skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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Thanks for the kind words, OP!

Just not sure how sad feels I want. Happy relationship with Luaffyn or does she die at the Butcher's hands?

I would like this
-Not!OP

Possibly RTYI - have you read Innocence Lost by blackwingedheaven? It's the same basic idea as this, Aventus becoming an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, brought in by Listener!DB. It's here if you want to check it out: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8108569/1/Innocence_Lost

Right! You think there'd be way more cuz Cicero's got this- air -about him, y'know?

Given the nature of this place and the nature of Sanguine, I'm going to assume the DB and Sanguine had lots and lots of sex whilst very very intoxicated.

I want to see what exactly happened during that night that we didn't hear about from the people pissed at the DB - I mean, you did wind up in a temple of Dibella.

Any gender or race of DB is fine (slash preferred though). OP would love a less-commonly-seen race if writernon feels up to it. Whatever floats your boat.

Bonus points for at least some of the sex being out in the middle of some semi-public space; I will love you forever if random passersby start making suggestions or even getting off, on their own or with each other (it is Sanguine, after all).

Double bonus points if Sanguine reverts to his Daedric form at some point, and is pleasantly surprised at how inventive the DB gets.

Oh Damn, someone gotta do this. I love this one. I would do it but i don't think I could give it the justice it deserves.

I just MIGHT fill this out... because this NEEDS to be filled... sooo by reading the other replies I have deduced that there might eventually be a triple fill of this if no one minds x3

Eeee! Happy OP is happy! Any number higher than zero is fine by me!

By all means! This OP loves multi-fills.

Eeeee! *OP looks forward to it*

PLEASE...I mean....yes please? :)

OP happens to be a major fan of Gunnar and would kill to read more about him!

I'm looking for a kind anon who indulges my slightly twisted rape fantasies.

While exploring some dwemer ruin I found falmer... and their slaves: Humans in shabby clothes who attack me on sight. I spend a lot of time running around to find at least ONE slave I could save and who would follow me back to the surface, but obviously the falmer totally brainwashed them.

So I want to see one (or more) falmer raping their favourite male, human fucktoy. The slave tries to please the falmer because he barely remembers his life back on the surface and knows what happens to slaves who aren't useful anymore - and because falmer cocks are HUGE.

I would like the falmer to be rough and brutal, expressing their hate for all surface beings, while their fucktoy is... enthusiastic.

Possible Kinks: dub con, oral, double penetration, size, torture, blood

After reading that someone is filling this with a serious fill, I feel a bit bad re-reading my own. I'll post it anyway... but yeah... it's really not meant to be taken seriously :')

Looking forward to other A!A writing their Gunnar fill (DOUBLE!fill!) mainly because I like dark/serious, and the name Gunnar.

I created Arundil when I wondered what the exact opposite of the Thalmor's "superior mer image" would be. It's really cracky/dumb. Heavily inspired by The Surprising Adventures of Sir Digby Chicken Caesar, if anyone knows it they might recognise some quotes.

tags: crack, gen, dragonborn. I'm not sure if there are others.

Title: The Curious Adventures of Lord Arundil
Summary: In a broken land inevitably surging towards destruction, amid the fear and intrigues of man and mer, who is left to fight for all that is good and right and pure-- and gets you smashed for under twelve septims?

The Curious Adventures of Lord ~~Andil~~ … ~~Amandil~~ …Amanda?

[indecipherable]

[indecipherable]

Dear diary,

Apparently ingesting lots of cheap mead could put an end to my miserable itch. Whether it’s a widely-accepted cure, I know not; but I have always been a staunch advocate of experimental alchemy. This morning, I set off on my experiment with the intention of starting it quite early and finishing it somewhere between late noon and losing consciousness. The sun is out, but all I feel is a tremulous shiver-- and the miserable itch of course! Damned itch! That’s the last time I cart about the waterfront with Horker in a dress, I tell you.

I’m finding it quite hard to keep my eyes open in the sun, but I do my best to give myself words of encouragement. For the sake of alchemists and my fellow itchy citizens, for the sake of Tamriel and the bottles of mead Horker left in that barrel, I must press on!

