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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Dyce Anon you are amazing. That is all.

Dyce!Anon, you have rekindled my long lost love for slash. And made me laugh at the end of a very LONG day. Thank you!

This has been on my mind for agggeesss

Elisif is forced into a political marriage with Ulfric.

(Because, I mean come on what better way to squash any remaining Imperial supporters than to marry their figure head?)

Anyway, yeah so I want it to be set around her being forced to accept the marriage after Ulfric becomes high king and of course have it lead up to the wedding night.

Bonus points if Ulfrics a complete chauvinistic dickbag for the whole thing

TES V: A Scroll of Ice and Fire

His new Thane was quiet most of the night. He spent a great deal simply discovering the house, silent as death moving from room to room to examine every surface. Occasionally he would let his long and elegant fingers trail across surfaces in a slow and deliberate manner, like he was memorizing the feel over the actual appearance or use.

It was almost like watching an appraiser looking something over that he wanted to sell… no, that wasn’t right… maybe more like a collector with a rare find perhaps? Maybe like someone was memorizing the area, like they wanted to know every little detail so he could use it to his advantage later on. And maybe he was, Argis didn’t know the elf, Roos could have very well been the worst thing to show its (very pretty) face in Skyrim since this damned civil war.

No matter what though, Roos was Argis’ new Thane and he wouldn’t say a word unless his Thane demanded it. And right now, it was obvious that his Thane just wanted to explore his new home and all his new possessions.

He continued exploring until he chanced saw Argis sitting at the table, idly oiling up his Thane’s armor. For the longest time, Roos’ blood red eyes watched him. It seemed that those strangely hypnotic orbs eyed every little detail. From his needing to be trimmed blonde hair and beard, to his blind eye, to his simple armor and to the simple sword on his hip.

Argis had never self conscious. He had always been tall, big and strong, and his classic Nord looks usually got him a better first reaction from people in Skyrim then others. But under Roos’ intense gaze, he slowly found doubt worming his way into his heart.

Was he good enough for this pretty little Bosmer? Was he really the big, strong and reliable housecarl that he had built himself up to be? Was that why Roos was so brisk with him? Because he had already disappointed him? Was there anything he could do to change his mind?

“You said your name was Argis?”

Argis started from the sudden question, loosening himself from the strange spell Roos had him under. But he quickly recovered.

“Yes my Thane”

“Argis the Bulwark, a housecarl” Roos smiled a little bit “Fitting”

Argis only nodded. He had heard everything out there about the Bulwark tacted onto his name, and Roos seemed to be sincere, so he actually felt his questioned pride bolstered a little.

“Thank you my Thane”

“Are you always going to address me like that?” Roos asked, the slightest bit of humor coloring his voice.

“Yes my Thane”

Roos smiled a little bit before motioning to the armor.

“How long before my things are ready again?”

Argis tested the dampness of the material of his cloak and judged the condition of the leather armor’s oiling.

“Within the hour” Argis answered promptly.

“Good” He looked in the general direction of the door and scowled “It should still be raining by morning but…”

He shook his head.

“I would like to travel when my armor is ready and I would like you to accompany me”

“Yes my Thane”

“Actually you’ll probably end up accompanying me from now on” Roos said, almost to himself “Which means you’ll have to get used to traveling at night”

“Of course my Thane”

Roos looked genuinely surprised that Argis would agree so readily to such a strange arrangement. His red eyes popped open in surprise for a moment before his face smoothed over again.

“You’re very loyal, my other housecarl objected right away”

“Oth” Argis quickly corrected himself “I mean, it’s my duty my Thane, I will protect you and all you own with my life”

Roos stared at him for a very long time, blood red eyes examining his form again in minute detail. Argis tried not to squirm under that gaze, failing miserably but trying his damned hardest to try otherwise.

“And I thought I was strange” Roos said with a slight smirk.

Rahgot.

My Redguard hasn't even worn another helmet, I don't think.

Which is good, because he's an ugly one, what with his tiger scar and facepaint.

Lucia still loves his stupid face though.

Serana is a powerful, centuries-old vampire recently woken from a prolonged slumber.

Given her status as a 'royal' vampire, she doesn't expect much from the lowly Dragonborn, who only uses giant, inelegant things like swords and axes instead of magic.

But when the Dragonborn savagely headbutts a master vampire to death, or rides a dragon in its death throes before smashing its head in, she rethinks her opinion a little.

Situation is up to anon, above is just examples. Two-handed DB preferred, but would be thrilled for any fill. If sexings happen, please no blood play.

