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Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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Hey there! This is my first fill, so I am still learning. Even if this does not turn out to be exactly what you were looking for, I hope you enjoy! The fill is already complete, so I will post it over the next day or two as I make my revisions. Fingers crossed that the formatting will look like the preview once this is posted…

“Even the Dragonborn Can Bleed” Belethor/M!DB, 1a/?
Characters: M!DB Breton, Belethor
Relationship: M!DB / Belethor
Description: M!DB Ardbur rescues a beaten Belethor after the shopkeeper is kidnapped by bandits.

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Ardbur strode into Belethor’s General Goods in Whiterun. The door banged open and bounced off the wall. The dragonborn halted. The room was eerily silent. The floor was devoid of clutter. The weapons rack behind the counter was nothing more than barren bones of wood. Peculiar lines of dust striped the empty shelves, outlining what had once been there.

Belethor was missing, too. There was no snarky one-liner about what the man wouldn’t sell or buy. The shopkeeper did himself a disservice speaking that way, Ardbur knew. The dragonborn had once tried to sell Belethor a stolen sword, but the shopkeeper had refused to buy it. Considering how Ardbur had threatened him at the time, he had to respect Belethor for holding his ground.

Ardbur sighed. Returned from a particularly gruelling trek alone in the wilderness, he could have done with a little humour from the shopkeeper. Most of Whiterun’s populace either feared Ardbur or admired him. Some refused to believe the stories and challenged the dragonborn at every opportunity. It all became tiring after a while. At least Belethor hadn’t looked at Ardbur any differently after discovering his fellow Breton was the dragonborn.

Ardbur left the shop. On his way out, he almost bumped into a guard. The soldier was young, likely a new recruit. He didn’t recognize Ardbur. “You shouldn’t be in there,” the soldier growled.

“And why is that?” Ardbur asked, eyes narrowing.

“There’s no one to manage the place. I was just on my way to lock it up.” The guard glared at the dragonborn. “You wouldn’t have taken anything, now, would you?”

Ardbur levelled the man a flat look. It wasn’t worth his time to respond to such a remark. “Where is Belethor?”

“Gone,” the guard said. “The work of bandits. The Companions are dealing with it. They’ll get him back – if the poor bugger is still alive.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“You’re just in time,” Aela greeted the dragonborn on the steps to Jorrvaskr. “We received a new contract this morning. Belethor’s been kidnapped, and the Whiterun guard wants us to deal with the bandits.”

“So I’ve heard,” Ardbur said. He crossed his arms and looked away. “Why haven’t you sent someone out yet?” he asked, feeling a stirring of anger in his belly.

“Well…” The huntress paused.

“What is it?” the dragonborn demanded.

“Don’t get snappish with me,” Aela barked. “The bandits who took Belethor left a note – for you.”

Surprise replaced the dragonborn’s irritation. Aela handed him a stained parchment. Ardbur stepped away and broke the seal.

Dragonborn,
We must express our deepest appreciation for your business relationship with Belethor’s General Goods. Truly, there is no better cache of weapons, armours, and trinkets in all of Skyrim. If you would like to continue to work with the Breton shopkeeper in the future, find us at Duskenvale Cave. Bring your weight in valuables, and we’ll consider Belethor a fair trade.

“Duskenvale,” Ardbur said. His jaw clenched.

Aela raised one eyebrow. “If they were smart, the bandits wouldn’t have left a note.”

Ardbur could only shake his head. “Considering their stupidity,” he growled, “it’s shocking they can even write.”

The huntress shot him a wolfish smile. “Want some company?”

“No,” the dragonborn replied. He threw the parchment to the ground. “I’ll deal with this.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Duskenvale Cave was a remote location in the mountains northeast of Whiterun, about six hours riding. As Ardbur directed his horse towards that destination, he noted numerous tracks on the snowy path. He guessed there were at least a dozen ruffians. His lips twisted. The larger the pack of fools, the more brazen they became.

However, it was not the number of tracks that interested the dragonborn. It was the occasional spatter of blood on the snow. Belethor mustn’t have cooperated with the bandits. Ardbur smirked.

As he drew closer to Duskenvale Cave, Ardbur dismounted and left his horse in the shelter of a rocky lee. Crouching, he pulled his bow off his back and nocked an arrow. Placing his feet carefully on the soft snow, he prowled forward through the trees and boulders.

It was dark now, the moons above shedding a pale light on the world below. There was a campfire outside the cave. Smoke billowed into the sky, a hazy beacon of light beckoning to Ardbur. Pausing with his back to a tree, Ardbur peeked around at the fire. A cooking pot sizzled above the flames, but there was no one in sight. A smear of blood led towards the rickety door of the cavern.

“Damn it,” Ardbur muttered. He put away his bow in favour of his elven sword and approached the door. He heard nothing through the weathered planks. Holding his breath, the dragonborn pulled open the door.

A dank tunnel led into the belly of the mountain. Ardbur followed it, moving silently. He arrived in a large room where the tang of blood filled the air. Ahead, there was a row of cages. A lump in one looked disturbingly like a body.

A moment later, Ardbur heard the echo of footsteps. The cave threw the sounds back at him, confusing the direction of origin. He looked around. There was only one other passage, but there were no signs of movement.

There was a screech of metal directly above him. Ardbur looked up to see a group of men and women peeking down from a second level, circling him like wolves. Someone sawed on a taught rope with a dagger.