Currently Horker and I are engaged on a quest to acquire a measure of drink and some other completely-legitimate narcotics: all in the name of alchemy of course. But diary, we are also engaged on another arduous quest-- a constant uphill struggle to find out what the hell is going on, and save Tamriel from my nemesis, (this bastard who is presumably responsible).

People give Horker and I a wide berth as we commence our usual morning stroll to our gentleman’s club. Such respect they have for the future savior’s of Tamriel! Horker’s unusual smell does a fine job of keeping the more unsavoury pedestrians at bay.

I stood outside the Flowing Bowl for a bit with Horker, singing our praises to the morning and to the goodness, purity and generous nature of Anvil’s citizens. Horker, whilst mainly useless, does possess the most wonderful tenor. Stopped singing my praises when I had to wonder why the Flowing Bowl was named so. Also a rather beefy sailor just handed me five septims to take my performance elsewhere.

“My boundless gratitude, sir,” I said to him. “You might write to the Emperor for full remuneration of the given sum.”

“I’ve paid you to move. Now move,” was the charming fellow's reply.

“Well really,” says Horker. I agree. I’d throw my gloves at the man, if I wasn’t so averse to being broken in half. Also, I don’t have any gloves, only a stocking with a rock in it. Didn’t fancy my chances of throwing that at him, so Horker and I entered the Flowing Bowl with our five extra septims: Huzzah!

The squalid state of Anvil’s taverns never ceases to amaze me, diary. Nor Horker I think, but the poor sot is amazed by everything. I’ve reason to believe that giants used him to play kick-the-ball when he was a babe, a futile attempt by my nemesis to deprive future me of a sidekick. Thank the Divines for Horker! Though he is somewhat uglier, stupider and smellier than I would have liked.

I suppose what the Flowing Bowl lacks in elegance, taste and good breeding it makes up for in an abundance of certain narcotics with which Horker and I plan to imbibe for the good of the Empire.

“Stop thinking out loud, would you?” the barkeep is a frigid, hoppy-looking Argonian. “Gods... Arundil. Y-You aren’t allowed in here anymore, remember.”

Of course! Recently my nemesis has been posing as me in an attempt to sabotage my good name! Already he has had me thrown into prison for several muggings, skooma posession, and one count of indecent exposure. He truly is the most cunning of fiends.

Of course when I try and explain this to the Argonian it all flies over his head. How ignorant the sheep are! Do they know nothing of the enemy?

“Horker,” I said. “Pay the lizard.”

“Yes sir.”

The lizard makes a strange hissing, choking sound; quite obviously trying to assert his dominance but I hissed back and showed no fear.

“You think the five septims you just begged off of Ashur will cover your tab?" he says, but I make little sense of his words. "The broken furniture? My daughter’s counselling fees?”

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but there was no time to ponder such inanities! For suddenly, one of my nemesis’ minions had entered the Flowing Bowl, in a cunning disguise! Many of my nemesis' henchmen masqueraded as the good guards of Anvil, and it was clear to me that the bastard was intending to ruin my alchemical experiment! I dared not let that happen! What would become of the miserable itch?

“It’s a guard, sir!” Horker shouted, some few seconds late.

“Come quietly, Arundil” the minion told me, brandishing his sword. As if I feared a sword! “Then, we won’t have to tie you up like last time.”

“Have at him, Horker!” I yelled.

“Yes sir!”

Thankfully I had been clutching my rock-in-a-sock, or who knows what might have happened. Horker and I managed to fight our way to the front door and make the escape. The ~~guard~~ minion followed closely behind, but it was to be expected! Fortunately the Argonian barkeep stayed behind. Well really! With such service, I hope the lizard doesn't expect me to recommend the place to my contacts.

Cleverly, Horker and I led the guard all the way to the broken end of the docks. Only the most nimble of men can traverse it’s muddy waters safely, and the guard was not a nimble man! He fell, making a large splash and a gurgling sound. Good old rock-in-a-sock! Horker moved forwards as if to help the ~~minion~~ ~~guard~~ minion from the wet, however I had the bright idea of standing on the man’s back until he stopped moving.

“He’s fallen asleep sir,” Horker quietly stated, after some tense minutes of standing.

“Of course!” said I. Working for my nemesis must be tiring work!

“A strange place to fall asleep in,” Horker finished, picking up the wet rock-in-a-sock. “The sea, I mean, sir.”

