he knew—and that was why he would never find out, because Arthion was not fool enough to try and tempt Vilkas into the shadows where he so clearly did not belong, where the words of the Listener would kill him from the inside out. An assassin and a champion could not be asked to share the same ideals, the same morals, and it would only be an unnecessary breaking point, one Arthion did not want to force when their current arrangement worked so well.
"Finally speechless, elf?" Vilkas said as one hand moved to stabilise their position, the other reaching up to rest against Arthion's bared neck, and the wood elf's dark eyes couldn't help but flash at that, his own hand moving to snatch at Vilkas'.
"I always found that the music of life was silence," Arthion whispered, his grip tightening, and his mouth softened at the small grunt of pain from the other Nord, prompting him to relax his fingers and lower his head, resting his forehead against Vilkas', relishing in the height advantage his position in Vilkas' lap gave him. "Do you not agree?"
His only answer was another clash, mouth against mouth and body against body, and he reflected that perhaps that was the only response he'd ever get.