skyrimkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skyrimkinkmeme) wrote2011-10-29 12:36 pm
skyrimkinkmeme) wrote2011-10-29 12:36 pm
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
Songs For Nomads 1.7
(Anonymous) 2013-05-04 01:22 am (UTC)(link)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.
Re: Songs For Nomads 1.7
(Anonymous) 2013-05-04 01:34 am (UTC)(link)It was just getting really good. Oh well, I'll be in my bunk waiting for the rest.
Re: Songs For Nomads 1.7
(Anonymous) 2013-05-04 01:43 am (UTC)(link)