Author's Note:

I don't think you necessarily need to read my longfic to read this, but it would definitely put things into context.

I mentioned in the author's note at the end of chapter 38 of Improbable Stars that I was considering posting a spinoff oneshot about what might have happened if Vilkas hadn't come down to the Ratway at the perfect moment to interrupt our Dragonborn and Brynjolf. This is the result. It started off as pure self-indulgent fluff, but of course, my brain couldn't let it remain that way.

WHAT HAPPENS IN RIFTEN

"Has anyone ever told you, you have a perfect mouth?" Brynjolf said in a low, low voice. So completely masculine and sensual, Deirdre felt the syllables spread through her like pleasant poison. Or was that still just the effects of her little shot of liquor?

She shook her head; no, no one had ever told her that. She was hypnotized by the shape of his mouth, though, how it moved so prettily to shape his pretty words.

His other hand touched under her chin, gently tilting her face up.

"Then let me be the first," he murmured.

Deirdre's eyes had fallen closed and her breath had caught in her throat, and then he kissed her. There on a barstool in the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf's warm lips brushed against hers, tilting, aligning just so with her own, pressing sure and full and real against her mouth, and a red sunburst lit inside her chest.

After a moment, he pulled back. His thumb traced her bottom lip in such a way as to suggest greediness, a desire to delve deeper—and a restraint that kept him from doing so. Deirdre's breath shuddered out of her. That suggestion of greediness made the skin all over her body tighten and tingle.

As her eyes opened, slowly, her mind was deliciously hazy.

"What did I tell you," Brynjolf said, gaze as full of greed as his thumb had been. "Perfect."

Deirdre had to remind herself to breathe. Brynjolf smiled, leaning in again, kissing her now-parted lips and tilting her chin back up with more of that greediness in his touch, more pleasant poison. He drew her hand down the side of his face to his neck, to his chest. It vaguely occurred to her she should probably have stopped at just one kiss, and not allowed a second. But the second was somehow better than the first.

Then he asked her something easy and mundane—she would forget what it was. But she answered. After a few exchanges back and forth, he kissed her again. They talked, and talked, and he kissed her every time the conversation lulled. Light, lingering kisses; short kisses, on her hands, the corner of her lips; hungry kisses on her mouth. His questions were not distracted in the slightest, and his replies indicated he was absorbing her every word. Comparatively, she was rendered senseless. She responded automatically, almost forgetting she had certain secrets to keep.

Brynjolf ordered a mead and asked her if she wanted some too. She would later recall this question with frustrating clarity, and confess to herself she had said yes because she didn't want whatever was happening to be over. She'd thought, perhaps she shouldn't trust him this far. But he was so handsome. And so charming. And apologetic for what had happened, and impressed by her mettle. And so, so attentive. No one, let alone a beautiful man, had ever paid this kind of attention to her. It was like she'd stepped into a little cocoon of a world where the two of them were the only people present.

She drank a mug of honey-sweet mead that went down much easier than the shot, while Brynjolf had his own, and their kisses tasted like honey too. And the hungry kisses became more frequent.

He put a hand on her knee, under her red cloak, and looked her in the eye. "I want to kiss you properly. Come with me?"

The heat of his gaze shot through her. She felt delectably secure and warm, her body thrumming happily. Touching Brynjolf felt incomparably wonderful. The way he looked at her was incomparably addictive.

"Okay."

He led her by the hand through a door behind the bar. They walked through a dark corridor, around a bend, through another door, into a huge, practically empty space where moonlight shone through bars in the ceiling, and water lapped against stone somewhere.

Brynjolf pulled her to a pocket of shadow away from the moonlight, picked her up by the waist, and set her atop what felt like a stack of crates. Then he stepped between her knees and began to kiss her in earnest. She hadn't realized it wasn't in earnest before. He was still controlled, still deliberate, but it was more aggressive. And it surprised Deirdre how much she enjoyed having someone else's tongue in her mouth.

