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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

This is like... Such a perfect fill so far!

So creepy ;P I liked your Dragonborn and his aloof manner, and his subtle way of showing thanks. I thought the description of the cave that Lydia finds were brilliant as well... In a nervy kind of way :L

But yeah... It was really, really good. OP is INTRIGUED.

More, please!

Ugh, I think I'm about as tense as Vilkas waiting to see what happens next! I need more!

Thirding everything this stands for

Danica, Arcadia and Farengar started taking turns checking up on Serano, so that one of them was always around in case his condition worsened.

They were all useless.

They tried explaining the difficulties of healing magic to him: How the magic simply sped up the body’s natural healing process (“we are not miracle workers, dark elf”) and how much of the result depended on the person’s own inner resources (“what have you been doing to him?! He looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days! At this rate I don’t think he will be strong enough to…”), how it was much easier to heal oneself than a third party (“we must try our best to wake him up. If we can manage that, he should be able to fix his wounds himself”), how there were wounds even magic couldn’t heal (“did you not see the dying soldiers in the temple? I can only ease their pain, but they will never be able to return to their families”), how the internal damage had to be fixed first before they could close his wounds (“by the Eight, there’s so much blood, I’m sorry, Romlyn, but I’m not sure…”) and all the other crap they fed him. Romlyn only had the same words for them every time: “You have to save him. You owe him.”

For four days Romlyn sat by his side and held his hand. It was all he could do. He didn’t know the first thing about healing magic and wouldn’t even dare to force a healing potion down Serano’s throat again. His throat wasn’t working the way it should be, and Serano had gotten close to suffocating the one time he did try.

The Stormcloak soldiers had shown no mercy on Serano. And why would they? He had chosen to taunt them by embodying everything they hated: He had forgone his impenetrable dragon scale armor and worn his stolen Thalmor robes instead. Of course the enemy had come straight for him: The altmer leading the Imperial army into battle against all “true Nords”. He had decided to make Ulfric’s propaganda come true just to spite his soldiers.

But Thalmor robes – expensive, enchanted, and clinging to his body just so to give Romlyn’s imagination enough to go on to fantasize about his lover’s body beneath the fabric – were flimsy, light things and not at all intended to shield its wearer from an assault with battles axes. Or a rain of arrows.

Serano liked the Thalmor robes, and Romlyn had once, too. The altmer looked good in them, and never stopped Romlyn from saying so again and again. Judging by the slightly paranoid obsession he had with ensuring that he didn’t get a single tear in them, there was probably more to it, though: Maybe they reminded him of what life he had led before he had come to Skyrim; maybe he had always wanted to become a Thalmor agent, or maybe he even had been one.

Romlyn didn’t know, and now he might never find out.

They had got him good. Serano had somehow managed to avoid receiving instantly fatal injuries, but the combined damage of the injuries he had received was devastating. A sword had run him through, repeatedly; red and black blood kept oozing through the bandages wrapped around his stomach no matter how often the three healers changed them. Most of the arrow wounds were easy to treat; except for the one that had apparently pierced his lung and impaired his breathing. That one was dangerous. The other wounds, the fractured bones and the cut flesh would heal, they didn’t matter.
They would hurt, though.

His scars would be impressive after this.

It was a small miracle that he was alive at all, which was probably caused by a combination of healing magic and the fact that he was Dragonborn and as such destined to die by the fangs of Alduin and not by the forged weapons of puny mortals.

Romlyn was holding his right hand – the arm that was still broken – because he was too scared to touch his left one. Serano used his left hand to cast his spells and he had obviously tried to conjure his fireballs even when he hadn’t enough magicka left to control them: His whole arm was burned and charred up to his elbow from the constant use of incomplete spells that kept backfiring at him even if they did manage to take a few Stormcloaks to Sovngarde.

The only thing that sustained Serano’s labored, shaky breathing was Danica’s spell.

“I hate you”, Romlyn told him. He didn’t get an answer.

For four days Romlyn tried to avoid thinking about anything at all. If he stopped focusing on providing what little comfort he could for his shattered husband, horrible thoughts invaded his mind. He didn’t want to think about what he was going to do if Serano didn’t wake up. He didn’t want to think about what he was going to do if Serano stopped breathing. He didn’t want to think about why he loved this man so much that he had forgotten how to live without him. His life during the last few months had not been measured by days, but rather by stretches of time when Serano was with him and ones when he wasn’t.

His dependency had reached a sickening level.

