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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The collision staggers them both, but she recovers first. A vicious cut to his shoulder makes the Thalmor mage scream in fury. The fireball he unleashes forces Freyja to cower behind her shield with the smoky, bitter scent of burning leather in her nose; she charges blind, hears the breath go out of him when they crash together again. Ducks out from behind her shield just in time to yelp and dodge the knife that he produces from inside his sleeve. As he raises his hands for another spell she stuns him with a shield-blow, presses her advantage, gets a fist to the mouth, slashes again. The strike shatters the ward he's thrown up - and her next one finds his heart.

Freyja can taste blood. Sweat is coursing down her neck, hair straggling into her eyes; the battle-fury is pounding through her veins. The prisoner is fending off the last of his captors, retreating steadily, keeping the elf at arm's length with wild slashes from the dagger. She sees him arch his spine and jerk desperately back as the sword slices toward his unprotected stomach. Freyja slams the hilt of her own sword against her shield, screaming. "COME ON!"

The Thalmor soldier rises to her challenge. He charges with shield raised, howling about the superiority of Mer; the clash of their swords clicks her teeth together and rings his golden armor like a bell. They circle, slashing, blocking. He tries to sweep her legs from under her. Freyja springs back and it is his turn to sneer a challenge. "Behold the future!" he says. "Behold--"

And then the prisoner steps up behind him and opens his throat.

Freyja stutters to a halt, sword arm still raised. The elf crumples into the grass. For a moment they stare at each other over his twitching body.

"Thanks," Freyja finally pants.

"Least I could do," he gasps.

The only sound is the stirring of the mountain breeze in the tops of the pines. The corpse of the Thalmor mage is lying facedown in a clump of flowers. A butterfly settles beside him. It's eerily still after the ferocity of battle.

Then the newly freed prisoner sucks a breath between his teeth and sits down hard, clutching his left hand. Blood gushes over his wrist. "Divines!" Freyja curses, leaping back into action. She kneels beside him, pries open his fingers. It looks like he turned a sword cut with his hand. The palm is laid open, down to clean white bone.

"Off," she barks, pointing at his shirt. Within seconds she is tearing strips of cloth from the otherwise useless garment, wrapping them brutally tight around the wound. She squeezes the bandage and feels him flinch, picks up his other hand and guides it on top of hers. "Hold it there," she says, and looks up at him to be sure he understands.

He is watching her intently, pain mingling with a sort of mute wonder in his expression. His eyes are green. His face is only inches from her own. Freyja is abruptly conscious of his broad bare chest, his hands cradled between both of hers. "Hold it tightly," she orders, a little shakily. He nods. She drops his hands.

Freyja eyes the enemy corpses, businesslike. The second soldier is the largest of the three; she glances at her new acquaintance's wide Nord shoulders and begins to strip the dead elf out of his armor. "Might be tight," she says, dropping it in a pile, "but it'll have to do." She reaches for his good hand, pulls him to his feet. Moves to pick up her shield. He stops her with a tight grip. "Eitri," he murmurs.

She hesitates, and then clasps his hand in return. "Freyja."

"Honored," he says. "I am in your debt, Freyja shield-maiden."

"Not for long if we run into another Thalmor patrol," she says. "Their embassy isn't far - and that wound needs attention."

"Aye." He lets her buckle him into the cuirass, diligently maintaining pressure on his bleeding hand. "I'm a stranger here - is it safe, that town to the south?"

"Dragonbridge? I'd rather not chance it. Imperial guards have no love for the justiciars, but if the Thalmor find these corpses it's the first place they'll look. A wounded man in elven armor won't be hard to spot." She glances up. The clouds-edges are flushing rose in the late afternoon light; Eitri's reddish hair is beginning to gleam like fire. "I know a cave where we can shelter for the night."

I must admit that I really like Elenwen. She is powerfull, mysterious and her voice is smoking hot. It's sad there is not enough love for her! If someone writes femslash with her, that would be great!

I suppose it would be logical if the Dragonborn is an Altmer.. maybe neutral/undecided about the Thalmor, and Elenwen does whatever it takes to make her join their cause.

They take the northwest road and then cut quickly into the trees, away from prying eyes. Just south of Clearpine Pond the ground rises to a crown of stony hills, and beneath one of them is a deep overhang under a brow of rock. Freyja approaches cautiously – she killed a bear here, once – but there are no predators lying in wait. A few old deer bones lie scattered near the back wall, but the silty floor has not been disturbed in weeks.