At some point she had to turn her face away, struggling to catch her breath. Brynjolf used the reprieve to nip at her neck. The throaty sound Deirdre made startled her, momentarily giving her pause.

Brynjolf held her face in his hands and kissed her temple.

"My room is just over there," he said quietly.

He met her eyes again, a silent question. Deirdre could not think. With such a face before her, with such a heart racing in her chest, she could not think.

"I can't," she said automatically, and did not understand the way her heart panged in protest. It should not have done that; it made no sense. This was all happening so fast.

Brynjolf's thumbs stroked her cheeks, and he didn't break eye contact.

"Why not?"

She did not know why not. She had her answer ready to give, but did not understand it.

"Because. I … shouldn't."

"Deirdre."

He said her name like a prayer. Her body tingled with an ache she suspected he could address; it demanded arms around her, and heat, and lips on skin.

"Spend the night with me," Brynjolf said.

Deirdre's hands came up to his, wrapping around them, drawing them from her face. She held his hands and felt a painful anticipation coursing through her. It scared her. It called to her.

"I've never … "

Brynjolf dropped his forehead to hers, voice both reassuring and heady with desire.

"Trust me on this. I will make you feel better than you've ever felt before."

Her heart leapt; her stomach lurched. She turned her face up to kiss him, a gesture he met with enthusiasm. He swept her up into his arms and walked quickly to his room.

In a purely physical sense, Brynjolf kept his word. He touched her in ways she had not conceived of. Ways Gerdur had failed to mention all that time ago during her embarrassing "talk," when Deirdre had heard more than she'd wanted to know and less than she'd realized. Brynjolf seemed to understand exactly which parts of her body would respond to exactly which caresses, and he applied this understanding with patience and relish.

She clutched at him, she moaned, she writhed. Brynjolf complimented, praised, urged her to breathe and relax. He drew her up into his lap, again situated between her knees; there was a moment of pain, a moment of connection, Brynjolf's arm tight around her, his name on her lips, his reassurances in her ears. Pain and pleasure blended till she could not tell them apart. Yes, this was better than anything she'd ever felt before.

All at once, a peak. Brynjolf buried his face in her neck and groaned—deeply, ravenously, as if in gratitude—and followed after her.

Deirdre came down from indescribable heights to find tears spilling from her eyes. Lifting his head, skin radiating heat and strength against her, Brynjolf swiped a thumb across her wet cheek. He wore a blissful smile.

"Gods, you cry so pretty," he breathed.

He kissed her. Softly. Reverently. And the thought sprang up in her mind, beautiful and parasitic as a weed, that this felt like—love? She loved him?

What else? came the thought, swimming up through the echoes of euphoria. Love, love, love—

She ran her hands up his shoulders and neck as wave after wave of this feeling crashed through her, and her tears kept flowing. He brought her hand up and pressed his lips to her palm. He kissed her wrist, kissed her shoulder, across her collarbone, the swell of her breast, then tipped her back onto the bed.

He was not done with her yet.

She woke before Brynjolf.

The bed was almost too warm. Brynjolf's arm had gone slack, but was still caging her against the furnace that was his body. She opened her eyes to see his chest, covered in red hair, rising and falling slowly with his breath.

Memories of the previous night trickled back to her. Certain moments in particular were gilded with gold and fire. Her face heated.

She extricated herself carefully from Brynjolf. Every motion made her hyper-aware of certain new muscles she had not ever known existed, or of certain places that were tender. She felt as if she'd sprinted a mile the day before.

She crawled off Brynjolf's absurdly large bed and padded quietly to the attached washroom (apparently being Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild came with certain luxuries). They'd made use of it, after, and before he'd pulled her into his arms to sleep. Turns out there had been some mess involved. Yet another little detail she hadn't learned from Gerdur's talk.

She made use of the washroom and then sought out the oval mirror on the washbasin stand, which Brynjolf must have used while shaving. Curious and a little apprehensive, she examined her reflection. There was a smattering of red marks on her neck. She drew down the neckline of Brynjolf's undershirt to reveal more on her chest. She stood back further from the mirror and stretched, angling to try and see as much of her body as possible. Her thighs bore the same badges as the rest of her, and faint bruises.