The line snapped, and a rounded cage plummeted towards the dragonborn. The cage smashed to the ground, completely encasing Ardbur. A rickety door rattled on rusty hinges.

“We’ve caught ourselves a dragon slayer!” one of the bandits shouted. They cheered and laughed amongst themselves, crawling down from the rocky balcony. They surrounded Ardbur’s cage and leered at him through the bars.

The dragonborn sighed. He straightened slowly, his sword still in his hand.

“Where’s your gold? Your valuables?” a woman demanded. She stood by the door and smirked at him.

Ardbur hadn’t brought anything. It would have only slowed him down. “I don’t deal with bandits,” he said. “And something tells me you weren’t looking to trade, anyway.”

“Oh, we can still trade, if you’d like,” the bandit purred. “Thanks to you, we’re already rich as can be. I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a little bit of fun. How does this sound? Your life, dragonborn, for the shopkeeper’s.”

Another bandit snickered. “Are you as noble as they make you out to be? Or are you too good to sacrifice your life for that of a common man?”

Ardbur studied the motely group. Thirteen gleeful faces surrounded him. There was not an ounce of pity or remorse amongst them. “Where is Belethor?” he asked, even though he already knew.

They whispered excitedly amongst themselves. Their ringleader went and unlocked one of the back cages. Two of the men hauled Belethor out and supported the beaten man between them. They dragged the shopkeeper across the chamber and held him before the dragonborn.

Belethor’s head tilted up. He blinked weakly in the firelight. One eye was dark purple. Blood dribbled down his cheek. His lips were chapped, swollen, and cut. Red bloomed through his clothes.

Ardbur’s eyes made a quick diagnosis. The man was injured and bruised, but if he received care soon, he would be fine. The dragonborn lifted his chin and averted his gaze.

“So what will it be, dragonborn?” the bandit ringleader asked him. “He clearly wasn’t worth your gold. Is there any hope someone like him could be worth trading your life?”

Ardbur stared at the woman. “Let me offer you a different deal,” he said. His voice was low. Quiet, even. Comforting. “Let Belethor free, and I won’t kill you all.”

It seemed as if all sound ceased while the dragonborn spoke. Everyone strained to hear Ardbur’s soft words. There was a moment of silence to follow. Then, someone giggled. Soon they were all laughing. The bandits let go of Belethor. The man sank to his hands and knees in front of the cage door.

“Belethor,” Ardbur spoke, his eyes not wavering from the bandit leader’s back.

The man groaned, but didn’t move.

“Belethor,” Ardbur repeated. This time his voice betrayed his impatience. The laughter around him was eating away at the last shreds of his forbearance.

The shopkeeper finally looked up. “What?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Move.”

The man’s eyes widened. Belethor scrambled aside, clearing the cage door.

Ardbur took a breath. “Fus,” he whispered.

Iron screamed as a blast of force tore the cage door from its rusty hinges and threw it across the room. Bandits yelled and bodies smashed against the stone walls. Ardbur strode free of the cage, lifting his sword to counter the downward arc of a bandit’s blade. He caught the weapon at the hilt and twisted it free of the man’s grasp. In the next motion, he gutted the bandit and kicked him off his sword.

He spun around to meet the other warriors. Three charged at him, including a big orc wielding a two-handed blade. “Zun,” Ardbur murmured.

The bandits cried out in surprise as their weapons leapt from their hands. Metal glinted as it flew through the air. Ardbur cut down the first two ruffians. His sword was still lodged between the ribs of the second man when the orc reclaimed his weapon and swung the blade at Ardbur’s head.

“Yol!”

A blast of fire howled across the cave, wiping away the orc and another three bandits. Ardbur stepped over their immolated corpses and readied his sword again, but the battle was done. Screams echoed off the vaulted ceiling above. Those bandits who survived were running, but Ardbur wouldn’t follow. Let their stories be a warning to any others who thought to cross the dragonborn.

Humming to himself, Ardbur crouched by the bandit leader. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, her lips slightly parted. The dragonborn wiped his sword clean on her leather jerkin. He noticed the gold chain around her neck was familiar. He’d sold it to Belethor a fortnight ago. He ripped it off her neck and stood.

“By the gods,” Belethor murmured. “Have you no mercy?”

Ardbur glanced over his shoulder. “I let some of them live. That was mercy.” He approached the bloody shopkeeper. “How badly are you injured?” he asked, keeping his voice curt.

“Not…” the man groaned. “Not too badly.” He had a hand pressed against his bloody chest.

Ardbur crouched beside the shopkeeper. He pried Belethor’s palm away so he could inspect the wound. “Damn. I left in such a rush I didn’t take any potions with me. You’ll have to hold tight until we return to Whiterun.” The dragonborn patted his pockets. “I have a few things with me to patch you up. Let’s get your tunic off.”

Ardbur helped tug the torn and bloody tunic over the shopkeeper’s head. “I thought,” Belethor gasped, “I thought for a moment you were going to trade your life for mine.”

“Did you?” Ardbur asked, smiling absently. Other than several darkening bruises, Belethor did not have any broken bones. Although the dagger slice over his chest bled profusely, it was not life threatening.

“All I could think was what a poor trade that would be. Keep in mind this is coming from the man who would sell his own sister—”

“—if he had one,” Ardbur finished. He began to laugh.

Belethor muttered under his breath. “Ah, the mighty dragonborn finds the idea of sacrificing himself for a simple merchant humorous,” he said.

Ardbur frowned. “If I thought myself so important, I wouldn’t be here. You know better than that, Belethor,” he chided.

Belethor snorted. “You take yourself too seriously, man. That’s why everyone in Whiterun avoids you.”

Ardbur scowled. He tore a piece of material off a bandit’s shirt and dampened it with water from his canteen. He held the cool cloth against the man’s skin, cleaning away the dirt and blood.

“You’re more tightly laced than those damned shiny boots of yours,” Belethor muttered. When Ardbur offered him the canteen, he shut up and drank deeply.

“Am I?” Ardbur asked. He glided a hand down Belethor’s abdomen. The shopkeeper was soft where the warrior was muscled. Ardbur could still feel a core of strength. Belethor wasn’t to be taken lightly, as his struggles along the road to Duskenvale Cave had proven to the bandits.

The shopkeeper jumped as the other man’s touch wandered, almost choking. He shot Ardbur a strange look. The dragonborn only smirked and tossed aside the bloody rag. He grabbed the man’s belt and tugged him close. Their faces almost touched. “You need stitches. Think you can take it?”

“I’ve been kicked and thrown around like a ragdoll for the past eighteen hours,” the man said. “I imagine I can handle a few stitches.” He pulled away and sank back against the cold stone wall. He glared at Ardbur. “Yes yes, I know it must amaze you that we common mortals might have as much tolerance for pain as you.”

“Now who’s being tightly laced?” Ardbur asked. He withdrew a needle and a bundle of waxed silk. He brandished them with a wicked smile on his face. “Let’s all be thankful I won’t have to cauterize the wound.”

Belethor blanched. The stench of smoke and death lingered in the chamber. Nearby, the vests of burned men and women still smoldered. The mere mention of fire was enough to bring distress rushing back into the merchant’s eyes.

Ardbur went to work, leaning over the man’s side. “You’ll need to drink a healing potion as soon as you can,” he said. “Who knows what filth those bandits had on their weapons. An infection might kill you.” Needle and silk slid through flesh. “In any case, this should speed up the healing.”

“Don’t expect me to thank you,” Belethor grunted. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess, anyway.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve profited more than enough from my business,” Ardbur smirked. “You don’t think I notice when I sell you a Dwemer artifact for three-hundred gold and you turn around and sell it for a thousand?”

The shopkeeper huffed, but he had no retort. “Well,” he grumbled, “all because you’re helping me doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind about fencing your stolen goods.”

“What, so you’ll buy my relatives, but not a stolen sword?” Ardbur asked, arching one eyebrow.

Belethor sputtered. “That was a joke!”

Ardbur rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you the sword wasn’t stolen? Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone awarded it to me for completing a contract outside Morthal.”

“I say it’s stolen.”

The dragonborn shook his head in exasperation. “Beaten bloody and you’re still obnoxious,” he said. Truth be told, it was nice to hear someone being blunt with him. It was refreshing.

They sat in near silence as Ardbur finished stitching Belethor’s wound closed and wrapping his torso in linen bandages. By the time he was finished, the shopkeeper’s head was sagging forward. Belethor was grey and haggard. Maybe he had lost more blood than the dragonborn initially suspected.

Tucking his medical supplies away, Ardbur stood and went over to one of the crumpled bandits his first shout had killed. He judged the man to be roughly Belethor’s size. With some effort, he tugged the bandit’s shirt off and shook it out. Despite being stained with cheap wine, the shirt was more than serviceable.

Ardbur returned to Belethor’s side. “Here,” he said. “Your tunic is ruined and you’re as cold as ice.”

The shopkeeper rolled his head upward. He recoiled. “I don’t want that! You just pulled that off a dead man!”

Ardbur gave him a flat look. “Where do you think I get half the goods I sell you?” he snapped. “Do you think I attend tea parties with bandits and draugr and simply steal the clothes and armour off their backs? Please.” The dragonborn tossed the stained shirt at the man. “Wear it or freeze.”

Belethor’s hands shook. The man swallowed. At last, he obeyed, knowing the dragonborn was right. He’d freeze enough as it was travelling through the foothills of the mountains in only his pants and the rough spun shirt.

Once the merchant had gingerly pulled the shirt on, Ardbur asked, “Are you strong enough to walk?”

“Walk?” Belethor said. “Now?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep here,” Ardbur offered, waving an arm at the bodies surrounding them

The shopkeeper’s face drained of its remaining colour.

“Don’t worry,” Ardbur said. “I’ll get you back to Whiterun alive, even if I have to sling you over my horse’s saddle like a sack of potatoes. Just give me a moment.” As he spoke, he moved from body to body in the chamber. He lifted purses, emptied pockets, and relieved the corpses of their jewellery. He would have no qualms about selling the jewellery to Belethor a second time, not with the way the man regularly cheated him.

Taking anything larger wouldn’t be worth the effort of hauling back to Whiterun, not when Ardbur already had the shopkeeper to contend with. Belethor would have to return with a wagon to collect everything else that the bandits had stolen from him.

Belethor stared at his shoes, refusing to acknowledge what the dragonborn had done. Ardbur pulled the man back to his feet. Belethor winced at the pressure on his bruised side but bit back any complaints. Ardbur tugged an arm over his shoulder and helped the merchant limp back outside into the dark night.

They found the dragonborn’s horse waiting patiently. Ardbur had to assist Belethor in mounting the animal. The shopkeeper managed to get into the saddle, but only with a cry of pain. He swayed unsteadily, grabbing the saddle horn.

Ardbur put a steadying hand on the man’s thigh. “Good?” he asked.

“Good,” the man panted.

“You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

“I didn’t make it all the way to Skyrim on just my own two feet, if that’s what you’re asking,” Belethor replied through gritted teeth.

The dragonborn shrugged. “Great,” he said. “That means I won’t have to share the saddle and babysit you all the way to Whiterun. My horse gives you her undying thanks.” Ardbur took the mare’s reins and led the beast down the snowy trail that would bring them back to the city.

The night was clear but cold. The horse’s breath steamed in the frigid air. Hooves clopped on cobblestone and crunched through snow. The dragonborn’s feet dragged. He’d skipped a night of sleep to return to Whiterun from a giant-slaying journey before sunset, and now this was his second night up walking. If he were travelling alone, Ardbur would have had no problem sleeping under a tree right now. Unfortunately, he had an injured man to bring to safety before he could tend to his own needs.

The dragonborn glanced over his shoulder. Belethor’s chin was tucked down on his chest, his swollen eyes closed. The man swayed dangerously in the saddle. Ardbur kept a close eye on him as they rounded a bend. The shopkeeper muttered to himself.

“What was that?” Ardbur asked.

The man’s lips moved, but they did not form a sensible reply. He was locked in a dream. Or a nightmare.

Ardbur led the horse down a steep decline. The mare stumbled at the base of the rocks, jostling Belethor forward.

Belethor’s muttering turned into a great shout. The man’s eyes shot open, pale white discs in the darkness. When he saw Ardbur’s shadow nearby, he gasped. The man twisted in the saddle and threw himself off the horse’s back. Belethor hit the ground stumbling. He staggered into the trees and ran.

Ardbur stopped and watched the man with consternation. “What the hell,” the dragonborn muttered to his horse. He pulled off his helmet and shoved it into his saddlebags. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his dark hair. He didn’t have the energy for a chase through the woods at night, but if he didn’t want Belethor to break an ankle, he would have to go after him. He dropped his horse’s reins and followed the other man into the trees.

“Belethor,” Ardbur called, his voice dangerous. He crunched through a snow bank, squinting through the darkness to follow the merchant’s tracks. After a few minutes, he caught the sounds of harsh breathing.

Ardbur stepped into the clearing and found Belethor crumpled on the ground. He knelt beside the man and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked, worried that the man had twisted his ankle after all.

There was no reply. That was when the dragonborn realized the other man was weeping. For a moment, the revelation struck him speechless. This was Belethor! The man had a wit as fast as a snake and spared sympathy for no one, yet here he was sobbing in the moonlight in the middle of nowhere.

Belethor slapped Ardbur’s hand a way. He pushed himself back onto his knees, wiping the snow off his face with the sleeve of a dead man’s shirt. “I’m not bloody alright,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “A horde of merciless men and women kidnapped me out of my own home and robbed me blind. They treated me like trash. Kicked me until I couldn’t breathe. Punched me until all I could see was stars. Held a dagger under my neck and whispered about all the horrible things they planned to do to me.”

Ardbur shifted. The first stirrings of guilt settled in his belly. “They’re all dead or gone, now. You won’t have anything to fear from them.”

Belethor wiped his eyes and nose, his chest still heaving. “Easy enough for you to say,” he replied. “You can defend yourself. I’m only a merchant. No doubt someone else will find me easy prey.”

“I could ask my housecarl to guard your store,” the dragonborn offered.

“That won’t help.” Belethor shook his head. “It’s really not easy being your friend, Ardbur. With others men, you risk spending all your coin drinking at the tavern. But with you – well, my very life is at risk.”

The dragonborn stayed quiet for a time, studying the man. He sighed. “I’ll find somewhere else to sell my loot,” he said, standing and offering the man a hand.

“Don’t bother,” Belethor said, accepting Ardbur’s help. “Half of Skyrim already knows of our frequent dealings.”

Of course, Belethor would not want to give up the wealth of items the dragonborn regularly delivered. Ardbur’s asked, voice amused, “Do you realize how remarkably suggestive you always sound?”

“A trick of the trade,” was the shopkeeper’s flustered reply.

The rest of the journey back to Whiterun proved uneventful. The sun painted the horizon in colours of gold and scarlet as Ardbur led his horse and Belethor through the guarded city gates. The shopkeeper’s sorry state earned several stares from the guards and townspeople.

“I imagine Sigurd has been worried about you,” Ardbur mused. “Unless you’ve sold him while I’ve been gone.”

Belethor gave a raspy chuckle. “He left to visit some relatives in Riverwood before… the attack. I’m sure my well-being is the last thing on his mind.”

Ardbur snorted. “That’s code for ‘Yes, dragonborn, I did sell my employee.’” Although Belethor had accused people of avoiding the dragonborn, Belethor himself wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of popularity.

Ardbur left Belethor at the doors to the Temple of Kynareth. “You should find healing inside,” he told the shopkeeper. “You’re looking a little green, so best not to delay.” He reached up and grabbed the merchant’s belt, tugging him off the horse.

The man slid down the mare’s side, body limp. Ardbur caught his weight and steadied him. The shopkeeper groaned. With the dragonborn’s help, Belethor limped through the doors of the temple and Ardbur left the man in the care of the priestess there.

As Ardbur departed, he wondered at the look on Belethor’s face. He stood for a moment in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. The shopkeeper’s eyes were haunted, his cheeks hollow. The kidnapping had taken its toll on the man. The priestess would be able to heal his body, but not all the injuries he had sustained were physical. Ardbur could relate.

