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

Songs For Nomads 1.2

[(Anonymous)]

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."