"Don't you look beautifully debauched," came a voice.

She jumped. Brynjolf stood at the door to the washroom, shirtless, leaning against the frame with arms crossed. The look on his face was one of deep satisfaction. An artist pleased with his work.

She flushed again. She self-consciously tugged his undershirt back into place, mindful of the fact that it didn't quite reach her knees.

"Are you hungry?" Brynjolf asked, utterly unflustered.

She assessed herself. "I suppose?"

He nodded, walking up and dropping a swift kiss on her head. "Give me a minute in here, and I'll get us some breakfast."

She went back out to the bedroom and sat on the bed, shaking her head at its size, running a hand over the embroidered duvet. He lived like a lord, down here in his rough little kingdom. He must have had money. She'd seen that he had authority. He was undeniably handsome.

And he'd spent the last several hours with her. He liked her. Insignificant kitchen maid that she was, she'd impressed him and been desired by him.

She fell backward on the bed and covered her face with her hands. Stirrings of the strong feelings from the previous night swirled within her. She didn't know what to do with them. She didn't dare think beyond this moment.

Brynjolf came out from the washroom and nonchalantly went about getting dressed, stripping down in plain view before putting on a fresh pair of pants and a simple, if well-stitched, tunic. He sat beside her on the bed as he pulled on his shoes. Dressed, he kissed the spot behind her ear and told her he'd see about finding her some clothes that would fit. Her dress and shift still had blood stains from her fight in the Ratway, after all.

He did indeed leave and return with new clothes for her, which he set aside in favor of her promised breakfast. Where he got these things, Deirdre didn't know, and didn't venture to ask. Did the Thieves Guild have a kitchen and a tailor? Did he have valuable goods stockpiled somewhere to pick and choose from? Was she being gifted stolen clothes?

They ate bread and cold meats and drank crisp, cool water to wash it down. This doubled as a help to Deirdre's lingering headache, and Brynjolf was grinning as he pointed out how comically quickly she seemed to perk up. As they ate, Brynjolf remained attentive, sitting with her on the bed and talking—and after breakfast, his affectionate kisses and pets became more heated, and his hands began to roam. Soon enough she was clutching at him again. He worked her up so that her head spun and her skin grew hot and everything felt so good she could have touched him and been touched by him for hours. It was convenient she hadn't gotten dressed yet.

Afterward, she cleaned herself up and came back out of the washroom to find a sated and happy Brynjolf lounging on the bed. He gave her an appreciative glance before she hastened across the room to grab the new shift he'd procured.

She had just put on the shift and was about to step into the dress (deep blue, nearly black, made of high quality cotton and cut in a similar fashion to her birthday dress), when there came a furious knocking at the door.

This time, they both jumped. They exchanged looks. Brynjolf got off the bed, waving her toward the washroom. She took the dress with her and scurried in, leaving the door slightly ajar so she could listen.

As soon as she heard the door click unlocked, she heard someone strike it, and it banged into the wall.

"You godsdamned lecher!" shrieked a woman's voice, entering Brynjolf's room. "You wanna tell me why there's a bloody Companion going berserk in the Flagon right now?"

Deirdre gasped. She slapped a hand over her mouth.

Vilkas!

"A Companion?" Brynjolf repeated. But she'd told him she'd come to Riften with a Companion, so he'd either forgotten, or was feigning ignorance.

"YES!" the woman exploded. "And I'll tell you why! Because you couldn't keep it in your pants! Where is she?!"

Deirdre cringed back from the small gap in the door, holding her new dress to her chest.

"Who, exactly?"

"Don't play dumb with me! You think the whole Ratway didn't hear you going at it last night? You'll be lucky if he doesn't rip your stupid arms off!"

Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut. Her mortification penetrated down to her bone marrow. People had heard them? She—she hadn't been loud, though? Had she been loud?!

