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monstersandmaw · 2 years ago

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Male dremora x female character - Part Nine (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere.

Content: domestic fluff, a little bit about dealing with the practical aftermath of a family member’s death, domestic smut, oral sex

Catch up here:

Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw), Part Seven (sfw), Part Eight (sfw)

Huge thanks to the two people who wanted this for their commissions and all the other people who’ve been politely begging me to add another part to this. I hope you enjoy this part as much as Alys does...

Wordcount: 3447

Alys stirred awake to the scent of something rich and savoury filling the small cabin, and she stretched like a cat before opening her eyes.

Her dremora sat cross-legged on the hearthrug in front of her, occasionally poking at the contents of a pot that dangled over the fire, and as she sat up and shook the sleep from her shoulders like a heavy blanket, he turned to face her.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, rolling her neck to ease out a little of the stiffness that had built up after drifting off in a chair by the fire like an elderly Khajiit.

“Only an hour or so,” he said. “You’ve warmed up.” It wasn’t a question, and she wondered if he could tell that through their connection as well, or if it was just that she was calm and comfortable again.

She eyed the pot and peered over the rim from where she sat. “What’s in there?” she asked, mouth watering.

The dremora dropped his gaze and smiled bashfully. “I found an old recipe of your aunt’s in one of the books over there,” he said, gesturing towards the windowsill where a number of Gisela’s recipe books were stacked, along with The Gourmet’s famous tome.

“Good job you picked her book and not ‘Uncommon Taste’,” Alys muttered. “Did you know that the souffle recipe in there calls for an entire ‘cupful of nutmeg’? Ingesting that much would kill someone.”

“A human, maybe,” he grinned, levering his long frame up from the floor and absently pulling his long plait forwards over one shoulder to fiddle with the tip of it between his fingers.

She blinked up at him. “Don't tell me you actually could eat a whole cup of nutmeg without dying? And are dremora taste buds completely different or are you just… immune to stuff like that?”

“Our tastes are a little different,” he said with a shrug, “But we can stand toxins a lot better than humans can. An Orsimer might enjoy the effects of that much nutmeg though maybe. Maybe this ‘Gourmet’ is making souffles for orcs…”

“Come on, as if someone called ‘The Gourmet’ would ever be an orc,” she scoffed. “Anyway, what did you pick? It smells like Gisela’s venison casserole, but it’s not had long enough to cook down.” When he looked a little guilty, she added, “Did you use magic?”

He nodded.

“You know cooking magic?” she blurted, and he whickered a low laugh in response and folded his arms in a mime of mild outrage.

“It’s just refined destruction magic,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve never made toast in your college dormitory with a modified flame spell?”

“And what would you know of college dormitories?” she asked with another laugh as she got to her feet and stood looking up at him with a slow-beaming smile.

“You’ve never been to the Midden below the College?” he asked with a genuine frown, his body language changing again from playfully coiled to languid as a Khajiit in his curiosity.

Alys shook her head. “We’ve all heard about secret passages and chambers full of draugr beneath the College, but I’ve never been. I don't even know how to get down there. How do you know? Were you summoned by a student or something?”

She didn't mean to let the pang of jealousy quiver through her like the discordant pluck of an out of tune lyre, but it did all the same, and the dremora smiled softly. “I have been summoned to this plane a few times,” he said, “And once was to lend some power to a ritual taking place in what they called the Midden Dark. A group of students wanted access to a Daedric gauntlet, but I wasn’t powerful enough either and they banished me before too long… though not before they spent an hour bickering over a campfire about whether to keep me around or not.”

“What, and one of them just whipped up some cheese on toast to keep them going while they argued?” she said with a raised eyebrow.

Dremora laughed again and nodded. “More or less. It smelled wonderful. Infinitely better than the crushed frostbite spider eggs they’d used in the ritual.”

She shuddered and her stomach turned over. “Ugh, let’s not talk about spider eggs when you’ve gone to the effort of making casserole for us. I’m assuming there are no spider eggs in it…” she said, only half-joking as she regarded the stew pot. “You are a dremora, after all…”

He shook his head, plait swinging freely. “Venison, spices from the cupboard that were still good, and some of the vegetables you brought back.” He turned suddenly shy and added, “I hope you don’t mind that I…?”

“What, mind that you took care of me when I said that was exactly what I wanted you to do? No, of course not. Come on,” she said as her mind forgot about the spider eggs and her stomach growled at her instead. “I’m starving. It’s been one hell of a day.”

For those first couple of days at the cabin, Alys ignored the letter from ‘Gabriella’, and spent her time cleaning the dust and grime of the past months away — by hand, not by magic, much to the dremora’s bafflement — and sorting through Gisela’s belongings and deciding what to keep. “She was taller than me, and I’m terrible at sewing,” she said regretfully, staring at the tablet-woven hem of a beautiful, bluish-purple dress that had hardly been worn.

“You know there is such a thing as magic,” the dremora said from across the room where he was seated at the kitchen table. He, as it happened, was threading a magically-reinforced, bone needle through the leather of his cuirass strap, repairing a gash in the material from their encounter with the bandits outside Falkreath. “There’s a whole school that’s literally called ‘Alteration magic’.”

Alys snorted, balled up the dress and hurled it at him, then began to laugh even harder when it snagged on his horn and dangled limply off it like he was a particularly tall and muscular cloak peg. He set his armour down and plucked the dress off the tip of his horn with delicate, slate-coloured fingers and he held it up thoughtfully in both hands. His eyes flared from black to scarlet as he called his magic to him.

She felt the room crackle with it, like the air before a lightning strike or the aura of a storm spell, and she held her breath, watching. With a low-frequency hum as the magic of Oblivion bled across the realms, the hem of the dress drew up a little off the floor and the sleeves shrank up by an inch or so. When he was done, he held it out to her.

“You’re a useful Daedroth to keep around…” she muttered, cheeks flushing warm as she crossed the small cottage and took it back from him.

The dremora inclined his head, horns glinting. “I live to serve,” he said with a dry humour that instantly shattered her playful mood.

When her expression shattered and she let her arms drop, dress pooling in folds of midnight fabric at her feet, he realised exactly what he’d said.

“Alys, I didn't mean it like that. You know that. I… I chose to bind myself to you that day. I do not, and will not, regret it.”

As if to lend strength to his oath, the fire behind his eyes blazed brighter and his lips drew back just enough to reveal those unholy, double canines.

Instead of guilt or relief though, all Alys felt in that moment was desire, and the force of it took her by surprise.

This creature from another plain of existence should have cut her gleefully to pieces at his first sight of her, at the insult of being summoned improperly and for a task as mundane as guarding an exhausted, frightened woman from a few bandits, but instead he had chosen to kneel in the snow and to protect her, and then to bind himself to her will. He’d travelled across Skyrim at her side like a humble, hired mercenary, offered her comfort, laughed with her, shared his warmth with her — heck, now he’d even altered her damned clothes for her. The knowledge that she was not alone in facing what was to come next crashed through her in a great wave and she almost swayed on the spot.

She drew in a shaky breath, vision misting with unshed tears, and offered him a wobbly smile.

“Hey,” he said, and stood. He closed the distance between them and took her in his arms before gently prying the dress from her fingers and draping it over the back of the other chair by the table. He cupped her face in his warm, smooth, leathery palms, and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words escaping as almost nothing more than a sob. “Thank you for being so kind.”

“You know,” he rumbled, “You offer me quite a lot with this bargain too?”

“Yeah?” she said, looking up at him.

His eyebrows rose a fraction and he nodded. “Mmm.”

Gods, she loved that sound; that soft, satisfied purr that reverberated in his chest. It made her want to rest her ear against his warm skin and close her eyes; to hear his steady heartbeat and feel the length of his body pressed against hers again, as it had been in the bedroll back at that lonely camp beneath the rocks. She’d slept with people before, but she’d never ached for someone the way she found her body waking up then at his touch. She knew he would feel it, but this time she made no attempt to hide it.

“I will never take more than you offer me,” he went on carefully, “And if you ask, I will not deny you.”

“Deny me what?”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me,” she said, and he bent down and brushed his lips against hers.

That first taste was as tentative as a moth’s wings against a window; fleeting and just barely there before it vanished into the dark.

To start with, he was painfully careful with her, as if waiting for her to draw back, to change her mind, to push him away, but when she took hold of the back of his head and pulled him fiercely down into a kiss that she herself deepened, he groaned and let his red eyes roll closed.

He backed her up a few paces, using his superior height and strength over her, and then his hands closed around her hips and he lifted her up to sit on the table. She gasped as he broke the contact and let his hands skim up the soft wool of the dress that covered her thighs, revealing her legs to well above the knee.

“May I?” he asked, his palms still resting on her slightly parted thighs. His voice had dropped a few notes in pitch, rasping in his throat as though ground raw by his own barely-leashed restraint. She could see his double canines when he talked, and glimpsed his dark tongue behind.

“Yes,” she gasped, head tipping back as he sank to his knees. She’d never been more aroused in her life than by that one gesture, and she let the heat of it lick around the edges of her mind like flames.

He drew the damp fabric of her underwear down along her legs to lie forgotten on the flagstone floor. Then, hooking both arms under her thighs, the dremora tugged her in a single, swift motion right to the edge of the table, and shifted his grip to push her thighs slowly apart with his thumbs, fingertips barely resting on her skin. Something about the position was so erotic that her mind went blank for a few heartbeats.

She looked down at him and saw the way his breath caught at the sight of her exposed body, his jaw slack and slightly open as he regarded her before bringing his face slowly down between her legs. With the pad of his thumb, he slowly teased through her wetness and circled her clit just once before licking a long, hot stripe over her.

As the taste of her hit his tongue, he growled; long and loud and decadent. She felt the vibration of it against her and bucked weakly. The sound of it filled the cabin as it rolled out of him, turning from the wild, feral growl of a werewolf to a distant, purring rumble.

His left arm held her in place, clamped under and around her thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle hard enough to leave marks, but the contrast between that firm grip and the delicate brush of his tongue around her sensitive folds and up to nudge tentatively at her clit was almost enough to make her come already.