Eitri staggers up behind her and sits, a graceless crumbling of the knees. He's far too pale. Freyja shrugs off her pack and lays down her shield, though not her sword. Takes his hand again. He starts at the touch, and Freyja grimaces at the state of his wrists. The Thalmor did not tie him gently; his skin is scrubbed raw, even bloody in places, where the ropes chafed against it. She tries to avoid worsening the damage as she unwinds the makeshift bandage.

"By the Nine," she breathes. The wound looks even worse without the oozing blood to cover it. She can see the layers of skin and muscle, the yellow fibers, the terrible white gleam of bone. Eitri's last two fingers are drooping unnaturally toward his palm. The slightest movement makes him wince and curl inward, forehead shimmering with sweat. Bottles chink as Freyja upends her pack; she yanks up the strongest healing potion she has and shoves it at him. "Drink this." He doesn't argue. There's something desperate in the working of his throat as he gulps it down. Freyja rubs at her eyes.

She used to fight with a Dunmeri spellsword named Indros, a quick clever pragmatist with a wicked blade and a wickeder tongue. Freyja misses him now with an intensity that takes her breath away. When it comes to spells she is clumsy at best and useless at worst. She pushes another bottle into Eitri's hand, and then another. After he's downed the last of her potions she cocks her head at him. "Better?"

"I can feel my fingers," he says, twitching them; his face pales at the motion. He scrapes up a grey smile. "Though I'm not sure that's an improvement."

"If you're making jokes, you're going to live." Freyja pushes herself to her feet. "Stay here. I'm going for water before it's dark."

She fills her skins at the pond, fetching an armload of kindling and a handful of wispy blue flowers for good measure. When she returns Eitri is slumped against a rock near the front of the cave with the dying sun on his face. His eyes are closed. He looks exhausted; he doesn't even hear her approach. An impressive bruise is swelling where the Thalmor soldier struck him. There are circles beneath his eyes, hungry hollows in his cheeks. Freyja wonders when his captors last fed him. Wonders who he is, this stranger she took it upon herself to rescue. If he had not volunteered it she would not even know his name.

She studies him. He has a wide, bony face, more rugged than handsome: long nose, deepset eyes, thick brows. A full, serious mouth. His beard is scrubby and short and redder than the hair on his head, which is the evening gold of ripe wheat.

It's a compelling face, if not an overly striking one. And he has the muscled shoulders of - a woodcutter? A farmer? Not a warrior. He defended himself well enough under the circumstances - he's still alive, after all - but not as a trained fighter would have.

He stirs. Freyja flushes with the realization that she is staring, and strides briskly forward before he can catch her at it. This time he hears her and opens his eyes. "Hungry?" Freyja asks.

"Gods," he says, and starts building the fire, which she takes as a yes. She gathers more wood as he constructs a neat pile of kindling, and by the time she returns the moon is rising and the cave's roof is lit from below with a flicker of orange. Eitri is crouched in front of it, warming his hands; he's discarded the ill-fitting elven armor. Freyja tosses him the bear pelt that she uses on top of her bedroll and he settles back on his haunches as she feeds the fire. Much of the wood is pine, throwing showers of sparks and resinous smoke. Soon they're both scooting backward as it blazes up. Eitri's breath comes in sharp white puffs, but the bearskin hangs loosely around his shoulders, exposing the solid planes of his chest. I really am in Skyrim, Freyja thinks, with a smile. Indros had possessed an arsenal of snide remarks about her tendency to stand outside bare-armed on cool nights.

She has a handful of bruised apples and the meat that she managed to carve off the deer before being interrupted. It cooks quickly over the fire, which is just as well; the first rich smells of venison make Eitri shift in his seat, and he tears into the first strip of meat so ravenously that the juices run over his chin. Freyja nearly follows his example. She's traveled far today, and the slightly charred meat leaves her wanting to lick her fingers. They fall into an easy rhythm, without the need for words - Eitri munches apples and roasts a new batch of venison while she eats, and then she takes over as he tries, with limited success, not to chew like a man who hasn't been fed in three days. By the end they're both nursing burned fingers. Freyja pulls out a bottle of mead and Eitri falls backward, head pillowed on his arms, shaking with deep, incredulous chuckles.

"You," he says, "are a vision of Sovngarde."

"That's all I have," she warns him.

