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

FIXED VERSION 9.8/9.10 not sure what happened there

[(Anonymous)]

She pays and they climb the stairs, rid themselves of their armor. Fall onto the bed. Tomorrow they will set off again, to climb Tamriel’s highest mountain in the most treacherous part of the year. But tonight Freyja plans to revel in the warmth and comfort of a tavern, in the familiar sounds and scents. In a meal eaten at table, with people she’s known since childhood. Freyja chuckles to herself as she recalls Eitri’s attempts to rein in his puppyish enthusiasm while seated at famously taciturn Eorlund Grey-Mane’s elbow. Once he’d asked a few of what Eorlund termed actual intelligent questions, even the gruff old smith’s demeanor had thawed a bit. “Only thing that will get him talking,” Fralia had whispered, with a fond eye roll.

Eitri raises a brow at her. “Something funny?”

“You won over Eorlund Grey-Mane,” she says, still chuckling.

Eitri blushes. “I think I made a fool of myself.”

“Oh no, he liked you. He was positively chatty.”

It’s Eitri’s turn to laugh. “Apparently Thorald gets his conversational skills from his ma.”

“And his brother got all of his father’s way with people,” Freyja says, though without heat.

“I hope they’re still there, when we start for Ivarstead.”

“Me too.”

Eitri hesitates. “I’ve been wondering,” he says, voice low. “Why did you never answer the Greybeards, all this time?”

Freyja drums her fingers on the nightstand. “I had my reasons,” she finally says, and then shakes her head, wryly. “Though they don’t seem like very good ones, with winter coming on.” Eitri rests his chin in his hand, brow furrowing, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. Freyja turns away, sitting on the edge of the bed. Draws her new blade out of its sheath. It’s an evasion, but after a moment she falls to admiring the craftsmanship in the light of the candles.

"That's a hero's sword," Eitri observes, resting a hand on her shoulder. Freyja is silent, tilting the edge slowly, watching the way firelight sluices down the fullers. "No one deserves it more, you know." She sheathes it again, carefully, and turns to look at him. Eitri meets her gaze unblinkingly. His eyes are so open that she has to look away.

“That,” he says.

“What?”

“That. What I just said. Why does that frighten you?”

“I am not frightened.”

Eitri looks at her with his deep sad eyes.

In that moment, the bard downstairs strums a single dark, shivering chord, old and well-known. The hum of the common room quiets. Into the lull the man starts to sing, voice accompanied by nothing more than a single plucked string here and there. A song as old as Skyrim itself, long used to rally warriors and bring hope.

Our hero, our hero claims a warrior’s heart
I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes
With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art
Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes.