Meme Announcements!

[skyrimkinkmeme]

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

Comments

Minifill: Looking Well

[(Anonymous)]

This is based on an ACTUAL chat-up line used on me the one time I went looking for talent. Bless him, the man was the image of an older member of the Irish government of the time - a man not terribly popular or attractive. There's something very Irish about Torvar...

Also, I know the OP really wanted the Dragonborn to be the one rejected, and I'm trying to work on that, but I just really wanted to post *something* for this prompt, I hope OP doesn't mind too much!

*-*-*

The Bannered Mare was packed with Imperial soldiers getting ready for the upcoming battle, as well as a good number of couples celebrating the forthcoming Dibellan festival a few days early.

The Dragonborn, a soft-spoken, usually shy Nord was watching the people coming and going, while also trying to ignore the Bards and their noisy renditions of Ragnar the Red.

She sighed, wondering how long before Ysolda and Uthgerd would let her go back to Breezehome. (Although, thinking on it, perhaps she would stay in a room upstairs - Lydia had taken Farkas of the Companions back to her room in Breezehome, and the Housecarl deserved some privacy.

Something caught her eye: a man in leather armour, moving through the thronging crowds. Torvar of the Companions sidled up to her, looked her up and down, toes to crown, and winked.

"You're looking well - in your aubergine," he said, admiring the purple Tavern clothes that had been a gift from Ysolda. He looked proud at having used a longer word than purple to describe the clothes.

How to let him down gently? He's really not my type, the Dragonborn wondered.

"Ah, thank you ... Sir," she replied, shifting back in her seat, away from Torvar's mead-breath.

Torvar blinked. The wheels in his head moved slowly, as though the mead was treacle that his thoughts had to swim through. Finally he nodded. "See you around Jorrvaskr, maybe," he muttered.

She nodded, and breathed a relieved sigh of relief.