The dragonborn turned away from Belethor’s gaze – one that didn’t want to let him go. The heavy temple doors swung shut behind him. There was no need for the merchant to worry. Ardbur wasn’t done with him yet.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Two days after his return to Whiterun, Belethor had already opened his shop and resumed business. His selection of wares would be lacking until he could find some idiot with a cart to help him retrieve his belongings at Duskenvale Cave. The idea of going back there made him sick, but it would have to be done.

The interior of Belethor’s store was deeply quiet without Sigurd bustling about. Customers seemed hesitant to stop by given the recent attack, and business plummeted.

To escape the unbearable quiet and the memories of his attack, the merchant wandered around Whiterun for hours that afternoon. He stayed out until the sky darkened and the streets emptied. It was easy to pretend nothing had happened, without the cuts, bruises, or near-empty store to remind him.

Unfortunately, Whiterun’s guards were beginning to eye the wandering Belethor in a decisively unfriendly way, so it was time he made his way home. With a weary sigh, Belethor let himself into his shop. He closed and locked the door behind him.

From the dark interior of the store, a voice asked, “Business has been slow lately, hasn’t it?”

Belethor’s heart jerked. He threw himself backwards against the now-locked door. Phantasms of the shadows that had attacked him only days ago rose before his eyes. He blinked rapidly, his breaths shallow. Nothing attacked him. After several seconds, he was able to dispel his rising panic and take a long, shuddering breath.

There was a sound of flint striking steel. Moments later, a light fared from the lantern on the side table. Beside it, the dragonborn lazed in a chair. A naked blade rested across his knees.

Belethor swallowed. When Ardbur had rescued him, the man had looked every part the warrior. But now, dressed in a close-fitting, black attire, the dragonborn could be a thief or assassin. Or a bandit. Belethor grimaced. Sweat sprang out on his brow at the memory of thick hands closing around his throat, cutting off his shout for help.

“Tongue tied?” Ardbur asked. “Isn’t this a unique situation.”

Belethor shakily pushed his key back into his pocket. “You have a nasty sense of humour,” he said, “sneaking up on a man who was recently kidnapped.” The merchant eyed the bared sword. He recognized patterns on the blade.

Ardbur stood and stretched, setting the sword on the shop counter. “I was passing by when a thought occurred to me. I think you owe me for saving you,” he said.

Belethor took a deep breath.

“I want to sell you this sword. I’m certainly not going to use it; too heavy. You may have already noticed it’s the one you refused to buy before,” the dragonborn said. His smirk had returned. “I want you to buy anything I bring here – stolen or otherwise. It would be much more convenient for me.”

The merchant’s eyes flicked between the weapon and Ardbur. He still hadn’t moved away from the door.

“Are you scared of me now, Belethor?”

The shopkeeper eyed him. He licked his lips. “I did witness you murder at least a dozen men and women without so much as batting an eye.”

Ardbur shrugged the comment away. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, glancing sideways at the sword. “Will you buy it?” he asked.

Belethor’s throat bobbed. The man straightened his spine. He walked past the dragonborn and moved behind the counter. Ardbur turned his head to watch the man bend to open his strongbox.

“Here,” Belethor said, voice rough. He tossed the dragonborn a heavy purse.

Ardbur weighed the gold in the palm of his hand. Belethor reached for the sword, but the dragonborn clapped his hand down on the flat of the blade, pinning it against the counter. “Hold on,” Ardbur said. “After seeing what I did to those bandits, you still try to cheat me?” He raised his eyebrows and watched the shopkeeper, his eyes betraying a newfound respect.

Belethor met his gaze evenly. “This is a business relationship,” he replied. “I’m not your housecarl, to take orders from you.” Grasping the sword hilt firmly, he pulled the blade off the counter.

Ardbur hissed as the edge cut into his palm. He retracted his hand. Belethor, uncaring, set the sword on the weapons rack behind the counter.

The merchant turned back to the dragonborn, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s late,” he said. “If you want to make any other transactions, come back in the morning.”

Ardbur studied his bleeding palm. The cut was not too deep. Red welled in the rough crevices of his hand. He lifted the laceration to his lips, dulling the sting. “You made me bleed,” he said, softly.

Belethor scowled. “And the sight of you this late at night is making my eyes bleed,” he said. “Off with you.”

Without warning, Ardbur stepped forward and shoved Belethor backwards. The man’s body crashed against the wall, rattling the bookcases. The dragonborn clamped his hand around the merchant’s arm. “I like you, Belethor,” Ardbur whispered near the man’s ear. “Will you make me regret rescuing you?”

Belethor’s breath hitched. His heart began to race, fear pumping through his veins. Warmth from Ardbur’s bleeding palm soaked into the arm of Belethor’s shirt.

The dragonborn backed away so he could face the other Breton. “You said I should loosen up a little, right?” Ardbur’s eyes flashed. He reached forward with his other hand and ripped the front of the merchant’s shirt open. Buttons flew across the room.

Belethor made a strangled noise. He couldn’t tell if the dragonborn intended to kill him or seduce him.

Ardbur flattened his hand against the shopkeeper’s healed chest. His palm drifted lower. “Tell me, are you thankful that I rescued you? You told me you weren’t.” The dragonborn’s deep voice tickled his ear. “Does that mean you enjoyed being kidnapped? Being taken?”

“No,” Belethor bit out. “Nothing like that. Of course I’m grateful. Those bandits would have trussed me up like a pig and slit my throat.”