“Never mind that” I snapped, senses tingling. The forces of darkness were moving in!

“Horker! The forces of darkness are moving in! Quick, search the minion and see if he’s got any money!”

So many questions left unanswered diary! So little time! For instance, is it true that if I drink six bottles of skooma and don‘t die, I’ll see the face of Akatosh? And how many harmless narcotics must Horker and I consume before the empire is safe? Will the ~~guard~~ minion have any money, or will Horker and I have to go back on the game?

Where will my nemesis strike again? And why don’t the Anvil tailors sell dresses in my size? Find out in the next installment of the Surprising Adventures of Lord Arundil.

The next bit is how he ended up in Skyrim. If OP didn't mind the crack/general silliness.

YES YES YES Someone needs to fill this, there's so much potential in this prompt!

Not OP, but loving this already. :D

She stood still within the circle of his arms, her cheek pressed against the warm, hard wall that was his chest.

For a moment, it was as if time stilled. They stood in this mockery of a lover’s pose for what seemed an eternity, until she felt the snap of her bindings loosen as the last coil of rope was wrestled free.

The small sound sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through her blood, snapping her to her senses.

She was fast, and agile, and despite her preference for weaponry she could be quite lethal at close range. Her small size had long ago taught her the value of using the enemy’s sluggish weight to her advantage.

A simple twist of her body, a jerk of her knee to his intimates, would give her the split second she needed to free her Voice from its cage.

Except that it didn’t.

Because he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. For such a large man he was surprisingly agile.

Her momentum, not meeting with the target she had expected, put her off balance. She might have regained her feet, but found her own legs were swept from beneath her.

She hit the floor hard, her head slamming back, a sharp crack of sound and pain. The brute followed her down. Frantic, she reached quickly to remove her gag, but he anticipated her, again, using his entire weight to keep her still as he pinned her arms above her head, one of his large hands enough to capture both her wrists in a vise-like grip.

She felt dizzy, knowing she should relax her limbs and give herself a moment to get her frenzied breathing under control, but this seemed impossible a task. Blood rushed through her ears as she struggled to breathe through her nose, and with each shallow, quick breath she inhaled the spice of recently soaped skin, and a darker scent that was distinctly male.

He pressed his lips to her neck, a scorching line of heat against that delicate skin. She felt his words as much as she heard them.

“A third attempt upon me this day. Do you yet beg for repayment?”

He nipped at this sensitive skin in gentle imitation of her earlier cruel bite, the scrape of his teeth sending a burst of responsive, unwanted heat to curl dangerously low in her belly.

His hands, those large warm hands she now regretted admiring, were pushing up under the hem of her tunic, already bunched around her waist. It was one of the small items Erdi had been able to smuggle her after she had been stripped of armor and all possessions. She wore nothing else underneath, only the silky fabric of his robe providing a thin and useless barrier at the point where his hips nestled firmly in the soft cradle of her own.

She felt his growing hardness there, where he pressed so tightly against her, and she struggled in earnest against him as the heat of his hands pushed up to expose her belly.

When she felt cold air caress her breasts, she dug her heels into the floor, hips rising, back arching, anything to dislodge the weight of him, a rush of heated panic coursing through her limbs. Some part of her knew that struggling against him in such a position would likely only serve to stroke his lust, but she felt cornered and trapped and itching and hot and she could not remain unmoving beneath him.

“Be still, woman.” The command was harshly given, snapping her to attention like the crack of a whip, but it was not enough to stop her struggles.

They were to no avail, superior strength worked in his favor, and her tunic was pulled up and over her head with a few simple yanks, leaving her naked and heaving beneath him.

His mouth found her ear, his own breathing surprisingly harsh, his voice pitched barely above a low growl. “When I take you for the first time, Dragon of the North, it will not be a rutting on the floor.”

His oppressive weight lifted, and she was hauled to her feet, spun to face the bed. He stood close behind her, ran his hands down the length of her bare arms, and before she could even shiver in response he deftly tied her hands in front of her with the soft, thick fabric that was nothing more than simple belt.

But it proved an able, if unconventional, form of binding.

She stood there, trembling, like a freshly broken colt just brought under saddle.

Uncertain of freedoms stolen, waiting for further attempts at domination with a wary spirit not yet tamed.