But part of the reason he loved him was that he could depend on Serano. The altmer had protected him from Maven’s wrath, bandits, dragons, and now even the Stormcloaks. The concept had been alien to Romlyn at first; he used to take pride in being able to get everything done by himself. But then this man had to show up and Romlyn had to start believing him and trusting him and confiding in him and spreading his legs for him – and now it felt like a part of Romlyn himself was dying.

For four days he simply sat and watched his lover slip away. The only reason that he even registered the days passing was Danica who kept reminding him that time was running out.
Danica was the most capable out of the three, but she also entertained the horrible idea that it might be necessary to end Serano’s suffering. She told him about the wounded soldiers in the temple, how she kept them alive even though the damage to their internal organs was so devastating that they would never return to their old life. She tried to convince him that Serano wouldn’t want such an existence for himself and maybe she was right. But she was talking about his husband’s life; there was no way he would ever agree to such an idea.

After five days he would have to come around; if he didn’t, the chances were high that he wouldn’t ever.

The fifth day came and passed without any change in Serano’s condition. His breathing was weak, ragged and labored; but Farengar’s spell ensured that it would keep going for a few hours at least, until Danica returned and he could beg and plead with her to keep him alive just a little longer.

Romlyn had always loved his golden skin. But now it was sickly pale, a bright yellow, and a thin layer of sweat coated his skin.

I hate you”, he repeated the whole time. “If you leave me behind I will hate you forever.”

On the sixth day he and Lydia reached a truce. They had never liked each other – their jealousy over Serano would always be in the way of true friendship. But Romlyn registered that when he passed out from exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep, he would wake up a few hours later to find that the devoted housecarl had kept watch over Serano while he had not been able to.

“It’s my fault”, he told her. “I let him go into battle like this.”

“Even had you tried, he would never have allowed you to stop him.”

“I hate him.”

“No, you don’t.”

On the seventh day Romlyn simply curled up on the bed next to the shattered form of his lover and cried himself to sleep.

On the eighth day Romlyn was woken by soft, whimpered gasps. When he shot upright he saw that Serano was awake; but when Romlyn saw what pain his lover was in he almost wished he wasn’t. Disorientation and fear shone brightly in his yellow orbs. His lips formed words, but no sound came from him.

“Lydia! Get Danica! Or Arcadia, or anyone! Hurry!”
Before Serano could pass out again Romlyn grabbed his charred left hand. He managed not to flinch as the dry, chapped skin crumbled beneath his fingers. Pressing it firmly to the blood stained bandages on Serano’s stomach, he shouted at the altmer: “Heal yourself! Please, you have to!”

His husband gave a broken scream, but Romlyn didn’t let go.

“Please. I need you. Please, don’t-“

He didn’t know what to do. For more than one week he had no idea what to do; but right now his helplessness crushed his resurfacing hope completely. He tried gathering his own magic in his hands pressing down on Serano’s hand: Not to form a spell, but simply a concentration of magicka to let Serano know what he needed to do. After a few seconds a soft yellow glow enveloped their hands, and Romlyn felt the beginning of a wide range healing spell, cast at them both without a clear target.

His magic was so different from Romlyn’s own; so much more potent, so much brighter, but right now it felt weak, the spellwork sloppy and poorly executed, but it would work. Romlyn prayed so hard it would work.

Serano passed out a few times in between healing himself, but he eventually started regaining his strength. It took him three more days until he was finally able to at least sit up on his own again, even though solid food was still out of the question.

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

When Romlyn woke up from his restless sleep on the morning of the thirteenth day, the bed was empty.

Romlyn screamed. His head didn’t even try to come up with any form of rationalization. He just saw that the bed was empty, that Serano was gone and not here, and he was alone and at that point his thoughts got jumbled and muddled.

Romlyn needed to find him.

He almost ran into him in his hurry to get out of the bedroom. Serano just stood there in the hall dressed in a new, clean set of Thalmor robes, busying himself rummaging through the small cupboard that held his various enchanted daggers. He raised an eyebrow at Romlyn, and then went back to his search.

“Get some breakfast ready for me. I’m starving.”

It took Romlyn a few seconds to realize that the command was directed at him. He was still trying to work his head around the fact that Serano was up and about and all parts of his body were working the way they should be.

And then there were the black robes. The last time he had seen such a garment on his lover’s body the altmer had been a dead weight in the arms of an Imperial soldier. Danica had to cut the shreds of the clothing apart to get at his wounds. Romlyn just couldn’t get the image out of his head. One look at his lover preparing to leave in those robes again and Romlyn was paralyzed in worry and fear.