OP here - forgot to add:

Extra super bonus points if the Dragonborn figures out what Sanguine meant by "Most fun I've had in over a hundred years," gets pissed, and tracks him down to either beat him senseless or demand a consensual rerun, depending on the temperament of said Dragonborn.

this is the best! i love how its the wolf and hes super possessive and ugh this is just amazing.

Before she could respond with anything beyond the breathy sigh that escaped her lips at his nibbling bites, Ulfric sank to his knees.

She stiffened against the bedpost with something like a squeak, and he smiled in anticipation of other, earthier sounds she would be making soon enough.

He let his nose rest against her curls, at the arched bone that framed the top of her sex, and waited for her protest.

It was not long in coming.

“Balgruuf is right, you are a beast,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

He noted she chose to taunt instead of beg him to stop.

“Yes, dragon, and a hungry one.” He exhaled against her as he spoke, blowing softly when he finished.

“Did you not eat well enough at your victory banquet this day?”

He heard the scorn in her voice, but there was a shiver there also.

He pressed the flat of his tongue into her, keeping it firm and hard. Her soft folds yielded to his insistent advance, and he had his first taste of her, licking up in a broad sweeping stroke through her slit to the hood of flesh guarding her most sensitive prize.

“Mmm,” he groaned against her, “but I find myself famished anew. I quenched your thirst, it is only fair you satisfy my hunger.”

Her next attempt at protest came out as nothing more than garbled moan as he licked her again. At that sweet sound he took for surrender, the mug in his hand went forgotten, dropping to the floor. His freed hands caressed up her thighs, gripping them firmly to lift her legs and drape them over the width of his shoulders.

He supported her weight with his hands at her backside, careful to take the pressure from her bound arms, and this was not a difficult task. He was again stuck by how small she was, but he brushed such thoughts aside. If he found distraction in thinking of how tight and wet she would feel, the inner walls of her sex clinging to his cock to milk his seed from him, he would not have the ability to savor her.

And now that she was open before him, her scent surrounding him, he was unwilling to give up the territory he’d gained. Not that she could escape his conquest, as he cradled her seat in his hands and drank from her like the famished man he’d claimed to be.

He licked at her swelling bud with firm lashings of his tongue, relentless in his tasting of her, until her breath soon came uneven, full of those soft little hitches that drove him to the brink of his control and signaled her impending climax.

Not ready to finish this game so soon, he swept his tongue down through her velvety folds to tease at her opening, sucking at her wetness with his lips before pressing into the slick heat of her with his tongue, wrenching from her a keening moan that set his cock to weeping against his belly.

He burned to hear such sounds of pleasure from her again. In that moment, as he worked her with his mouth, teased her tight sheath with plunging strokes until his tongue ached, he could not think of a single thing he wanted more.

When he felt his jaw become sore from his current task and his earlier bruising, his chin and the hair upon it wet with the evidence of her arousal, he moved his attention higher. There, he sucked her swollen bundle into his mouth, scraped at her gently with his teeth to test her, and at the sweet sound of her near scream, he flattened his tongue in a more soothing stroking.

There would be no escape for her this time, and as her tremors reached their peak, he sent her tumbling over the edge, using the tip of his tongue to circle and press and flick and he did not stop even as she shuddered and clenched and bucked against his hold on her.

And yet still he pushed her, unwilling to let go this tender prize from the firm suction of his mouth, though she did beg and plead and try to wrest herself from him. He knew she was sensitive, but the lure of her voice in such a whimpering state was impossible for him to resist.

He heard her gulping in air, great gasps that exhaled with moans of please and enough and no more and finally, FUS.

It was not the end to her litany that he had been expecting. It was softly uttered, in the same aroused tone as her moans, but she put enough force behind that one, single, damning word to send him sprawling back upon the floor.

She hung limply from her bindings, body still shaking from the force of her release. Such intensity of pleasure was unknown to her, and it rankled her sorely, that it should come at his hands.

His mouth.

But there had always been something about him that sparked an animal sort of fascination deep in her belly, on the few times she had encountered him in between battles. She had assumed it to be a result of hate, something she well knew was a force of attraction in a way, but now she wondered if she was perhaps as beast as she claimed him to be.

She took several breaths, waiting for him to move, to get up and strike her, certain now that she had gained the punishment of pain she no longer thought she wanted. When the pain did not come, she lifted her heavy lids to glance at him, still sprawled upon the floor at her feet.