"Get her out of here, now, before he kills us all and puts your damn head on a pike!"

Footsteps stomped away, punctuated by the echoing slam of the door. Deirdre stood in the ensuing silence, panicking. She shook herself and began pulling on her dress.

Brynjolf rapped on the washroom door and pushed it open, offering to help her since the dress laced up the back. He was quick and skillful with the task, and Deirdre tried not to ponder where he'd gotten his practice.

She put on her stockings and shoes and he put the red cloak around her before they departed. The large space outside his room was lit by early daylight coming in through the bars in the ceiling, and Deirdre could see there were many doors to other rooms in the walls, and a handful of people walking about. Her cheeks burned. She prayed the woman had been exaggerating about hearing them.

Brynjolf led her back to the Flagon. The first thing they saw when they walked out was one of Brynjolf's associates from the tavern—and Vilkas, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt with a snarl.

"Wait!" Deirdre cried, running forward. She seized Vilkas's arm.

He blinked at her. He dropped the man and swivelled to grab her by the shoulders.

She was taken aback by the raw fear in his eyes. He looked her over, grip tight, before his teeth grit in fury.

"Where the hell have you been?" he roared, giving her a good shake. "I thought you'd been kidnapped or killed!"

"D-didn't you get my note?" she stuttered, quailing at the force of his reaction.

"I was gone all night chasing down my contract!" he yelled. "I thought—I thought you—"

And without actually articulating what he'd thought, he suddenly drew her into a crushing hug. Deirdre could only receive it in dumb shock. Guilt flooded through her; she was so irresponsible. Of course he would think the worst. He'd had no way of knowing she'd been safe, and she'd been gone all night. Her note had said she'd be back, but she hadn't been.

"Vilkas, I'm so sorry," she said, pushing him back with some difficulty so she could meet his gaze. He did not fully release her, hands clinging to her upper arms. "I wasn't thinking. I thought you'd get the note last night."

"You think I wouldn't have come straight down here if I'd gotten it last night?" he thundered. "I thought you were in bed! I didn't get back until almost dawn, and assumed you were asleep! Not hanging around in the daedra-damned Ratway!"

"I'm sorry," she said again, in all sincerity. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm really fine."

His jaw clenched again. Was he shaking? The wrath did not leave his face.

He examined her. She realized he was noticing her new clothes, and then she realized he could see some of the marks on her neck. His gaze slid sideways to Brynjolf. His fingers dug into her arms.

He drew her behind him.

"Are you the reason she was gone all night?" he said coldly.

Deirdre felt a chill.

All the charming warmth in Brynjolf's voice was gone. "I'm also the reason she isn't coming back to you with severe injuries, since I had them healed. I'm not the one who said he wouldn't help her if she got her pocket picked. That was someone else."

"You son of a bitch," Vilkas spat. "Don't play high and mighty. You're all Thieves Guild, aren't you? You're lecturing me about helping her? Aren't you the ones who stole from her in the first place? And then you took advantage of her?"

His voice rose with every sentence until it was ringing in Deirdre's eardrums—and it struck her that he was a razor's edge from attacking Brynjolf. Emerging from behind him, she put a hand on his arm.

"Vilkas, it's fine. I promise. I'm fine."

His gaze seared straight into her. He looked nothing less than repulsed.

She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. She shrank back, lowering her eyes to the floor. Vilkas's rage was palpable; she felt it thickening the air.

"The only reason I'm not breaking your spine," Vilkas seethed to Brynjolf, through gritted teeth, "is because I'm not going to subject her to the sight. Come on, Deirdre."

And he turned, and snatched her by the wrist, and started to stalk away.

"Wait!" Deirdre protested, digging in her heels.

Vilkas halted. His grip tightened painfully; Deirdre winced.

"You're hurting me," she peeped.

Vilkas's head swivelled toward her. He released her, jerking his hand away, and she drew her arm to her chest with a swallow.

"I have to say goodbye."