Alright, Cicero and the Listener (any type you like) are going at it, and dear Sithis, does everyone else in the Sanctuary know. Ah, accidental voyeurism. What is Nazir's reaction? Babette's? Those ickle Initiates? Does the Night Mother...er...tune in?

Wanted: as much awkwardness as possible.

She jumped when his chin came to rest on her shoulder, his voice the raspy caress of smoke and velvet as he spoke so close to her ear, through the tangle of her hair. “Do you remember the first time I held you like this in my arms?”

His hands did not remain idle, but traced lazy circles down her now quivering sides. His question barely registered in the haze of trepidation, but then the memory formed.

Helgen.

Alduin would have killed her then, on those curved stone steps of the crumbling tower, if not for this man hauling her back into the safety of his unwelcome embrace.

She was shocked he even remembered.

“Some might be inclined to argue you owe me your life.”

The daft Nord had proceeded to shove her out of the high hole in the wall after the Dragon’s retreat. Her fear briefly forgotten, she snorted at his presumption and audacity, giving a vigorous shake of her head.

This earned her a sharp bark of laughter, and then he pressed into her, dancing her forward.

“Perhaps you owe something else, then.”

She took a few stumbling steps, but dug in her heels when they were a few feet from the bed.

His fingers clenched around her arm, turned her in his embrace. “The bed is not the place for our coupling either. At least not in the traditional sense.”

Snaking one arm around her waist, he lifted her as if she weighed no more than a deathbell blossom, shrugging off her desperate, scissoring kicks to his shin with such ease she felt the flaring of frustrated temper. He leaned her against the closest of the four wide posts that stood at each corner of the bed, supporting her weight with his chest as he raised her bound arms above her head to secure the bindings high on the wooden pillar, above the joint where the cross supports intersected.

When he stepped back and released her, a slow slide down the length of his chest that left her senses reeling, she found his trap complete.
She was stretched, not given any leverage, unable even to rest her heels fully on the ground unless by great effort.

She knew the position would become painful if she were left too long, but worry for pain lost out to shame in the war of what concerned her most.

She was completely bared to his gaze, the backward cant of her arms leaving her chest arched, her breasts thrust forward as if in offering. Despite the heat of her recent exertions, the lingering chill in the large, vaulted room left her nipples peaked and already sensitive.

He stared down at her, surveying his handiwork, and his next softly spoken words caught her by surprise.

“Your own people planned to slaughter you that day.”

Could the man never do anything expected? She glared at him through the tangle of curls that had fallen over her face, unwilling to be confronted with how foolish she had been, how reckless to join in on the attack of the Stormcloak camp that chance had dumped in her path.

Newly arrived in Skyrim, carried on the swiftly beating wings of fury and vengeance, she was not yet officially enlisted, and in the heat of battle-victory she was not known as friend or foe.

She hadn’t even been given the chance to explain herself. It had always bothered her, tucked in the back of her smoldering resentment, but she would not be admitting such a thing to him.

He smiled brightly at her scowl, a fake thing that showed off the evenness of his white teeth.

“Not to worry, little prisoner. I have other plans for such a ripe catch. Skyrim has well taught many a Nord the importance of letting no thing go to waste.”

One hand traced a gentle circle at her wrist, near the bindings, before he trailed his fingers down. She twitched as he ghosted over the sensitive, ticklish underside of her arm. His hand continued its slow, gentle descent, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw.
Down the length of her neck.

And lower.

She willed her body not to respond against the feel of his large, firm hand cupping the weight of her breast in his roughened palm. A useless attempt, for when his blunt thumb flicked over her sensitive peak with a precise pressure that marked him instantly as experienced lover, creating a delicious, unceasing friction that soon skirted the boundary of pleasure and pain, a white hot lick of flame spread down to coil in her belly.

And lower still.

I'm picturing Nazir's reaction: he hates clowns.

This prompt is fabulous. Seconded.

As if he knew exactly where his touch had affected her most, he caressed down, teasing over her belly to trail his fingers through the triangle of soft curls at the juncture of her thighs. She trembled as he traced lazy circles over her mound, could not say if it was fear or anticipation, and pressed her thighs together.