She might have gained some small satisfaction at finding him in such a state, but then his body started to shake with an unseen force. She had not borne witness to this particular effect of the shout, and her brows furrowed in confusion.

A grunt of unfamiliar sound escaped him, something that did not quite seem like the effect of pain.

Then he made a noise that was something of a snort.

If the idea did not seem completely mad to her own mind, she would have said it sounded almost like laughter.

And then he sat up and she saw the wide grin splitting his face, his shoulders shaking with the force of his mirth. If she hadn’t been bound, her arms beginning to ache with the strain of the forced position, she might have found her own amusement at the sight of him so lacking his usual composure.

He looked almost boyish, his honey-kissed hair tumbling in disarray around his face, the robe hanging open and slipping from one shoulder, his even white teeth flashing so strikingly against the weathered skin of his face.

Was he going mad?

Was she?

He pushed himself up from the ground, and stood before her, still grinning like a mad fool.

“Little dragon, you do yet try me for a fourth time this day. I am now past the point of what I can endure.”

With that ominous statement, given with amusement still clear in his deep voice, he slipped out of his robe entirely. He had no words, no further taunt to prick her pride, he simply lifted her right leg to hitch at his hip, and pressed himself into the cradle of her own.

He was hard, everywhere, forged by this unforgiving land into a man of iron and steel, but he did not feel like the cold of metal against her. He was hot, burning like the flame from the forge. She was surrounded by the heat he generated, and she could feel the heat of his thickened shaft as he slicked it between her folds with his free hand.

The amount of wetness she knew pooled between her legs set her cheeks to burning. And then she felt the head of him guided to her opening, and there was no more space in her head for embarrassment. Her breath hitched as she prepared herself for a rough sheathing, ready for him to finally slake his lust upon her.

But, as in all things, he took his time, pushing into her in a slow tease of stretching, each inch of him that she took making her feel fuller than the last. He paused to pick up her other leg so that it joined the first around his waist, spreading her wider to accept yet more of him, an easy slide that sparked the bliss of white-hot pleasure at the very core of her.

This flame licked like lightning throughout her limbs, and she bit the inside of her mouth to contain her moan, certain that she could bear no more. Yet still he pushed deeper, slow and sure and unrelenting and hot between her thighs, a searing brand that had her tasting her own blood in her mouth, until finally she felt the base of him flush against her.

He stilled within her, and she met his gaze to find him staring with an intensity that made her shiver. She saw the lust in his eyes, the pleasure she knew he was taking from her, and gods help her but she felt the instinctual pride of her sex thrill through her. She may be his prisoner, bound to a bed that was not even his own, but in this moment, he was as much bound to her as she was to him.

A rush of recklessness flared to match the coil of heat in her belly. She met his stare with a taunt of her own. “Is this all you have for me, Nord?”

He lifted a brow in surprise, and pulled his hard heat from her in a languid glide, before snapping his hips forward. She almost came apart at the friction and the feeling of herself stretching again to accommodate his girth. She could not stop her moan.

His mouth found her ear, his low, guttural voice sending additional pleasure, though his message did not. “You make such sweet sounds for me, little imperial puppet. I would hear more of this. I would have you beg for it, for all that I have for you.”

She lifted her chin at his arrogant smirk, and shook her head in clear denial, though she almost proved herself wrong at the next slow pulling and swift, filling advance.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes at the almost unbearable pressure that was building within her. He took advantage of this position by dropping his head to her neck. She felt his lips there, the scrape of his teeth against her skin, and the tickle of his bearded chin. In the intensity of her feeling, other details emerged. The coarse friction of his hair-roughened chest against her sensitive nipples, his hands, so large and warm, cradling high under her thighs, squeezing her closer to him at each thrust.

Each slow, partial, shallow thrust.

She had thought it only a prelude to a deeper, faster pace, but he kept this from her, only teased and hinted at complete, final satisfaction. He rolled and snapped his hips against her, but he never pulled fully out, nor did he thrust completely back into her.

It left her gasping and straining against him for more and harder and deeper, but he maintained the stoic, tormenting, torturous pace until a fine sheen of sweat covered his skin and it was not long before she realized how foolish she had been to taunt him.

She panted against him, kept at the brink for longer than she could bear, her desire and need and lust driving her mad with the want, and she knew he would win in this, as he had won in everything else.

“Please…” It was a soft plea, and she wondered if he’d even heard.

She wondered if he would make her beg again.

Yet he moved so fast she cried out in surprise as he wrapped one arm securely around her waist, the other reaching up to undo the bindings at her wrist. He made quick work of it, carried her a few stumbling feet to push her back onto the bed.

Her legs were still wrapped around his waist, and he was still deep within her.

And then he wasn’t.

And then he was.

Deep, hard, full strokes that no longer teased at the edges of her release, but demanded she find her pleasure with a surety born of his own furious need.

Suffering, ended.

Death and guilt and pain and victor and prisoner, these were words she no longer knew.

There was no more war.

No more torment.

No more emptiness.

Just heat and fullness and soon to be completion and she wanted this moment more than he wanted her to suffer for it.

He covered her mouth with his, and she parted her lips, not caring if this meant surrender or depravity or nobility lost. She tasted him, as she tasted herself upon him, and he groaned against her mouth. His hips lost their meticulous control and he drove into her with wild abandon as he chased his release.

She felt her own building, a coil of tight hot burn that blossomed and flared the moment he reached a hand between them to roll his thumb over her still sensitive clit. He pressed there, even as she felt her walls spasm around his thickening shaft, guiding her completion to a lingering, exquisite rush of earth-shattering pleasure.

She clawed at his back, his name escaping her lips on a sob of garbled sound that was half moan, half scream. His answering, primal growl sent another shiver through her as he bucked into her a final time, his body tightening in the heated throes of his spilled seed.

She thought, for a brief moment, that she heard her own name fall from his lips like a prayer, but in her exhausted, sated state of languid limbs and trembling body, she attributed it to nothing more than the beginnings of a dream.

Anon, you've been such a terrible tease! Thank you for not tormenting us any more. I'll be in my bunk.

I'm afraid that's my fault (says friend of Dyce!anon). He asked me what I thought and I said perhaps he should ask you, given that you'd only mentioned slash, and some people Do Not Want het mixed in with their slash!

Sorry :S

I found this lovely story and figured out thread subscriptions just in time to have my inbox stuffed with THIS update this morning, and I just... dear Anon, from your fiery Imperial!DB, to your writing style and your period appropriate dialogue and narrative ... it's just so lovely, all of it, and I am just dumbstruck. ♥

Also: aptly put, previous commenter, aptly put.

Summary: The Dragonborn comes to Skyrim to look for his family. Eventually he finds it selling cheap mead in Riften’s tavern, but that story will be told another time.

tags: prompt:filled, es:skyrim, race:altmer, race:dunmer, relationship:het, relationship:slash, char:M!PC, char:F!NPC, char:romlyn_dreth, series:serano, kink:angst

WARNING: This story contains some serious racism (I dare not list that under “kinks”). I felt like I should include it in the story because of most altmer’s elitist and, well, more than slightly racist attitude; but if racism of any kind offends you (which I understand perfectly), you were warned just now.

-------------------------

Home

One day, the letters just stopped coming. That didn’t necessarily have to mean anything ,though: They used to come sporadically, anyway; sometimes weeks or whole months could elapse between one letter and the next. They probably didn’t allow him to write home as often as he would like, afraid that he might spill some secrets that could fall into the wrong hands or something like that.

He didn’t think much of it.

Mother, on the other hand, got frantic. Her little baby, so far away from home, in a country full of retched, filthy humans; and when she went to his superiors they claimed that they couldn’t tell her anything about her son’s current situation, since it could endanger his mission and his life. It was useless to insist that her son might be missing; they wouldn’t share any of their information with normal civilians. They still had to face too much opposition, even from altmer, so their caution actually made sense. The only thing she did get out of them was that her son was stationed somewhere in Skyrim.

Letters took a while until they got delivered here…

Still, Mother claimed that she knew something was wrong; felt it the way only a mother could sense the wellbeing of her child. She ignored his snort.

“We need to find him ourselves. Someone has to go look for him.”, she declared with passion. Her green eyes shone with determination, and her intricate earrings clinked when she whirled her head around to stare at him, urging him to approve of her solution. He stared straight past her gaze, focusing his attention on the tip of her right ear instead, where her golden skin was not as flawless as the make-up on her face tried to make people believe. He still had trouble looking into this woman’s eyes.

“And how should we go about that? The fact that he might be ‘somewhere in Skyrim’ isn’t much of a lead”, he felt obliged to point out. “Besides, there is a Civil War going on there right now, in case you haven’t heard. Finding one person in this mess might be impossible.”

“Are you saying we should just give up? He is your brother!” The last sentence was a high-pitched scream full of indignation that made his ears ring.