"Sovngarde," he repeats. He's still lying on the floor of the cave, boneless and satisfied, smiling broadly. It's the first real smile she's seen from him. They pass the bottle back and forth like old comrades, fingers brushing, savoring their sips in companionable silence. It goes quickly, with two. Afterward Freyja sets water to boil and pulls out her spare tunic, starts tearing it into strips. Gestures at Eitri's hand.

"Let's see it."

His smile fades immediately, but he holds out his left arm, elbow resting on his knee. The potions have done their work. The wound is partially closed, no longer gaping like a crooked mouth, but it's still terrible to look at: a wicked slice along the outside of his hand, curving from bony wrist up into the meat of his palm, deep and ragged and red. Eitri's last two fingers are still unnaturally limp. Freyja pulls the water off the coals and tosses a handful of the blue mountain flowers in to steep, finishes ripping up her tunic. In a moment the cave is full of a sharp green smell. She dips one of the rags into the hot water. The wool is rough, but clean, and she tries to bathe his hand with as much gentleness as possible, though Eitri still closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lip. Freyja does not realize that she is humming as she works until his sad, ragged singing joins her.

"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone..."

The man is certainly no skald. His song is closer to a whisper than a tune, but it is so hoarse with loss and longing that it stirs her as few bards ever have. "What village are you from?" she asks, softly.

"Ivarstead." His voice takes on the warm, rough tones of southeastern Skyrim when he says it, grainy as honey-colored planks. Freyja looks at his rough-hewn face, his autumn-bright hair, and decides that the Rift would suit him.

"You grew up there?"

"I've lived there my whole life."

She can't imagine that. It must show on her face, because Eitri smiles. "Aye, it's a sleepy little place. Pretty, though. Most of the young folk leave for Riften or someplace when they come of age. I guess I never got around to it."

"You're a farmer, then?"

For a long moment he doesn't say anything. Then he looks down at his hands. "A smith."

Freyja's stomach pitches. She glances to the wound that she is wrapping, the way his fingers crook inward. His voice is strained. "Not much call for a Warmaiden's," he continues, doggedly, "but farmers need tools, and the guards brought their weapons for repair from time to time. I made a decent living."

Divines, no wonder he looks so morose. She's bandaging up the end of his livelihood. Freyja swallows. It may yet heal, she wants to tell him, but she only presses her thumb to the warm, undamaged skin on the back of his hand.

The fire crackles and pops, starting to settle into a mound of red coals. The light catches on the contours of his face, a puzzle of hard shadows and soft orange light. Freyja crushes the few remaining flowers and tucks them into the bandage. Ties it off. "The Rift is Stormcloak territory," she finally says. "How did you come to be a Thalmor prisoner?"

"My cousin disappeared one night, about two months ago. Some said the Thalmor grabbed him." Eitri picks up a stone, worries over its smooth surface. Bites his lip. "My parents died when I was just a lad, and my aunt and uncle took me in. Brokkr and I were like brothers. At first I thought he'd gone to join the Stormcloaks - he was always the headstrong one. But it didn't make sense. I know him; he couldn't keep something like that to himself. He'd have told someone. He'd have told me." He shakes his head. "I was in Falkreath, looking for him. Asked too many questions, I guess. They ambushed me on the way to Riverwood. Accused me of being a known Talos worshipper. I tried to...well. It was a short fight."

"You took on a pack of justiciars?"

"Oh, aye - I fought them off with a hammer. Unfortunately it was the hammer I use at the forge."

She snorts. Her laughter seems to please him; a smile stretches the stiff bruise on his right cheek. "I'm surprised they didn't kill you," says Freyja, sobering.

Eitri's face tightens. "They wanted information," he says, and then changes the subject. "What about you - where are you from?"

Freyja sighs. "Whiterun, I suppose. It's been ten years since I really lived there."

"You've been here in Haafingar?"

"No - Cyrodiil. Hammerfell too, for a long while, and a stint in Morrowind."

He whistles. "So you're not a Stormcloak, then?"

Freyja purses her lips, amused. "Do I look like a Stormcloak to you?"

"You look like a Nord."

She does - tall, grey-eyed, painted in a riot of freckles by the southern sun, with that fine cornsilk hair that floats free no matter how tightly she braids it. "There's plenty of Nords in the Legion," she says, sharply.

"And you swear by the Nine."

That gives her pause. Freyja thinks back, then grimaces ruefully. "Only when I'm off my guard."

"You haven't answered my question."

Great story so far, I hope there is more tonight. I'm hooked.

Hello! I keep seeing lovely prompts involving mortal NPCs, and I was wondering, why don't the immortal NPCs get any love? So, I wanna see some inter-dimensional loving.

Would prefer Clavicus Vile (who doesn't love a trickster?), but any Daedric prince will do well - I just want mind games to be a thing.

Anything is fine, kink wise.

That's very true, Lydia. I approve of your logic.

*giggles wildly*

In truth she crossed the border with vague intentions of joining the war, indignant over the sudden upheaval in her home. But things are not so clear as that. When men in Cyrodiil spoke of Ulfric Stormcloak as a traitor they failed to mention that he had killed his king in a formal duel - and while Freyja is wanderer, she has not forgotten the ancient customs of her native land. The Jarl of Windhelm may well be a cold bastard, but he is no murderer under the laws of Skyrim.

Whether he is guilty of the lives cut short in a war of his making, of course, is another matter. In escaping Helgen, Freyja threw her lot in with the man who had not been participating in her execution. But that hardly meant she was ready to throw in with his cause. She was only a girl when the Great War ended, but she remembers her father wearing the uniform of the Legion. And he took pride in it, even after all that happened. He taught her how to wield a sword; she's not certain she could bring herself to raise one against the armor that he kept so lovingly folded at the bottom of his wooden chest.

And yet she also remembers her mother bundling her into a fur-lined cloak and slipping out of Whiterun, remembers how the stars appeared in the clear, cold dusk as they hurried hand-in-hand over the tundra, up into the foothills. The soft glow of the torch under the cliff, the statue's stone eyes glinting. The way her mother knelt and brushed back her hair. It is more than just tradition, Freyja, she had said, gazing earnestly into her eyes. I hope you can understand that. When a man accepts injustice because it is the safer road, then he has made himself a slave.

Of course, her mother's defiance of injustice had been in furtive visits to a Talos statue, not in joining a rebellion. Freyja hasn't the faintest idea what she would say about the war, if she were still alive. Perhaps her mother would be as torn as she is.

"No," she says. "I'm not a Stormcloak."

"What are you, then?"

That's the question, isn't it? Not a Stormcloak; not a Legionnaire. Not a foreigner, but not really a native, not anymore. Not - well. "Just a sellsword," Freyja says.

He frowns. "And you went out of your way to pick a fight with the Thalmor?"

"You can't put a price on some things."

That makes him laugh. "You're a strange woman."

"You should get out of Ivarstead more often."

"Perhaps I should," he says, strangely intense. Then his smile fades. "It's not as though I can just go home, now."

And he can't. Not with the Thalmor hunting for him. Not to a forge he can no longer use. "What will you do?" Freyja asks.

He shrugs, brooding. "Brokkr's still missing."

That is not the answer she was expecting. "Are you mad? It'll be weeks before that hand heals - how do you expect to travel quickly? Or fight, if it comes to that? And the Thalmor will be looking for you, now. Do you want to make their job easier?"

He cocks his head at her. His voice is very quiet. "And who else will look, if I do not?"

She ought to dissuade him. He is one man. One blacksmith, who has spent nearly his entire life in the hold where he was born. His wisest course now would be to join up with the Stormcloaks - or flee to Hammerfell, better still. Yet. Who else? he asked, and it was not bravado, but the truth. Not Victory or Sovngarde. Not True Nords never back down. His is the kind of courage that does not know it's brave, because it never even sees another option. She must be growing soft; it makes her want to weep.

"Where do you plan to start?" she asks.

"I don't know," he says - so softly. "I don't even - I think he's dead."

"Don't say that!" Freyja snarls, surprising even herself. Eitri's eyes fly up to her face, wide and wild and dark. The firelight glints in his lashes. Then he kisses her.

It's sudden, desperate, marred by a clack of teeth. The grip of his good hand is almost painful in her hair. And yet he kisses like a man robbed of language, slow and aching and raw as a wound. Tender, but somehow savage; Freyja can taste his heart in his mouth.

His other hand comes up to cup her jaw - and then he huffs a pained breath against her lips, pulls back. The shock of contact with his bandaged palm seems to have sobered him. He blinks, shakes his head. "Sorry," he says, "I--"

Freyja surges forward, silencing him with another bruising kiss. For a moment he is still and then he seizes her by the waist, clutching at her armor. The leather creaks. The bearskin slips from his shoulders; Freyja flattens a palm against his chest. Smoothes it down as though spreading open a map, feeling the hard contours of the terrain beneath her fingers, following the trail of hair down between his hips. He swallows a ragged gasp, and it burns in her eyes like the smoke of the fire. She barely knows him. She wants to crawl inside him: this man with his hopeless cause, this man who cannot go home.

He's tugging at buckles, clumsy, one-handed, still kissing her like a prayer against disaster. When he ducks his head to mouth slow and hot at the crook of her neck she starts to help him. It's only fair - he's already bare but for a pair of ragged trousers. Their fingers tangle frantically in their haste, knuckles barking against leather, but soon she's down to her wool undertunic and Eitri is pulling her onto his lap, against the sturdy framework of his chest. The back of his bandaged hand skims up her thigh. Freyja grips him by the shoulders, explores his back and arms. The muscle there is coiled and heavy as ship's cables.

Now that her armor is gone he slows, rocking back to rake her over with his eyes. The flare of pleasure there sends little tendrils of heat to curl and bloom deep in her chest. She's still wearing her boots and bracers, and he pulls her right hand to him, fiddling with the laces at her wrist. With little use of one limb he's painfully awkward, and Freyja reaches to do it herself - then hisses when he seals his mouth over the heel of her hand, breath and tongue hot against her palm, teeth nibbling at the thin skin. She swallows and finishes removing her bracers as he turns her hand over, contemplating the scars on her knuckles. He tastes those, too.

Not OP, but I will also be happily waiting.

HEY!!!! Leaving it there??! No.....

It was just getting really good. Oh well, I'll be in my bunk waiting for the rest.

XD lol yes, seconded

Freyja can feel the blazing, rigid length of him beneath her. Growing impatient, she sets a thumb in wheel-rut of his hipbone, slips it beneath the waist of his trousers. His thighs twitch. His palm fits itself against her hip and turns feral, bunching her tunic higher around her waist. Freyja ducks in to nip at his lower lip.

With a growl he shoves her back, reaching behind him for the crumpled bearskin and spreading it flat beside the fire. Freyja admires the predatory working of his muscled back as she tugs off her tunic and boots. The way his exhale smokes in the cold when he turns and catches sight of her again. He spreads his palm over her breastbone and presses her back onto the makeshift blanket, kneeling beside her.

He has fine hands. Large and calloused, with short blunt nails - yet there is something sure and graceful in the pads of his long fingers and the way they settle on her skin, firm as pebbles, light as snowflakes. Craftsman's hands, she thinks. Slowly, experimentally, he thumbs her collarbone, the line of her throat. She shivers.

When he unwinds her breastband and lowers his head Freyja squeezes her eyes shut, fingers tangling in his hair. Pants under his glowing mouth, the purr of his beard against her skin. He keeps his left hand resting on her neck, over her pulse; Freyja wonders if he can feel it. Wonders, idly, if the thumping life beneath his palm might have the power to flow into the torn skin, and offer healing. Bucks, and cries out, when he pulls back and his breath ghosts over the dampness on her breasts.

She opens her eyes to a man who does not look healed: his jaw is locked, his eyes crinkled shut as though in pain. It makes her clutch his hair and pull his head down, draw his tongue fiercely into her mouth. Freyja lets a small, needy sound flutter in her throat, lets him feel it vibrate against his palm, and he groans like a man dying; for one convulsive second his hand tightens around her neck.

She chases that sound as hard as she's ever hunted anything in her life, sliding her hands beneath his clothing, dragging his trousers down his hips. By the time she finds it again her own smallclothes are gone and he has rolled to cover her body with his own, supporting himself on one trembling arm.

He can't sustain it for long. When he collapses down onto his elbows the breath goes out of her. He's not a small man, but even so he's heavier than he looks. Made of iron and earth. Freyja squirms a little, enjoying his warm weight and the way he shudders when she moves against him. "Tell me what you want," he breathes, and she looks up, questioning.

"Isn't that how it goes, in the bards' tales? The mighty warrior saves the maiden from certain death, and then it's kind sir, how can I possibly repay you?" He laughs at himself easily, painlessly; she likes that. "I never thought to be the maiden."

She reaches for him, smiling darkly. "You are no maiden." The proof is hot beneath her fingers. His breath stutters and she pulls him to her, like lightning to the earth.