He nudged his knee between them, gently but firmly urging her legs to part, exposing that most vulnerable place to the chilled air of the room and the heat of his intent gaze.

She had never felt so helpless, could barely form a coherent thought as he ceased his taunting and pressed even lower, his large, blunt fingers sliding over her slit. He parted her delicate folds with a broad, sweeping caress, spreading her slick inner wings wider as he traced up in a heated line until he found the rounded bundle of nerves that was soon to be her undoing.

He stroked once over her clit with the rough pad of his finger, the pressure of that firm caress sending a wave of heat through her body. He circled the swelling nub, keeping the pace slow and even, and she did not have the ability to stop the answering wetness that he drew from her using only the delicious friction of his calloused finger.

She swore to herself that this was the only reaction he would get from her.

But this was proved difficult.

By the divines, it was as if his hands were made for the stroking of a woman’s sex.

She strained against the hold he had on her, tried to think of other things, made no small attempt to deny him her submission in this. But there was no denying the torturous, unrelenting flicks of his clever finger, each rub on her clit sending a response that curled throughout her limbs, branding her body as his. Every nerve ending lit with life and fire as heat licked in waves, up her belly to her still tightened nipples, and down her thighs.

She had thought that he would punish her, simply plunder his spoil of war with a swift and rough taking. But this leisurely, rhythmic teasing was a different kind of taunt entirely. She had not known she could be brought to the brink so easily. She had not thought she had given a sign she was so close, but he was an astute observer, if nothing else, and he had swiftly learned the secret song of her traitorous body.

He was methodical in his intent, diabolical, and clearly unwilling to allow her that final rush of pleasure. Her pride wanted to call this a favor, but her body recognized the torturous betrayal when his finger ceased flicking and circling at the precise moment she might have found her release.

His rough palm rested against her swollen clit as his fingers sought another target, pressed lower, teased around the edge of her opening. When one thick finger pressing into the slick heat of her, her walls clenching around him of their own accord, she ground her teeth against the fabric in her mouth until her jaw ached.

And then a second finger joined the first, and with his size these two were enough to leave her with a feeling of fullness and stretching that was past all bearing. Her shame and fury were no longer a deterrent to her body’s demands. She leaned her head back against the wooden post and closed her eyes, unwilling to see the victory that would soon be in his own, and he allowed her this respite. Lost in the darkness, unable to deny him the reaction she had fought to hide, she opened her legs to him further and rocked her hips against his hand.

Waves of pleasure snaked up her spine, the tension coiling tighter between her legs, and she could not stop the low moan from escaping.

His answering groan sounded as equally wrenched from his throat unwilling, and her eyes snapped open to find a man who did not look victorious.

He looked as if in pain, his own eyes closed, his jaw tightly clenched.

Her gaze fell upon the bruising on his cheek. His bloodied lip.

Her work.

A stark contrast to the firm but gentle touch of his fingers within her, and at the intimacy with which he stripped away her pride and bared her very self, she wondered if she might have preferred to trade pain for pain.

His eyes opened to catch her intent stare. For a brief moment, his expression was no longer mocking. He was so close she could make out the many flecks of rust and amber that sparkled within the green of his eyes.

With no hate in his gaze to sustain her fury, he became simply a man.

A man pleasuring a woman.

The odd moment passed quickly, interrupted by a sharp and intrusive knock at the door.

In that quick of an instant, his feral, predatory grin returned, sending a shiver of foreboding down her now aching spine, chasing away the heat of her lust.

She shook her head violently, putting forceful denial in her narrowed eyes. Surely he wouldn’t. Was her private humiliation not enough?

He ignored her silent protest. His voice was rough and low, betraying his own waning passion. “It seems the great jarl has received my good news sooner than expected. What a happy coincidence.”

This was not a man to wait upon the vicissitudes of fate or happy chance. He forged his path with the unerring and unrelenting progress of the mountain tempest, leaving just as unforgiving a devastation in his wake.

There were no simple coincidences where he was concerned.

And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her, that she was not going to like what waited for her behind the door.

“Enter!”

She stiffened at the sound of his shouted command.

The door was to her left, based on her positioning against the bedpost, but her naked body would be easy to spot for anyone coming into the room, should her tormenter decide to move.