Of course Sanyon was his brother. It wasn’t like he could forget about that fact. Not when it was always “Look how smart your brother is!”, “look how well your brother can control his spells!”, “look at your brother’s beautiful fiancée!”, “look at your brother’s wonderful new uniform! The Thalmor accepted him, aren’t you happy for him?”

Not one word about his own achievements, ever. He had gotten the message.

He had never gotten along with his little brother particularly well. Their relationship had always been a fight for their parents’ admiration, one which his brother had always won effortlessly. He didn’t even have to try; but he did anyway.

Even the move of joining the Thalmor had been made just to spite him. Poor little Sanyon, who always liked burying his nose in books more than going out to see the world, and who had no secret ambition to go and hunt down heretics in the outer provinces of the Imperium.

But his older brother had wanted to do just that, and had been rejected in the most humiliating form possibly, so it came to Sanyon as natural as breathing to try and succeed at what his brother had failed to do. He had even managed to get the post in Skyrim he had been eyeing himself.

And now Sanyon was missing.

Maybe.

“And who do you think should go to look for him?!”, he countered. “The Thalmor already said that they won’t help us. Are you planning to go on your own? I can’t see how that plan could possibly fail!”

“I will not leave my son to die somewhere in that barbarian province!”

She had argued with Sanyon when he had expressed the wish to join the Thalmor; this exact same situation they found themselves in had been Mother’s biggest fear from the start. She had actually started shouting at her little baby, just the way she was shouting at him right now.

“Interesting, that you didn’t see fit to complain when I tried to head to the very same place!”

She really hadn’t argued with him when he tried to join. He wasn’t sure whether it was because she trusted his skills to defend himself (which was highly unlikely; Sanyon was by far the better mage of the two, it wouldn’t make sense) or…

“Oh come on, it was obvious they wouldn’t allow you to join anyway!”

…because she knew they would reject him. Everyone seemed to have known that simple fact beforehand, only he himself had chosen to be too blind to see the obvious.

Before he could come up with a suitable response to that, Mother spoke again.

“You need to go and save him.”

“Me?!”

It probably was the logical conclusion. Mother and his little sister shouldn’t travel on their own, them being women without any fighting experience. Besides, they were both needed here, as well as Mother’s husband. It only left him as the natural choice.

That didn’t mean he was going to be happy about it. “I don’t even think there is any cause for alarm! Besides, you think you have lost one son and the solution you come up with is sending your other son straight into that very same ‘barbarian country’?!”

“It is your responsibility. When my husband dies, Sanyon will become the next head of the family. It is your duty to protect him.”

Somehow that sentence had changed the very air around them. Up until this point he had thought he was arguing with her as an equal, as her other son, as her oldest child, as a member of the family. But then she had to go and remind him that the role of mother was exactly that: A role, an act, one she could assume and drop whenever it suited her. Obviously the play was over now, and he had to remember his own role that had been beaten into him from the moment of his little brother’s birth.

But he was in no mood for that now. He had wanted to go to Skyrim before, yes, but on his own terms. He had wanted to go as a Thalmor Justiciar, as one who could make the locals cower in awe whenever they heard his title, as a person worthy of respect. Not as his brother’s keeper, a mere servant scrambling through the dirt looking for the trail of his brother’s boots.

Not on his own, not without any official document in his pocket that ensured the locals would supply him with food and shelter and any assistance they could offer. If he agreed to Mother’s terms he would travel through a country that prided itself in having brought the elves close to extinction once, alone, as a vagabond, without any means to earn money. He might be able to work as a mercenary, but that was risky; there was a chance he wouldn’t even live long enough to find his brother.

And I can’t become the next head?”

Of course, the question was redundant. But he had always had trouble of backing down when he felt himself being driven into a corner.

When his brother left he had thought things could become different. Well, he was mistaken.

“You can’t become family head. No one would accept you. The other families would laugh at us. They probably wouldn’t even allow us to keep the mansion.”

Naturally, he knew all that, too. The fact that he was her oldest son didn’t mean anything in his particular case.

“And why would that be?”, he drawled.

Of course, they both knew the answer, and if the life of his brother really was in danger they were wasting their time with this meaningless quarrel. He simply asked because he had to hear it from Mother’s mouth, in her own words. As if she had never told him before.

She knew the reason, because every time she looked at him she got a reminder. Every day she was confronted with his unusual talent for fire magic, with his eyes that only looked yellow if the light in the room was just right; otherwise everyone could spot the red taint in them. His height was also a giveaway; other altmer, even female ones, were always slightly taller than him. He had the basic appearance of an altmer, but only if one chose not to look too closely.

“Because your blood is impure.”

He was a half breed, and every pure-blooded altmer (like the Thalmor, like Mother, like his siblings) hated him for it.

Sanyon, his half-brother, was the only one Mother would acknowledge as her son.

He wanted to comment on that, throw it back into her face, but the woman wasn’t finished yet.

“Besides, all of this is your fault! He never would have joined the Thalmor if you hadn’t tried to do so first! And now you’re just jealous because they rejected you!”

It was true. It was all true. However, that didn’t give her the right to talk to him like that. Not when she was the very reason the Thalmor hadn’t accepted him, the very cause of his impure blood line.

“Funny you should mention that”, he drawled. “They probably would have accepted me if my bitch of a mother hadn’t decided to get knocked up by some random dark elf!”

It was silent after that. The woman simply stared at him until he realized that he had gone too far and felt the need to look away.

“Get out”, Mother said slowly. “GET OUT!”

He was dumbstruck for a few seconds, both by his own words and her violent reaction, but eventually he regained his composure. Part of it.

“Fine! Fine!”, he shouted. ”I will go on your little suicide mission! Let’s see if you change your attitude after you lose both of your sons!”

He fled the scene immediately afterwards. He ran upwards to his room, just like he had done ever since he was small and didn’t know how to settle a dispute with Mother; but this time he didn’t cry in a corner or incinerate his sister’s dolls in rage. This time he went to pack all things he might need on a journey which could very well last a few months. It would take him at least a week to simply get to Skyrim.

He sensed his sister enter his room before he saw her.

“You heard everything, right? Talk to Liav for me if Mother won’t do it, will you?”, he called over his shoulder. Liav, his fiancée. “Convince her family to wait for my return.”

“You don’t have to leave. I can talk to Mother.”

He didn’t answer; he wasn’t sure how he should reply to that. Right now he wanted to leave. He needed to get out of this house, away from these people.

When he didn’t say anything, the girl spoke up again. “Just promise me you will be careful. I don’t want to lose both of my brothers.”

He had no idea how to behave whenever the girl started talking like that. It was creepy.

“I’ll try.”

-------------

Sometimes he felt like he was lucky. The man who had impregnated his mother had at least been another mer, even if it hadn’t been an altmer or bosmer. Dunmer were considered the lowest of the elvhen races; while it was a shame for an altmer woman to get knocked up by one, it was accepted and tolerated if an altmer male wanted to find out whether dunmer women really were as open-minded about sex as the rumors about them suggested.

He was a disgrace to the people who raised him, but he knew it could be worse. He knew what happened to children with human fathers. More often than not the women didn’t keep the babies.

He was lucky to be alive, that his family had decided to keep him.

The very thought made him sick.

----------

He spent half of the money his sister had gotten from Mother that very same night before even leaving the city. There was a dunmer tavern wench that had been making eyes at him a few weeks ago; he was determined to get her into his bed tonight.

His desire for dunmer had something dark, twisted about it. Ever since he found out why everyone was treating him so differently even though he came from a supposedly distinguished and pure-blooded family, he had somehow gotten it in his head that this whole dark-skinned race had personally insulted him. They had screwed over the life he was supposed to lead by letting one of them screw his mother; and he was getting back at them for that by going to the tavern at weekends, taking one of them with him to the best room his meager allowance permitted and fucking them hard against the wall. He liked calling them his slut or bitch while thrusting into them as hard as he could, and was childishly delighted whenever he found one who actually got off on that.

He enjoyed breaking them, humiliating them, teasing them until he had them begging for his cock, until they whimpered and mewled and panted for it. It gave him a sick feeling of power, of being in control that he couldn’t find any other way.

He hated their dark skin, their stupid, pointed ears that looked entirely different from altmer ones, their ridiculous names he made a point of mishearing; he hated that altmer considered him one of them while dunmer considered him an altmer, and he hated that he couldn’t figure out where that left him.

But he hated their red eyes more than anything.

Tonight he was torn between his desire for making this sweet little dunmer woman scream his name while he bent her over a table and drinking himself into a stupor. Trying to do both at the same time never worked out for him, and this time was no exception.

By the time they stumbled into the room he had paid for he was so hideously drunk that he couldn’t even get it up for her. He just slobbered over her face in something he hoped could still be interpreted as a kiss and fondled her breasts awkwardly, giggling stupidly the whole time, until he passed out. The next morning he sneaked out of town nursing the worst hangover he ever experienced.