“Danica said you should stay in bed at least one more week”, he reminded his husband when he found his voice again.

“I’m a master at healing. I don’t need any more rest”, Serano told the cupboard.

Romlyn just kept staring. When he didn’t move the altmer turned to face him again. A second eyebrow joined the first in his hairline. “Breakfast. Now.”

Romlyn gathered his wits and scrambled down to the kitchen to start a fire. They didn’t have many ingredients in the house (he had neglected his shopping during the last few days, just like he had neglected everything else), but years of living alone had taught him how to improvise. It wouldn’t taste like much, but it would be enough to quell Serano’s hunger for now.

Serano sat down at the table just as Romlyn finished his cooking.

They ate in silence; they usually did.

Serano still looked a bit worse for wear; his movements were sluggish, more deliberate than usual, and sometimes he winced when he bend his right arm a little too far. He held the fork in his left hand since his right was still trembling slightly from time to time.

They were all small things Romlyn had noticed countless times before on his husband, but it was only now that he realized what they actually entailed. All those times Serano had claimed to have had a “rough day”, it meant he had been close to dying. He wondered how many miracles had been necessary to keep his husband alive until this point.

As soon as he finished off his plate, Serano stood up and marched straight towards the front door without another word.

It was nothing new to Romlyn. Serano didn’t spend a minute longer in this house than he needed to. Sometimes Romlyn was able to detain him for a while by spreading his legs for him and begging to be fucked; but even that wouldn’t work now that Serano had been confined to this house for two whole weeks.

The altmer became strangely restless when he didn’t get to kill anything for a while.

But Romlyn had witnessed this exact same scene just mere weeks ago, when his husband had left in another set of black robes just like this one; and it had almost been the last time he had seen him.

He had always been worried. Had always been aware of the possibility that Serano might not return one day because his enemies had finally gotten the better of him. But now he had seen firsthand that no matter how many prophecies revolved around the altmer, he was still mortal. Romlyn knew that now, because the fact had hit him like a blow to the head; but obviously Serano hadn’t got the message. Otherwise he would at least decide to wear real armor again.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He was surprised how calm and even his voice sounded, when he was screaming inside his head to drag this man back upstairs and chain him to the bed until his wounds were fully healed.

It was a question that was rarely asked, since it was almost never answered.

This time his words made the altmer pause on his way.

General Tullius expects my report. This is just the first step in ending the Civil War.”

What sounded like an unexpected bout of patriotism was probably nothing more than the diligent sense of duty he tended to feel towards all of the meaningless tasks he underwent. It didn’t matter whether he sought a lost ring for the local alchemist or killing the dragon that threatened the existence of the city: Everything was equally important, or at least more important than staying with Romlyn or wait until the healers were completely certain that the fucking hole in his stomach wouldn’t open up again.

On his way to Solitude, then. And from there straight into the next battle, the next siege, straight into the next Stormcloak army; while Serano was only equipped with a short sword, two daggers, his magic, and the flimsiest of robes.

It was madness. There was no other way to put it. No one in their right mind would ever be so foolish.

“You are hurt.”

“I’m not. I’m fully healed.” Of course that was a lie. But it was true that Romlyn usually saw his husband off with worse injuries, because he was afraid of speaking up against him. The altmer didn’t deal well with opposition to any of his ideas.

“I almost lost you.”

It wasn’t what he had really wanted to say. But what he really wanted to say might possibly involve curses, some more crying, and various objects being thrown against the wall, so he abstained.

A dry chuckle was the altmer’s first reaction. “Risking one's life is part of being a mercenary.”

Romlyn stood up at that. “But do you have to be this reckless?! At least wait until you’re fully healed, and take my spare health potions with you!”

It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at Serano.

When the altmer turned around, his expression was hard and stoic; Romlyn realized that he had just broken the first ground rule not to question his lover’s decisions, and he didn’t even care. But he realized that he was treading on thin ice.

“I have already wasted enough time as it is. We talked about this, Romlyn. I will not change the way I live just because you want me to”, the altmer declared.

Actually, they hadn’t talked about that at all. Romlyn still hoped that one day, when Alduin was dead and no more immediate catastrophes threatened the world they could settle down together, preferably in some province that was not Skyrim, maybe with a nice farm and some animals and – and with that, the evil, treacherous thought of adopting children was back in his head.

“At least wear some real armor”, he muttered dejectedly.