“Grateful, are you? Yet I feel your heart fluttering.” It was as if the dragonborn could smell Belethor’s distress. “Prove your gratitude,” Ardbur challenged. “And prove that you still have no fear of me.”

The shopkeeper released a shaky breath. This sounded like a bargain. That was something the man could understand. He considered his next move, the one that would prove most profitable. Despite Ardbur’s forthrightness, there was an unspoken need in the dragonborn’s voice that Belethor would have to address.

The tableau remained motionless for a long time. Ardbur still held Belethor firmly by the arm. The dragonborn was slightly taller, built for strength and endurance. He didn’t move, a predator lying in wait. The cool air whispered over the skin of Belethor’s exposed torso. The coldness sent Belethor’s mind reeling back to his kidnapping.

Ardbur abruptly shoved himself away and strode across the room. “I knew it,” he said, turning back to the other man. “You’re scared, Belethor. I thought you unshakeable, but look at you. You’re trembling. Coward.”

The merchant was in fact trembling, but his mind was elsewhere. All Belethor could see was the bandit who had heaved him against the wall of Duskenvale Cave. The man’s rotten teeth had made his breath sour as he whispered threats into Belethor’s ear. When Belethor refused to do as the bandit commanded, the man had thrown him onto the ground, drawing a dagger and sliding it across Belethor’s chest. The other bandits had entered the cave at that point, joining in on the violence before shoving the shopkeeper into a cage like a broken mutt.

Belethor struggled to banish the phantoms. He blinked at the wetness in his eyes. His head ached. The nightmares would find him again tonight, he could feel it. And there was the dragonborn – the dark haired man was already striding towards the door. A gibbering panic rose in the shopkeeper’s chest. He didn’t want to be alone, not tonight. The dragonborn had banished the bandits once – maybe he could banish them again, those that still haunted the shopkeeper’s dreams.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Belethor asked.

The dragonborn paused.

Belethor crossed his arms and inclined his head. He had one chance at this, and he was excellent at bluffing. “You are mistaken. I don’t fear you. I still remember the stumbling idiot that walked into my shop months ago. You pestered me with inane questions, pretending to be interested in how business was in Whiterun.”

Ardbur was fast. He crossed the room in a moment, appearing before Belethor once again. “Did I hear that right? I don’t think you’ve ever so openly insulted me.”

Belethor snorted. “Back then you didn’t know the difference between salt and vampire dust. I know your roots, dragonborn. Your mouth may be full of words of power, but you are still only a man.”

Ardbur lifted an eyebrow appreciatively. “You’re all bluster, Belethor.” He leaned closer, putting one hand on the wall by the merchant’s head. “All talk and no action.”

Belethor was a sucker for priceless possessions, and the dragonborn was for sale one night only. The desire to take advantage of the opportunity was irresistible. This close, Belethor could still see the stain of blood on the other man’s lips. The crimson glimmer enticed him.

Belethor grabbed Ardbur’s shirtfront and tugged him against his body. With his mouth, he caught the rush of air leaving the dragonborn’s lips. He could taste the metallic tang of blood.

Ardbur’s chest rumbled. He broke away and pulled off his dark leather tunic and shirt. Then he grabbed Belethor and swung him around against the counter. The rough wooden grain pressed into the small of Belethor’s back as the dragonborn leaned over him. “You’re really not scared, are you?” Ardbur murmured, lips quirking.

He didn’t wait for an answer. The dragonborn’s burning hand slid past Belethor’s ruined shirt and up his back. As Ardbur pressed against the other man, his hand held the shopkeeper steady, preventing an uncomfortable back cramp. Their hips ground together. Ardbur’s teeth grazed the other man’s neck, his breath hot.

Belethor pulled the dragonborn’s hips even closer. He reached up and clawed hard at Ardbur’s shoulders. The dragonborn hissed and arched his back. The teeth nibbling at his throat became less gentle, sinking into the muscle between Belethor’s neck and shoulder.

As Belethor ran his hands back down the dragonborn’s sculpted back, he could feel the trails of blood he’d created. He could make the dragonborn bleed. The notion sent a heady rush through the merchant’s head. Belethor had made Ardbur bleed, where a dozen bandits wielding swords and daggers had failed.

Belethor clapped a hand onto the dragonborn’s chest, his fingers digging into flesh. He would have added another five tears to the man’s skin, but Ardbur grabbed Belethor’s wrist. The dragonborn’s grip was stronger than an iron manacle.

“Belethor,” he reprimanded. After a moment, Ardbur released his wrist. He helped slide the torn shirt off the merchant’s shoulders. However, before Belethor could pull his arms free of the sleeves, Ardbur twisted the fabric in one hand and held tightly, binding the man’s arms behind his back. The dragonborn shifted his weight forward again, pinning the merchant’s hands to the countertop.

Belethor could feel his spine protesting at the angle, but he didn’t care. He wanted to feel the heat and strength of the dragonborn’s body bearing down on his.

Ardbur ran his lips across Belethor’s bared chest. His mouth left wet marks over the scar of Belethor’s healed wound. The dragonborn’s lips travelled back up to the crook of the merchant’s neck. His mouth ghosted over the spot he’d bitten, drawing away the blood that Belethor had previously been oblivious too.

Belethor felt a twitch below his belt. The dragonborn had asked Belethor if the merchant liked being kidnapped. While he certainly hadn't, Belethor considered asking Ardbur if he'd enjoyed killing the bandits. The other man seemed to take great pleasure in licking away the blood from Belethor's skin. It made the shopkeeper shiver, and he was unsure if it was fear or desire.