Of course, he didn’t get far. The money he had didn’t last long after that, and when he finally reached the border the only food he’d eaten in the past two days was whatever plants and nuts he had found in the woods. No one had ever taught him how to hunt; since he didn’t have a bow he tried to use his fire magic to for it, but his first bite of incinerated rabbit had him looking for nuts and fruits again.

The borders to Skyrim were closed, they told him, but Mother had made it fairly clear that he was not supposed to let anything stop him. So he cut through the woods and mountains, crossing the border without being detected – just to rush straight into a skirmish between humans in blue-grey clothing and other humans in red-brown clothing. With the hunger clouding his judgment he was not entirely certain which side he should be supporting; they obviously didn’t know either, because soldiers of both armies tried to take him out. He fought for his life, but his movements were sluggish and mostly useless. Eventually someone knocked him over the head and he went out like a light.

When he woke up they had taken his weapons and his elvhen armor and carted him towards a small village called Helgen for his execution. He vaguely wondered if this was what had happened to his brother as well.

It felt like an insult when the soldier who took his name before taking him to the axe had to comment: “Are you one of the Thalmor agents? No, no that cannot be.”

His eyes gave him away every time.

What had come afterwards definitely hadn’t happened to his brother: An ancient dragon sweeping down to massacre everyone in sight, the leaders of two great armies despairing at the sight of the flames and carnage, and at last the escape through the tunnels of the old fortress. It was all very classy.

It took him two months and three dead dragons until he found his brother’s corpse ironically close to where he had started his journey through Skyrim. Somewhere near Riverwood he found a dilapidated altar of Talos, his brother’s cold body at its feet. He found a letter from Elenwen herself in his pocket: Obviously Sanyon had found a cult of Talos, but had been sent to investigate it by himself when his superiors refused to believe his repeated accusations. So he had gone alone, fought the believers and got himself killed by one of them. End of story. Other corpses, most likely believers, were scattered about. The cold had conserved the bodies well; but whatever trails of survivors he might have been able to follow were long since washed away by the rain.

When he stared at his brother’s corpse he was overcome with a terrible feeling of loss and despair. Not because Sanyon was dead: He had accepted and dealt with that fact months ago, so actually seeing the body didn’t have any impact on him. But Mother’s came back up to haunt him, her last command whispered into his ear when he passed by her on his way to the front door: “Don’t you dare come back here without your brother.”

He couldn’t go back like this. He couldn’t return. With the way their farewell had gone he wasn’t sure he would be welcomed back without his brother in tow. So he decided to try and find something else: Maybe he could at least bring his murderer to justice and redeem himself that way. It looked like one of the believers had killed him, but most of them had been unarmed and harmless by the look of it; Sanyon wouldn’t have had a problem dealing with unarmed civilians. There might have been a seasoned fighter among them that had survived the skirmish; or maybe Sanyon had been killed after dealing with the believers by some random bandits; that would explain why he didn’t carry his father’s ring and Mother’s amulet they had given to him when he had left. Those were the only possibilities.

He spent months cleaning out every bandit hideout he came across, each time capturing and torturing the leader to find out whether he knew anything about a dead altmer near an altar of Talos or the missing jewelry.

He never found anything.

His enthusiasm waned and faded in the months that followed, but he never gave up completely. If he did, he would have to return to his parents and try to fit into his old life again. Pleading to be allowed back into mediocrity, back to scrambling for every acknowledgement of his skills the other altmer would be willing to grant him, while most people here treated him like a hero, albeit somewhat reluctantly. But they were still his parents and he couldn’t imagine a life without them.

In another life, in which he had a different father and would have been able to join the Thalmor, all the people who thought of him as a hero now would curse his existence. Imagine it, the hero of old Nord tales, the Dragonborn, whose alliance lay with the Thalmor and who used his powers to strengthen the Dominion.

In this life, the Thalmor hated him. He was worried about his parents’ lives. He knew now that the Thalmor didn’t have any qualms about attacking the families of their targets, and his was relatively well known. He had tried to contact his parents and the family of his fiancée, in secret of course, just in case the Thalmor hadn’t found out about them yet. When he asked Delphine for help she advised him to cut all ties with his family altogether; that this would be safest for him and for them; but he couldn’t do that, not when they didn’t even know the danger they were in. He wrote many roundabout letters, mentioning in half-words and metaphors that he had somehow managed to piss a very powerful and influential group off; that the threat was real and the best move would be to get as far away from the city they lived in as possible. However, he didn’t dare to sign the letters with his name or even with “Your Son”, in case they got into the wrong hands. So he had to live with the constant fear that his parents simply ignored the anonymous warnings.