But he remained standing in front of her, his massive form blocking the majority of her body, though her bound hands and face could be clearly seen, and her nakedness easily presumed.

The door swung open and a figure came stumbling into view, as if rudely shoved inside. The commanding figure turned, and she instantly recognized Balgruuf.

He looked furious, his words an angry demand. “Where are my children? I did not think even you could sink this low, Ulfric. I demand to know what you have done with my....”

Balgruuf’s tirade sputtered to a screeching halt the moment his gaze collided with hers over Ulfric’s shoulder.

If she thought her shame complete before, it was nothing compared to the rush of anguished embarrassment she felt at her trusted friend and mentor finding her in such a humiliating state.

His eyes flickered up to her bindings, a swift moment of gathering information, and then they moved to remain carefully level with her face.

His furious expression briefly softened, shared sorrow in his gaze. In the aching misery of her defeat, such a reminder of past kindness and current loyalty only sent a rush of tears to prick the backs of her eyelids.

“Oh, lass. No.”

His soft whisper of protest was a far cry from his earlier outburst of anger.

She blinked rapidly, clenched her jaw, worked her throat to try to swallow the pitted lump of anguish lodged in her chest. She could handle anger. Pain. Torture. But kindness and sympathy, when she felt she deserved neither, unraveled her facade as nothing else could.

She had failed him. It had been her task, to ferret his children to safety from sword and threat of death when Whiterun had fallen to Stormcloak fury. She did not know how they had been found so easily, but she counted it yet another failure, to add to an ever growing list.

She clenched her hands, pressed the crescents of her nails tightly down until they broke the surface of her palm, and she took refuge at the fleeting sting.

She felt the weight of Ulfric’s gaze upon her, and she refused to show him yet another weakness. He was hardly interested in the angry jarl at his back, did not even bother to look at him, so intently did he study her face.

Fury returned to Balgruuf’s voice, but she heard the underlying thread of anguish it hid.

“You are a beast, Ulfric, an unfit Nord for the high thone! Have you not an inkling of shame? Making war upon your own people. Raping women. Killing children.”

Ulfric’s voice cut like a knife through the angry jarl’s condemning litany.

“Your children are not dead. Not yet.”

Not yet.

An icy chill settled in her aching limbs, as she realized his play.

“I will not keep you any longer, Balgruuf.”

She saw the moment the displaced jarl realized that the life of his kin rested in her hands. His face was red with anger, and fury, but there was a pleading look in his familiar gaze as he was pulled from the room by the guards.

The last she saw, before he disappeared behind the condemning shut of the door, was a look of slowly dawning horror at Ulfric’s next cruelly uttered words.

“Spread the news that our little hero has decided to join her sword to Stormcloak cause, and wish us happiness on our upcoming union. I am taking the Dragonborn to wife.”

------------------------
Note: Can we just presume, for the sake of emotional impact, that the jarl's children might actually be worthy of concern and not creepy creepers? Can I please have this little thing? Also, thank you for the warm, encouraging comments and the giggle worthy "Aw, yis!" This is my first fill here and it is nice to know I have some folks along for the ride. I hope I can meet expectation! More heated hot stuff incoming soon!

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Page 32 of 270

Meme Announcements!

Re: Eira 3/3 OP

Re: Pre-Skyrim Possible author

Re: Head of Dark Brotherhood adopts Aventus?

OP here

DB/Sanguine - what happened during that night that none of us remember? (dubcon)

Re: DB/Sanguine - what happened during that night that none of us remember? (dubcon)

Re: Player character/Brynjolf

Re: Player character/Brynjolf

Re: Player character/Brynjolf

Re: Player character/Brynjolf

Re: Pre-Skyrim

Re: Pre-Skyrim Possible author

M!Falmer/M!FalmerSlave - non con, dub con, torture

Re: Pre-Skyrim

The Curious Adventures of Lord Arundil 1/?

Re: The Curious Adventures of Lord Arundil 1b/?

Re: DB/Sanguine - what happened during that night that none of us remember? (dubcon)

Re: The Curious Adventures of Lord Arundil 1b/?

Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 4a/?

Cicero/Listener From the perspective of other Sanctuary members...

Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 4b/?

Re: Cicero/Listener From the perspective of other Sanctuary members...

Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 4c/?

Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 5a/?

Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 5b/?