The dragonborn pushed a thigh between the shopkeeper’s legs, applying a delicious pressure. Ardbur’s free hand grabbed Belethor’s hip, holding him still as he rocked against the other man.

Belethor let out a mumbled curse, his breath rushing from his lungs. He wanted to reach up and tug at the dragonborn’s waistband, but the Ardbur still held his wrists tightly. It was a strain to hold himself upright with the larger man’s weight pressing against him.

Ardbur’s hand left Belethor’s hip and glided around to smooth the straining muscles of the merchant’s abdomen. His fingers dipped lower, unbuckling the Belethor’s belt. With two sharp tugs, Ardbur jerked the belt free and tossed it aside.

The dragonborn’s hand returned to press against Belethor’s groin as he untied the laces to his pants. Belethor inhaled sharply as Ardbur tugged the merchant’s pants and small clothes down to his knees.

Instead of touching him, Ardbur crushed his body against Belethor’s again. Material grazed sensitive skin. The dragonborn’s own arousal was hot through the fabric of his trousers, pressing into Belethor’s stomach. “You look uncomfortable,” Ardbur murmured, his voice betraying a smile.

It took a moment for Belethor to realize which discomfort the man was speaking of. Ardbur tugged at Belethor’s bound hands, and the shopkeeper winced. Belethor’s back was aching, but he wasn’t about to complain. “You know,” Belethor managed, “I do have a bed upstairs.”

Ardbur chuckled, a vibration that passed through his chest. “Of course,” he agreed. He lifted one foot and stepped on the pants still looped around Belethor’s knees, pressing down so the other man could shake them and his shoes off.

Belethor expected the dragonborn to let his hands go, but the man had other ideas. Ardbur tugged the merchant’s twisted shirt and drew him across the room towards the stairs. He thought the dragonborn was going to make him struggle up the steps backwards. However, at the base of the staircase, Ardbur pressed the shopkeeper against the sideboards face-first and let the binding shirt fall. “You’ll be gentler,” the man said, close to Belethor’s ear. One hand reached out and bit into the merchant’s hip like a viper, provoking a grimace. “Or I won’t.”

The merchant understood the message. Together, they went to the bed on the next floor. The darkness cloaked Belethor’s body as he climbed the stairs. Ardbur's presence was close behind, seeming to glide after him without a sound. Belethor wondered if he would be able to break the dragonborn's silence.

When they reached the shopkeeper’s bed, Ardbur undid his own belt and stepped out of his trousers and boots. He pushed the shopkeeper back onto the mattress and joined him there.

Belethor, with his hands finally free, reached out to touch the naked dragonborn. However, doubt got the better of him. He was only a simple shopkeeper, and he vividly remembered how Ardbur had cut down the bandits at Duskenvale Cave.

Ardbur watched the shopkeeper, his lips quirking at his hesitation. “Feel free,” he drawled, stretching out onto his back. “But careful,” he teased.

Belethor swallowed. His hand touched the man’s muscled chest, feeling the ridges and dimples left by old scars. The dragonborn reached out and grabbed Belethor’s jaw, bringing their lips together.

As they kissed, Ardbur’s tongue explored the other man’s mouth. Belethor would swear he could taste ash. A word, and the dragonborn had incinerated the bandits. A word, and he could destroy Belethor and his store. Belethor’s heart seized. He let out a noise and thrust himself away.

Ardbur was quick to follow. He pounced on Belethor like a sabre cat, holding the other man’s wrists and straddling his hips. As they pressed together, a groan escaped the shopkeeper’s lips. “A change of heart, Belethor?” Ardbur whispered as flesh slid against flesh.

“No,” the shopkeeper gasped. “I’m not afraid.”

“Faas,” Ardbur whispered, staring into the other man’s eyes. The shout of dismay, the shout of terror.

Fear clutched Belethor’s heart and warred with his desire. When Ardbur broke his gaze, the fear disappeared, leaving Belethor panting and angry. “Speak magic all you want,” he said hoarsely. “I may have nightmares, but if you expect me to flee from my own home, you’re out of luck.”

“Mm,” was Ardbur’s only reply. The dragonborn dipped his head and nipped at Belethor’s lips. He ground against him again, inspiring a coil of heat to lash through the merchant’s belly. Ardbur reached down between their bodies and wrapped a hand around both of them, squeezing.

The dragonborn’s hand pumped them both. The entire situation was unreal to the merchant. A hot wave of want stole the air from Belethor’s lungs. Breathing heavily, he arched his hips, grinding upwards in time with each stroke.

The dragonborn’s breaths spilled over the shopkeeper’s face. Belethor saw the need whirling in the larger man’s eyes. He bit down on the dragonborn’s bottom lip until he tasted blood. Ardbur groaned. A dangerous spark leapt into his gaze. He crushed his lips over the shopkeeper’s, tongue plunging into his mouth.

When he could no longer breathe, the shopkeeper pushed the dragonborn away. The man was slow to oblige, releasing them both and rolling onto his back. His eyes narrowed with warning.

Ardbur didn’t have to worry. Belethor wanted to sate the need he’d seen in the other man’s gaze, to bring him to the crest of pleasure. He wanted to prove the dragonborn was a man like any other, and an equal on this bed.