Vilkas said nothing. Deirdre dared a brief glance up at his rigidly furious face before stepping back, pivoting from him and rushing back to Brynjolf.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "He's just being protective."

Brynjolf rubbed the back of his neck, a fainter version of his crooked grin playing across his lips. "Bit of a hothead, isn't he?"

"He's usually pretty even-tempered. I'm sorry."

Brynjolf shook his head. "Don't be. Honestly—I can see where he's coming from."

Deirdre returned his grin with a small one of her own. A little hesitantly, she extended a hand. Brynjolf took it, and gave the back of it the same gentlemanly kiss he'd first given her in the marketplace.

"I had a wonderful time," he said.

The new smile he gave her was bright. But not crooked.

Deirdre stilled.

A full second too late, she broadened her smile as well. "Y-Yes," she agreed.

His fingers squeezed hers. "Have a safe journey back to Whiterun," he added, as his smile remained perfectly in place, perfectly symmetrical, and his eyes unblinkingly held her gaze.

Something in Deirdre's chest wilted.

She tried to smother the feeling. She forced her expression not to dim.

As she drew her hand from his warm grasp, the air that closed around her fingers was cold. Stiffly, she turned her back on him and went to Vilkas's side. They started walking away. Out of the Ragged Flagon. Onto the bridge.

Halfway across she could not ignore what she'd tried to smother.

"I had a wonderful time."

She folded her hands together over her heart, under the red cloak. Her lungs felt like they were made of something stiff and inflexible.

That … was it?

"I had a wonderful time."

A wonderful time. She'd been a wonderful time.

She should turn back. Ask him if he had anything else to say. A declaration of love. Or at least affection. (He'd thought so much of her gumption, her prettiness; he'd said so repeatedly. He'd meant it.)

A wish to see her again. A sadness breaking through false bravado, revealing his dismay at their parting. A promise to write to her. At least a false promise.

Something. Anything.

"Have a safe journey back to Whiterun."

At the last second, Deirdre looked over her shoulder and saw that Brynjolf was already gone. Her stomach dropped. She snapped her head forward.

Vilkas did not say a word to her. She did not say a word to him. She followed him mutely out of the Ratway, through Riften, back to the inn to gather their things, and out to the Riften stables. She followed him mutely to the carriage. Mutely, she got inside.

It wasn't until the door had slammed shut and the carriage had lurched into motion, and she looked out the window to see Riften pulling away, that it hit her.

The suddenness with which her eyes began to burn caught her off guard.

"Deirdre?" Vilkas said, alarmed.

There were already tears on her face. They came as swiftly, as inexorably, as the tears the night before, with Brynjolf.

Oh, she realized, as the world disappeared from under her. I'm a fool.

Once again, Gerdur had been right.

She bent over her lap and covered her face as the profound hurt and humiliation swept through her.

"You're hurt?" Vilkas said, panicking. "He did hurt son of a—I have to kill him—"

Deirdre rapidly shook her head, swiping at her face. She suppressed a sudden sob, her shoulders jerking with the effort.

"What does that mean? Deirdre?" he sounded almost pleading. "What—you have to tell me—"

She shook her head again. "I thought," she choked out, not even sure what words were about to emerge, "I thought—he—I—"

A large shape appeared beside her on her seat. Gingerly, his hand fell on her shoulder.

"I thought he—liked me," she confessed, in the tiniest, most pathetic voice imaginable.

Vilkas was quiet for a moment. "Ah. Shit," he said softly.

And that broke her. Vilkas knew. Brynjolf, of course, had known. Apparently the whole Ratway had known, had heard. Deirdre was the brainless girl who'd taken an entire night and one unceremonious parting to figure it out.

Turning from Vilkas, she drew her feet up onto the carriage bench and curled into herself, holding her fists to her forehead, hiding her face behind her arms. She cried for a long time.

Author's Note:

I had two people IRL read this and got totally different reactions from them. One of them absolutely hated it. So I'm a little unsure if it's worth posting, and very curious to see how a wider audience receives it. Let me know what you thought?