This is almost entirely smut, and I am not ashamed in the least.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

topside

The brothers support each other down the stairs and along the hallway that holds their rooms, quietly chuckling at each other, themselves, and nothing in particular. They had stayed up talking and drinking long past sunset, and they're both feeling the effects of their mead—though Vilkas is considerably less coherent than his brother after using the mead as a tool to forget his misguided love. When they reach their doors, Farkas allows his wobbly brother to stumble alone to his bedroom.

Vilkas shuts the door behind him and leans heavily against it, eyes closed. His mind feels muddled, but, somehow, his heartache shines through the fog. He's reminded himself a dozen times tonight that he's a fool for being so upset: he knows Mayenor, knows her reputation, and even if they had slept together, it wouldn't have guaranteed a relationship. She, like anyone else, had needs and was just looking to satisfy them.

He pushes off from the door and moves farther into his room, stripping out of his shirt with his thoughts on his Shield-Sister. It's not until he's got one leg out of his pants that he notices something off: a light shines behind the screen that hides his bed from the door. There is usually a candle flickering in every room of Jorrvaskr, but this light is steady, unblinking. He hastens back into his trousers and grabs a knife off a nearby table.

When he rounds the screen, he stops dead, and the knife clatters from his grip. There, sitting cross-legged on his bed in one of his shirts, is Mayenor, a magical light shining brightly over her head. She's bent over her ruined leather cuirass, carefully sewing up the cut. She looks up mid-stitch, clean hair glistening in the light and eyes dancing, and smiles at him.

"You and Farkas have a nice talk?" She asks, returning to her work. Vilkas stares at her for a long moment, speechless.

"What are you doing here?" He finally manages, and she chuckles.

"Did you forget our date? We're supposed to enjoy being alive, remember?" Her words send a numbing chill up his spine. In the span of a second, he remembers the night they kissed, and suddenly the room seems to grow warmer.

"You're in my shirt," he says stupidly, and she bites back a grin.

"What, did you and Farkas have a drinking contest?" She shakes her head, smiling. "Yes, I'm wearing your shirt. That stolen armor was mighty uncomfortable, and besides. I felt like this allowed for… easier movement." She finishes her row of stitches and shifts the armor off her lap: Vilkas notices immediately that she's wearing only his shirt, leaving her luxuriously long legs uncovered.

"I thought you'd left," he grunts, tearing his eyes away from her bare skin. His thoughts are racing and tumbling over one another: he can't focus on any single thing save the glow of her skin in the unnatural light.

"I decided to stick around and let Njada help me with my arm," she answers, and he can see her shrugging out of the corner of his eye. There's a rustling noise to his right, and, as he realizes she's stood from the bed, his heart begins to pound against his ribcage. "Besides," she continues, and the purr in her voice sends shivers rippling across his skin, "I didn't want to miss our date."

She steps up behind him, so close he can feel her warm breath wafting over his shoulder blades, and puts a hand on his bare hip. Her touch makes him shudder with longing; he tenses, not sure what to expect from the unpredictable girl. He hears her airy chuckle behind him.

"Just relax," she coos, trailing her fingers up his side before resting them on his shoulders. She begins to massage his anxious muscles, and he fights to keep some semblance of coherence.

"How long have you been here?" He asks, unconsciously bending his head forward so she can reach him better.

"I got back a little after sundown. You and Farkas seemed preoccupied, so I just came down here to wait for you."

"Mmmm," he hums in response, feeling himself relax under her strong fingers. Abruptly, she pulls away, and he turns to face her. She's got this wicked smile on her face, and something in him stirs at the sight. Before she can make a move, he pulls her against his chest and crushes their lips together.

He can feel her grin even as they kiss; when his hands trail down her waist to the exposed skin of her thigh, she chuckles and separates their lips.

"You're not teasing me this time, are you?" She breathes, peering up at him through thick lashes. "No regrets?"

"None." He barely chokes out the reassurance, too eager to return his lips to hers. She ducks her head, eyes crinkling with a smile, and avoids his kiss.

"You're sure?" She presses tightly against him, hands travelling from his shoulders, over his chest, past his navel, before finally resting just above the waist of his pants. He gulps back a wave of desire, trying not to shake with repressed longing.

"Positive." Again, he tries to kiss her; again, she pulls away.

"Is this more how you imagined it?" She asks, voice innocent, though the glint in her eye tells him that she knows she's teasing him. "In your own bed, surrounded by your family? Where the slightest noise will bring everyone running…" She connects their gazes, and the hunger burning in her eyes weakens his knees. "I guess we'd best be quiet." When he bends to kiss her this time, she meets him halfway, wetting his lips with her wandering tongue. Her fingers dance at the waist of his trousers, almost nervous in their movement, like she's hesitant to take that next step. He forces himself away from her.

"Are you sure you want this?" He asks. There's no question that he wants her: his fingertips dig into her hips, keeping her tight to his chest, and his pants rub uncomfortably against him. It would kill him to let her walk out his door, but he'll let her, if that's what she wants. To his relief, her lips twist into a feral grin. She takes his hand in hers and guides it down her stomach and to her inner thigh; leaning up to reach his ear, she whispers.

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

It's as though she's flipped some switch in his mind. The words have barely left her mouth before he lifts her into his arms; instinctively, she wraps her legs around his waist, kissing him desperately even as he pushes her against the cold stone wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. He pins her to the wall with his hips, freeing one hand to dip beneath the hem of her oversize shirt; she sucks in a sharp breath as his fingers rub up her side, under her arm, between her breasts. She thrusts her hands into his waistband and struggles to push down his pants; when he moves his hips to help, she falls to her feet, smirking.

"You shouldn't have let me go," she hisses, putting her hands against his chest and pushing him toward the bed. "I'm in control now."

"Oh yeah?" He retorts, catching himself after just a few stumbling steps. He grabs her wrists and twists both arms behind her back, holding them with one hand while the other slips between her legs, teasing her. She squirms, trying to escape even as her breath stutters with pleasure. "You should know by now that I always win," he growls into her ear, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She fights against succumbing to the ecstasy pumping through her body, focusing instead on wriggling her hands loose behind her back. He tightens his grip before she can get them free, but she manages to slide a few fingers down the front of his pants. A gasp of surprise accompanies his loosened grip; she twists away from him, and, when she faces him again, his dark eyes sparkle with longing.

"I never did put you in your place," she reminds him, managing to sound strong despite her quivering knees. "You're well past-due." His every instinct tells him to relent, to let her have her way—he can see it in his mind's eye: her balanced over his hips, breasts bouncing as she moves up and down, that pretty face twisted in exquisite agony. But he's played this game with her long enough to know that she doesn't care about the destination nearly as much as the journey. So, as she slowly steps back toward him, shoulders tense as though expecting an attack, he puts his hands up in defense.

"Do your worst," he goads, eyebrows raised. He can see her chest rise and fall with quick breaths, and he knows she's just as aroused as he is.

"Kiss me," she demands, closing the space between them and slinging her arms around his neck. Though her submission surprises him, he's more than happy to oblige, tilting his lips to meet hers as his hands creep down the outside of her thighs, then cup under her butt.

As her tongue darts across his lips, over the tops of his teeth, flirtatiously dancing with his own, he feels the restraint that has long kept his affection at bay slipping away. He feels himself falling from admiration perilously close to love even as it happens—and, with her hands maneuvering his pants to the floor and her lips following them down, he decides that maybe, just once, it's ok for him to let go.