The altmer sighed, and when Romlyn looked up he saw the pity in his husband’s eyes; the same pity one would normally show when explaining some basic concept to a particularly thick-headed child. “I am a soldier, a mercenary and an assassin. All of those occupations involve killing people and one day getting killed in return. Even if I take every possible precaution, one clever trap or one enemy I didn’t notice in time could mean the end of my life. You should accept the fact that I’m going to die eventually, probably sooner rather than later.”

It was the calm, indifferent tone in which he said it which got Romlyn riled up again. There was definitely something wrong with this man’s head.

Of course, all of Serano’s points were valid. Even if he took the dragon scale armor, even if he hurled every health potion they owned with him every time he left the house, it might not be enough. But still, even though Romlyn knew all that… The only thing he saw when he looked at his lover right now was a broken, bloody body somewhere on the roadside. This time there might not be a loyal soldier nearby to drag his body home, and without proper treatment he would simply bleed to death somewhere in the wilderness. Romlyn might not even find out about his husband’s death: He would simply sit at home and wait for a man that would never return.

It seemed strangely fitting. One day so many months ago Serano had just suddenly appeared on the stool in Riften’s tavern right next to him, as if the man had materialized out of thin air. And just like that he would disappear from his life again, without any warning. The only proof that he had been here at all would be the expensive junk he horded in this house like trophies.

It was his lover’s calm acceptance that scared him. It felt like it didn’t matter to Serano, like he didn’t even care either way.

What really scared him was that Serano didn’t even seem to try to stay alive.

Maybe he was overreacting. He certainly wasn’t thinking straight. The only thing he felt he knew for certain was that this man would get himself killed if he allowed him to leave like this.

Romlyn moved before his brain had a chance to catch up with his actions. He crossed the kitchen area and strode past Serano without even looking at him, positioning himself between his husband and the door.

There was no way he could accept it. He turned to face his husband and took a deep breath.

I won’t let you leave like this. I won’t let you to die because of your own stupidity!”, he shouted.

That had been a mistake; he realized it when those bright red eyes narrowed at him. This was not mere defiance anymore, this had been an insult. Altmer in general didn’t like to be questioned, and Serano was no exception. He killed people for insulting him; he killed people for even less.

If the stories were to be believed he sometimes killed people simply because the voice of a dead woman only he could hear ordered him to.

“Get out of my way.”

It was no request. Serano didn’t request. It was an order.

“No.” Romlyn had no idea where he took his courage from.

“What did you say?”

“If you’re going to dress like a mage, you need to fight like one, too. But since it seems to be more your style to repeatedly bash people over the head in close combat, I won’t let you leave until your wounds are fully healed and you put proper armor on.”

Serano crossed his arms in a visibly relaxed stance; but Romlyn trusted his instincts that told him he was in serious danger now. “Interesting. And how do you intent to stop me? Do you have any secret combat skills you haven’t told me about?”

He didn’t. His magical repertoire consisted of one minor fire spell, which came more in handy for lighting candles and cooking dinner than actual combat. He had also been forced to wield a dagger in self-defense a few times, but he wouldn’t last ten seconds against the seasoned warrior. Besides, the whole purpose of this was to prevent Serano getting injured.

He wasn’t entirely sure how the situation had turned out this way, but this was going downhill. Fast.

Please author, can I have some more?

p.s. you wouldnt happen to be the author of Old Scales would you?

Nah, the idea of constant interruptions to bludgeon wolves to death with his thick head or use him as a baseball bat to knock trolls into left field was funnier to me.

I can't be the only one who's cursed with that 'no smut' mentality of everyone around them. I can go days without any human contact, but the moment I open a writing program to get stuff done I'm suddenly popular. The heck?

I want someone suffering exactly that.

The Dragonborn writing a letter to their LI, a Jarl writing a report, an alchemist working on a new formula, Sanguine writing his own porn. Anything, really. The moment they put that feather on paper dragons attack, a mammoth breaks through their door, or someone else shows up poking their nose into things that are none of their business.

They can freak, they can refuse to help, they can silently leave and burn down the next city to calm their nerves, or they literally end up eating their unfinished pages.

Anything, really. Go nuts.

And then DB gives birth to triplets, just for the fun of it :D

Seriously, this has so much potential! Especially if people were conflicted about this. I mean, what are their options?

1. DB doesn´t fight Alduin and the world ends.
2. DB fights Alduin, possibly looses her child and life in the process, no new kids get born, people die out and the world ends (for people anyway).

New war? Instead of Thalmor vs. Stormcloak vs. Imperial (vs. Forsworn vs. Dragons...) we could get those who want to see DB fight Alduin:
- Blades, because it´s their "duty" to make sure the Dragonborn fights Dragons
- Thalmor, because as Elves who literally live for thousands of years, 10 years gap isn´t so tragic for them, they´d barely notice. What should they care if people die out anyway?

On the other side, against the DB fighting Alduin?
- Imperials - No new Imperial citizens means a useless Empire, no new people to steal money from (I mean taxes, of course, sorry about the typo), Empire easily conquered by Thalmor or pretty much anyone who wants to conquer it. Free land for taking.
- Stormcloaks - they do everything for their country... and for their people. Who will they fight for in 30 years? The ELVES? Bah! Go have babies, woman and let Uncle Ulfric take care of things. Women shouldn´t be fighting anyways.

It would be an interesting angle, no? Ulfric playing the "Old Nord Hero", perhaps he´ll try to do the same as Felldir did once - instead of wasting time on an old but useless crown, he tries to find the Elder Scroll and use it to send Alduin forward in time again?

Or, since HE CAN SHOUT TOO, he´ll try to learn the new shout extra fast to defeat Alduin himself? :3 And Tullius would help him. Maybe promise to "spare him and let past misdeeds go" (leave Skyrim to do what they want and quit the war) if Ulfric gets rid of Alduin instead of DB. Ulfric and Tullius working together :D Tullius uses his contacts to find the Scroll, persuade Balgruff to allow ulfric into Dragonsreach and to trap Odahving there, Ulfric does the deed and saves the world...

So. Much. POTENTIAL!

Someone PLEASE write this!

(Long post is long)

I'm glad! Sorry I'm taking so long, though; classes keep getting in the way.

This was foolish, she realized. Regardless of what the Dragonborn would have done, she, Lydia, would need a torch. She turned, looking for the shape of the ground.

A sound came out of the darkness like it was directly behind her: a loud grunt, deep and insistent and seeking, like a question. Lydia stepped back instinctively.

There was nothing under her foot.

That feeling of weightlessness returned, but she was far from weightless; she was heavy in her steel armor, and she was falling, kicking her legs, praying to Talos and Mara and all the gods not like this--

Her body slammed into a pile of bones. Even in pitch darkness she knew them by the sound they made, that hollow music as they jostled and clicked against each other. She lay still with something sharp pressed against her cheek, listening.

The wind was the only sound.

She pushed herself to her feet, grimacing at the loudness of the bones. She groped in the darkness for her sword--

Her arm ached. It was a sharp ache; an urgent pain. She touched it with her other hand, expecting blood. The skin was unbroken. As a test, she squeezed it.

Dizziness buckled her knees as she sucked in air through her teeth. That arm was no good. Fortunately it wasn't her sword arm, but the shield--

Where was her shield?

She looked up at the ledge she'd fallen from. It was a sliver of ice blue in the darkness, and there, on the precipice, a metal point glimmered.

Her sword.

Her heart sank. Her shield was likely up there with it. This was her reward for being brave; to be flung deep into the earth where no one could hear her prayers, weaponless and hurting.

She got to her feet again, feeling for a wall with one hand while her useless arm hung at her side, throbbing angrily. Her fingers found a cold wet wall. She dragged them along it as she walked, stepping on bones, snapping the thin ones under her feet. The grunting sound she'd heard had not come again, but it echoed in her ears. Though her eyes were opened wide, she could see nothing - not even the new thing she stepped on. She toed it experimentally. It was soft and it shifted under her boot.

She knew what it was before she bent down to touch it, telling herself not to bother, to just keep walking; but it was too difficult to stop herself from grabbing a handful of rough wool, pressing against the corpse underneath it. She could feel that the cloth was crusted with blood. It was impossible to tell how much man there was left, but she knew what this corridor was: table scraps, thrown away.

Or else they'd left their food here for later, whatever they were. She had to get out. She made her way through faster, disgusted to find that there were more bodies; so many bodies that they made up the floor, and her boots touched no stone until she had gone some way. The stench from earlier had gotten stronger.

When the croaking grunt came again it stopped her heart. It sounded farther away than it had, but she did not move again until it had been silent for a long moment, and even then she prayed with every step - not to any god, but to the ground, willing it not to betray her.

He'll go to Whiterun expecting you, and no one will be there. The thought made her eyes sting. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her dirt-stained fingers, feeling young and inexperienced and cowardly to wish that her Thane would come and find her.

A light in the darkness began to glow ahead of her as she followed the tunnel. She had to tell herself not to hope, that it was not the way out. She had gotten too turned around; for all she knew, she was heading into the heart of the mountain.

As she got closer she saw that it was a room: pale light shone on rock ledges and spires. A tall cavern. That was better than this vile tunnel--

There was a shuffling sound ahead. A crunch. Lydia froze.

The unmistakable sound of chewing, made louder by the size of the cave, echoed around her. She crept forward.

Heavy leg bones, human bones, littered the entrance to the doorway, as if something had been too lazy to take them down to the heap at the end of the tunnel. Light filtered in from above, from some hole in the mountain.

*cough* OP here *cough*

Anon meant the topping from the bottom kink for a different prompt on another kmeme. Any WriteAnons can use kink of own choice for pretending not to see the Anonfail.

Anon, I think you must be me.

Seconded, just for Sanguine writing his own porn. ~~Sanguine created kinkmemes!~~

Passer!non is totally thirding this.
Come on talented!author!nons! :')

I'm totally going to try filling this :o

Using an Imperial!DB if that's cool.

I have an idea for this... May try filling if I have the time. If not, definitely seconded!

do you not have any preference slash/het at all?

This might be relevant to your interests, "We Know" by Zute.
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7936121/1/We-Know

Gah! I just can't get this pairing out of my head. In my head, Lucien Lachance has nothing on the resident vampire of Cheydinhal. I want a good, smutty/fluffy fic where the human Silencer falls head over heels for him and Lucien is jealous. Preferably the fic would start out before she knows him or right when she's meeting him for the first time ;)

Bonuses if Vicente says, "You are like a dark gift from the Night Mother herself" and "Do not let my appearance...unnerve you", and if the Silencer is a virgin who loses it to her new immortal lover.

Extra bonuses if Lucien tries to engage in some non-con with the less-than-willing Silencer.

Kinks: Biting, bloodplay, sexy coffin times, necking...and vampirism, of course!

Squicks: Necrophilia, bestiality, pooping, waterplay

But the floor was moving. Here, there, over there; in six or seven places; eight, nine-- huge shaggy bodies sat and lumbered and licked their thick fingers.

Trolls. Lydia's fear became hopelessness. Talos, and all the gods, had abandoned her.

But that was not the worst. Across the room, beyond the trolls, was a stone ramp, leading into another tunnel.

The only way out.

She had no sword, and her arm was broken. She dared not sink to her knees and cry - tears of anger, not fear, at how unfair it was. She could have taken a troll with her sword, but nine of them against her, unarmed and wounded, was a joke at her expense.

It took her a moment to stop despairing and ask herself a question: what would the Dragonborn do?

The Dragonborn had magic in his hands, muscles that never seemed to tire, a quick mind and a fearless heart, a voice that could fell trees. He would swing his greatsword in gleaming arcs, drop the blade to call fire to his fingertips, cut and burn his way to the surface.

Lydia could do neither, but she would not shame her Thane, her Jarl, or her ancestors by waiting for death.

She took up the heaviest bone with her good hand, her heart hammering, and walked into the light.

Holy shit Lydia, are you suicidal?!

I really enjoyed this :) The first and second parts were v. suspenseful and I was just like omgomgomg eurrghhh bodies omgomgomg

Really enjoyable. I'm going to be wondering what heppened to Lydia and her Thane for the rest of the evening ;p

Why is this not a thing?

/sobs/

Someone please fill this!

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Page 42 of 270

Meme Announcements!

Re: Tunneldown 1/?? OP

Re: Purity 1 (M!DB/Vilkas)

Re: Purity 3b

Re: dicks dicks dicks

Alone (M!DB/Romlyn) (3/?)

Alone (M!DB/Romlyn) (4/?)

Alone (M!DB/Romlyn) (5/?)

Alone (M!DB/Romlyn) (6/?)

Alone (M!DB/Romlyn) (7/?)

Re: Journal of an old warrior

Re: The Perils of Annoying the Dragonborn

Just crack

Re: Children of Men inspired prompt (any/f!any)

Re: Tunneldown 1/?? OP

Tunneldown 2/3

Re: F!Werewolf!DB/M!Werewolf!Spouse + Sinding

Re: Just crack

Re: Country Bumpkin

Re: Ondolemar damns it all! Ondolemar/humanF!DB

Re: DB/Anyone, Devotion

Re: Arnbjorn/DB/Astrid

F!Human!Silencer/Vicente Valtieri

Tunneldown 3/3

Re: Tunneldown 3/3

Re: M!Dragonborn/Wife