He chokes and tenses and fights himself, eyelids quivering. Her head falls back. In the stillness and the silence she is almost too aware, every sensation like a needleprick. The coarse soft fur of the bearskin beneath her, the night wind fluttering in both their hair, the scarlet glow of the fire limning one side of his face. Over his shoulder she can see the stars like gleaming sword points in the blue-black sky. "Move," she growls.

He moves like a river - with a steady, devouring power, a smooth ferocity. The driving force of him presses her so deeply into the bearskin that she can feel the tiny stones and divots in the ground beneath. Freyja batters herself against it, clutching at his back, barely keeping above the plunging current. Then she lets it take her. Lets him roll over her, drowns and gasps for air and drowns once more, surges with him to break like a wave again and again and again - and then fall away, in a tumble of white sound.

LOL. Author here, flattered that you're on the edge of your seat. Don't worry, you're getting the whole first part of the story tonight!

The next morning Freyja startles to wake beside another body, rolls out from beneath his arm before she remembers how it got there. He doesn't stir. One corner of her mouth ticks up fondly. The clear morning reveals all of the bruises and dirt on his skin, but Eitri looks less drawn in sleep, less like a blade rusted down to a ragged shadow of itself.

The ashes of their fire were cold hours before. Freyja doesn't bother to start it again, merely pulls on her clothes and buckles her armor. She eats a strip of last night's venison with her fingers, follows it down with the icy water in her skins. Settles back against the stone wall of the cave. Above the hills, the sky is a wash of palest blue. She can hear the sweet hollow trill of a thrush somewhere in the forest.

The bird or the breeze - or the hum of her thoughts - wakes her companion. Eitri sits up, drawing the bearskin around his hips. He glimpses her, strapped back into her armor, and offers a tentative smile. They're both strangely shy in the light of the morning. "Hungry?" Freyja asks, voice still husky with sleep.

That seems to put him at ease; he scoots closer, reaching out to take the cold meat and the last of her apples. He trades her a firmer smile in return. While he breakfasts - like a civilized person, this time - Freyja contemplates the forest in silence.

"What are you thinking?" Eitri murmurs, finally.

She bites her lip.

"Freyja?" He sounds concerned.

"Just making travel plans," she says, breaking out of her reverie.

His face relaxes. "I never asked what you were doing, before you got distracted with saving my life."

"Nothing of consequence. I'm between jobs."

"And what do you plan to do, now?"

Freyja takes a deep, slow breath, still looking out over the tops of the hills. "First," she says, "I'm going to climb down to Dragonbridge and find you something to wear that doesn't scream escaped Thalmor prisoner. Then we're going to find a mage."

"What do we need a mage for?"

"Your hand, fool."

He looks mildly alarmed. "You've already--"

"Do you ever want to forge steel again?" Eitri opens his mouth, then closes it sharply. For the barest instant he looks frightened, and Freyja curbs her tongue. "We're going to find a mage," she says more softly, laying a hand on his arm. "And then we're going to find your cousin."

His lips part. The look he gives her is raw, incredulous. Naked, she thinks, far more so than she saw him last night. It's too intimate. She looks away. "You would...why...?"

"Why not?"

"People don't just - just stop what they do and--"

"This is what I do," she reminds him. "Delving into crypts, finding lost relatives. I get hired for that sort of thing all the time."

His voice is soft. "But I can't pay you."

"Elven armor fetches a fine price," Freyja quips.

Eitri gives her a long, hard look. He appears to have a host of further questions, but after a moment he shuts his gaping mouth. "Thank you," he says, simply.

Freyja stands, stretches. Her fingers tap a brisk rhythm against the stone wall of the cave. She looks east over the crags, over Dragonbridge hidden below them, over the Karth River and the mountains beyond. One way or another they'll discover what happened to his cousin, and then she'll deliver him back to Ivarstead.

And then, she thinks, I'm going to climb a mountain.

Damn A!A DAMN!!!! So glad I was waiting in my bunk. :D

That sex scene was so emotional, descriptive and down right awesome. It was amazing. Now I really can't wait for the rest of the story. You've created an interesting dragonborn and Eitri is just awesome. Keep it up please.

“Come on, come on!” He breathes out, sitting up and having the Nord pull him up into his lap. Their arms hooked around each others like vices, pressure and heat around Vilkas' cock making him stutter and moan aloud. “Look at me, Vilkas. Come for me.” He demanded, and Vilkas did as he was told. His short cries turn into a shaky moan, cumming deep inside the Bosmer. The elf looked as if he was absolutely desperate for his seed, writhing and touching Vilkas all over while he felt the warmth spread into him. There was something primate about it, something that mating beasts did in the wilds.