He reached out for Ardbur’s swollen length. Ardbur watched with lidded eyes as Belethor sprawled across his thighs and brought his face near. His tongue glided over the head, swirling teasingly. Then Belethor took the other man into his mouth, his hands continuing to stroke him and kneed the muscles of his thighs.

As Belethor worked out what the other man liked, Ardbur’s breaths turned into pants. The dragonborn tossed his head back, emitting a low groan. Belethor’s hand brushed over the tense body beneath him, fingernails leaving reddened trails. Sweat glistened on Ardbur’s chest, dripping down his belly to pool at his navel. His hips twitched, thrusting himself into the warm, wet heat of Belethor’s mouth.

Belethor’s own need grew as he watched the defenses of the dragonborn collapsing one by one. He relished in the feeling of Arbur’s muscles clenching and releasing beneath him. Belethor moaned and rutted against the sheets, his own desires threatening to get the better of him.

The dragonborn’s movements grew more frantic. Ardbur gasped and shoved a hand into Belethor’s hair, dragging several strands free of its leather queue. The man’s hips lifted off the bed, the muscles throughout his entire body tightening. Without another sound, the man came.

Ardbur let out a low breath and relaxed back against the bed. Smirking, Belethor licked his lips and drew away, crawling up to lay near the dragonborn. The other man panted quietly, his eyes closed, his dark hair plastered against his brow. After a moment, Ardbur said, “Don’t look so smug.”

“Wh - you’re eyes are closed!”

“I know you, Belethor.” The man’s lips twitched. “You always look smug.” He turned onto his side and rolled the merchant towards him, tucking the man’s back against his hard stomach. He buried his nose into the shopkeeper’s neck and inhaled. The man’s tongue soothed the bite he’d left there.

The dragonborn’s hand wormed underneath Belethor’s waist and clamped against his belly, pinning the shopkeeper against his chest. Ardbur’s other hand ventured over the soft curve of Belethor’s waist.

The dragonborn’s fingers explored Belethor’s body so thoroughly that the shopkeeper almost felt embarrassed. His physique couldn’t dream of comparing to that of a trained warrior’s. The dragonborn soon banished the merchant’s worries. Belethor held his breath as Ardbur’s hand drifted downward and closed around the merchant’s aching member.

Belethor was shocked that the dragonborn would think to tend to his needs as well. The surprise made the pleasure radiating through Belethor’s gut intensify, clouding his thoughts. He groaned and bucked his hips, but the pace Ardbur set was torturous. The dragonborn’s arm imprisoned Belethor against his body like an iron band, the pressure of his fingers leaving bruises.

Ardbur hooked his leg around Belethor’s knee and parted the other man’s legs. Fingers teased Belethor until he was gasping. His length throbbed and his entire body ached for the sensation of rough hands bringing him to release. He wondered if the dragonborn intended to kill him after all, in the most pleasurable way possible.

Just when Belethor thought he might die, Ardbur finally grasped him at the base and pumped hard, once, twice. A third time sent Belethor reeling over the edge, and he came with a cry.

Belethor sank back into the dragonborn’s embrace. He exhaled shakily. “That,” he said. “Well. Right.” Better he not speak anymore until he’d gathered his scattered wits.

The dragonborn chuckled softly. Against his shoulder, the shopkeeper could feel Ardbur’s lips curving into a smug grin of his own.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

That night, Belethor slept soundly in the presence of the dragonborn. No nightmares threatened him, or visualizations of the horrors that had befallen him at Duskenvale Cave.

Come morning, sounds from the street awoke the shopkeeper. Frankly, he was surprised to see Ardbur still shared his bed. Belethor paused mid-turn, listening intensely. If Sigurd had suddenly transformed into an over-zealous worker, he could be back from Riverwood and sweeping the downstairs right now. That would be awkward. Fortunately, there was no other sound in the house but the dragonborn’s breathing.

The bedframe creaked as Belethor settled back down onto the pillow. He wondered if the other man was awake.

To answer his question, Ardbur yawned and rolled onto his back, glancing sleepily at the shopkeeper. “You surprised me,” the man said. “I should name you Belethor the Brave.”

The shopkeeper snorted. “I’ve told you countless times that I’d sell my own sister,” Belethor said. “Does it really surprise you that I would be willing to sleep with you?”

The dragonborn chuckled. “Yes, considering I didn’t pay you. I hope you weren’t expecting me to return the gold for that sword.”

“Well, actually…”

Ardbur laughed. “The sword is yours. Sell it at an outrageous price, I don’t care.”

The shopkeeper harrumphed. “Tell me more about this sword you obtained in Morthal. What’s the story behind the blade you claim you didn’t steal?”

“Hm.” Ardbur stared upward at the ceiling, an uncharacteristically mischievous look on his face. “The Jarl sent me out to look for the sword. Unfortunately, I was forced to return to Morthal with my regrets. You see, I never found the blade.”

Belethor stared at him. “I don’t get it.”

The dragonborn rolled his head lazily towards Belethor. “You know exactly what I mean.” Ardbur smirked. “You were right all along - of course I stole the sword!”

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That’s the end of the fill, thanks for reading!

This was really good and this comes from someone that’s not really into bloodplay. And I think you manage to write Belethor perfectly. He was seriously on character.

Author!Anon here. Thank you for your comment, I appreciate it! I’m really glad to hear that Belethor was on character. Thanks for reading!

Very cool. A believable Dragonborn and a totally in-character Belethor snarking and sexing. Awesome.

Haha, thank you very much! I am glad you enjoyed. Thanks for taking a look!
- Author!Anon

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