Naturally, he never got an answer to a single one of his letters.

He was wasting his time here; let Alduin come, let him swallow this cold, uncivilized part of the world; he needed to go and face the people who used to be his whole world.

Used to be.

----------------

After an arduous week of cleaning out the last bandit hideouts in the mountains near Whiterun and still finding no clue about the identity of his brother’s murderer, he decided it was time to go back home.

He couldn’t say when exactly he had begun thinking of the small, dingy cottage he had bought in Whiterun as home. Sometime after his marriage, that much was certain. Whenever he decided to return to Whiterun he got a spring in his step, his satchel instantly felt lighter and sometimes, when he was absolutely certain nothing was around to hear him, he even whistled a tune. Simply thinking about going back there did that to him; and it wasn’t just the prospect of finally cleaning the grime from his body, getting a hot meal, and being able to bury his cock in his spouse’s hot, tight flesh.

It was more about the warm smile that greeted him when he came through the door and the blind love he saw in his spouse’s eyes; the pointless, meaningless chatter, and the warm body that tried to snuggle up to him every night.
It was dangerous to dwell on that, though. His little adventure and this fantasy life would end eventually; then he would have to head back to his family and random fucks in a tavern. There was no place for his spouse there. And he couldn’t very well stay here, could he?

Maybe he could. But he wasn’t ready to make that decision just yet.

“I’m back”, he called up the stairs, just to notice movement from the periphery of his vision, and spotted his spouse sitting in the chair next to the front door. His spouse was leafing through one of the books he had brought with him from his last trip (the biography of Barenziah, he noted; he would have to find the other parts), but looked up at him immediately.

If the Thalmor ever came here, if they found this place and managed to take this person away, he knew he wouldn’t survive it.

One day he would have to decide what to do with the rest of his life, but for now he was going to enjoy what he had.

Dark skin which color reminded him of cold ash, even though it was always so warm to his touch.

Long, delicate fingers (with a golden wedding ring on one of them, a ring with his name engraved on it) that clung desperately to him when they fucked, like they were afraid he would simply disappear if they let go.

A gentle smile that never failed to take his breath away.
Red eyes he didn’t hate.

No; red eyes he loved.

He hadn’t thought he would ever find himself in such a ridiculous situation, but here he was and loved this dunmer and couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to deal with that. It scared the shit out of him, there was no way this could ever work out, but he was certain something inside him would die if he ever left this man behind.

“Welcome home, Serano.”

-----------

A!Anon: Now with series tag. "Alone" will continue soon; I simply couldn't resist this prompt.

This story was inspired by all the evil Thalmor agents that suddenly started attacking my altmer DB while shouting something about elvhen superiority. Some things just don't make any sense in this game, so my head has to fill in the gaps.

One day my DB and Erandur were fighting vampires and Erandur was wounded pretty badly, so she tossed a healing spell at him. That is when this sweet and polite Priest of Mara snapped "I hope you're not expecting a thank you!" Hah! I had no idea he was so sassy!

Anyway - I am looking for a little hurt/comfort here. I would like to see a fill where Erandur gets snappy with a sensitive DB. DB gets their feelings hurt and somehow it leads to some make-up sex. :P

Any race/gender is fine. Bonus points for a more submissive DB. I never see Erandur top and I know he has it in him...

Moar?

Moar Pleeze?

Poor, poor Nazir. I swear the guy has a permanent headache. Of course, any and all fills are welcome potential A!Anon.

The Dragonborn is nothing if not a peacemaker. After the war ends (I don't mind if the Empire or Stormcloaks win) the Dragonborn has decided that all the UST between his/her Helgen rescuers needs to be resolved. There shall be peace in Riverwood! (Until that peace is shattered by all the grunting and moaning, LOLz)

And since the DB is a lover of all things Nord, DB wants a slice of that sweetroll, too.

Give me a sweet creme treat of Hadvar/Dragonborn/Ralof threeway smut (and if write Anon feels particularly generous, some pure Ralof/Hadvar slash sex would be good, too).

Races, gender of DB is entirely up to WriteAnons.

Bonus for food!sex, loud!sex and a DB who has never participated in a threeway before (not necessarily a virgin, just a threesome virgin).

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