His cock was still thick inside him, pulsing and well spent. The Nord's vision came back into place and he lay them down, seeing the elf pierced by him and his chest dry. He...didn't come.

“Hhahh...you didn't..” Vilkas felt his heart squeeze for a lifetime of a second.

“I'm so close,” The elf spread his bare leg and moved against Vilkas, even as he softened. Vilkas thought to climb down and suck him, but felt fingers wrench through his hair and a hand grab his wrist. “Stay by me..”

Vilkas wasted no time in getting his hand around the elf's shaft, hard mer fingers wringing through his hair and pulling his face close. Vilkas blindly nuzzled his face, listening to their panting and beating his fist up and down on the artist to make him spasm and thrust- it was growing dark and swollen in his hand and weeping down his fingers.

Heat radiated from the elf's narrow ears, throbbing and deafeningly loud. When the Nord's stubbled lips found them, eagerly licking and kissing the shell, that's when they both knew he'd come. Choppy, whined noises erupted from his throat, feeling Vilkas' tongue cradling his thick silver earrings, his fist stilling over his member that shot ropes somewhere between them. The Knight growled and reveled, heat blossoming in quite a different way in his chest, finding joy while he weakly tugged at the still-thick cock.

Buried inside, he could feel the elf's passage contracting again and again until he was silent, nude arms wrapping around the Nords back to embrace him weakly. Vilkas kissed him like he's yearned to all this time, holding him the way lovers do in tales. The artist was satisfied and smiling, absolutely deaf to the outside world or Vilkas' mumbles.. All he could hear was a high pitched ringing and the sound of his own heart.. damn, he came hard.

Sound returned to him, yet they remained unspoken. They separated with a sigh, laying beside the other and eying the damage- Vilkas was so unchained he left the elf with battered lips and neck. He fingered the bruises, eyes opened just enough to delight in his handiwork. “I can't seem to help myself,” Vilkas started, the Bosmer staring back at him in utter satisfaction. “Just thinking about you drives me wild, and to see you so close..to have you.. it was..”

He sounded like he was apologizing. The mer held the back of his lovers head and remembered to kiss him “Too much? Mmm.. We have plenty of time to perfect our art.” And speaking of, Vilkas' stubbled neck was milky white and a clean canvas for his own addition. He lunged the small distance forward and Vilkas cried out as he felt warm lips and carnivorous teeth scraping at his neck.

He sucked and sucked, the Nord wriggling below him and wrapping strong arms around the mer while they groaned for each other. It became pain until the artist pulled away and wiped his lips, grinning at the dark bruise below his jaw. Vilkas shuddered while he looked up to him, a whimpered noise of confusion.

“You're mine, Vilkas.”

The Nord couldn't make heads or tails of what he should be feeling now; was it victory? relief? anxiety? All of these thoughts crashed through his mind and above all he could feel the submission in his heart before the elf who'd tamed his wild soul and showed him what it was like to indulge. Of all the emotions he could think of, he just smiled.

“You don't know how happy you've made me.” It was sweet, and even moreso unusual to hear those words come from a man who was never happy to begin with. It made the elf smile and remember that old feeling.

“And I'm just getting started.”

(Almost done!)

How has this not been seconded? SECONDED.

There have been a number of daedra prompts and fills, actually! Not sure if you meant you didn't see any of those.

What do you mean by mind games?

Do want!

Yes, yes, this, yes.

I just imagined a DB shouting "YOLO" at someone and poofing into flames as the shout backfires at them.

I am so glad this is a thing.

Yes please <3

Vilkas never liked magic, he felt uneasy and tense when it was used near him or worse - on him, but he never feared it. Then one day something awful involving magic happens and leaves him terrified of it - now even healing magic makes him panic and cower in fear. He tries to hide it but fails. His lover DB tries to help him...right? ...or not? (Author choice)

Anon prefers strong&manly, aggressive, no-nonsense, dominant, evil bastard kind of DB, someone who is more powerful than Vilkas both physically and mentally and can take care of him without drowning in sugar and fluff. Someone who might enjoy seeing Vilkas so vulnerable for a little bit longer before helping him. But it's all up to Author:)
Anon prefers slash, but het is ok too, sex is optional,but no non-con.

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