Her mind floated away to a place of thoughtless bliss as he began a regular rhythm that started off slow and gentle, easing her into it and waking her up before he slid his right hand free from where he’d anchored it under her left thigh. He leaned back a little, and she looked down at him again to find his lips and chin glistening, his eyes blazing red in the shadows of his face.

The dremora traced his fingers up the inside of her thigh, the touch whisper-light, and she arched and grunted inelegantly, wordlessly begging him to return to what he had been doing a moment earlier, but he ignored that and instead circled his thumb languorously around her clit. He seemed to love the skittering sparks it sent up her spine and down her legs, and he savoured every little twitch her body gave him. Then his fingertips pressed inside her and she felt the slight stretch of it as he filled her. He sank to the knuckle inside her and crooked his fingers, pressing his fingertips against her walls and pulsing an insistent rhythm.

Leaning forward again, he kissed her clit.

There was no mistaking it. He closed his lips around the place where she was most sensitive and kissed her. He suckled gently at it for a moment, then let his tongue go back to the rhythm that had had her shaking and begging. With the additional pressure of his fingers inside her, she knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.

She curled forwards over him and reached down, instinctively grabbing his horns and pulling herself even closer into the contact. As she took hold of his horns, he let out a deep moan against her clit and his steady rhythm stuttered. The solid ridges and gentle, arching curve felt incredible beneath her fingers and the flecks of pyrite gold shimmered in the soft light of the room. It felt like they’d been made for her to hold onto.

“I’m so close,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” he said in a voice like gravel, lifting just far enough from her to speak. His breath was hot against her, his lips tantalisingly close, and she twitched as his words whispered across her skin. “I can feel it. If you come, you’re going to make me come too.”

“What —?” she gasped, letting go and leaning back, hips lifting.

Then his fingers pressed just-so inside her, and she lit up all over and came.

Her spine arched, and with her head thrown back she let out a broken yell as the pleasure that had been building and building inside her suddenly careered away from her and dragged her down with it.

She’d never been so wet, so aroused, so turned on, and as she came into his hand, clenching around his knuckles, she just heard him give a soft grunt. He stopped moving, his lips frozen in place against her and his fingers keeping a steady, insistent pressure inside. The very slight nick of his double canines against her tender flesh made her gasp and shake, and it prolonged her orgasm until she felt wrung-out and shaky.

Heaving for breath, Alys forced herself to sit upright again, elbows aching where she’d locked them to keep herself from falling back onto the tabletop behind her, and she found him still kneeling between her legs with his fingers curled and buried to the hilt inside her.

Slowly, he opened his red eyes and slid free of her. Gods, she’d made a mess of him. She thought people only made that kind of mess in the lewd tales the City Guard bragged about on nights out with too much mead.

With the reverence of a pilgrim at the end of a long journey, the dremora looked up at her and smiled almost bashfully. He looked a little out of breath too, and as stunned as she felt. And, she realised, he looked uncertain.

“Help me down from here?” she asked. “Not sure I can feel my legs yet.”

He hitched a half-smile and nodded, standing to reveal a dark, damp patch in his leggings. He hadn’t been kidding about coming when she did.

She eyed it and then looked back up at his face. He didn’t seem embarrassed or put out by the fact that he’d come untouched in his underwear from having his mouth on her and his fingers inside her while he’d given her what was quite possibly the most mind-shattering orgasm of her life. “I feel bad now,” she said. “That can’t have been too comfortable for you.”

He shook his head and the smile encompassed the other side of his mouth too. “I didn’t mind at all,” he said. “You want me to carry you to the bed so you can catch your breath?”

There was no pride or gloating in his tone. It was just a simple question.

“If I said yes, would you like to join me?” she asked, biting her lower lip to stave off a little, gusting rush of self-consciousness. She was also careful to make sure it was completely his choice, given the power she had over him anyway.

“I would,” he smiled, and slid an arm under her knees and around her shoulders.

He hefted her easily and stalked over to the small bed in the corner of the cottage. There, he laid her down and stepped back to shuck out of his ruined leggings while she drew her dress off over her head and let it fall in a crumpled heap at the end of the bed. She took a moment to enjoy the long, slender lines of his grey body, and his stormcloud skin that was punctuated by red lines of lightning running from his face all the way down his torso and spine, over his hips and along his slender, muscular legs to his black-taloned feet.

When they were both under the covers, he lying on his back with his arm underneath her head and Alys on her side, tracing those red lines on his torso with a fingertip, left leg thrown over his thigh, she sighed and kissed his chest.

“Are these tattoos or natural?” she asked, eyeing the contrast between blood red and slate grey skin.

“We’re not born with them, but they’re our mark of bondage to Mehrunes Dagon, ultimately,” he said softly. “I may be bound to you for now, but my soul is tethered to the Deadlands. When this body ceases to exist, my soul will return there. These marks will guide the way.”

“Like a summoning circle,” she murmured and he nodded.

She let her palm skate across his smooth, lean and muscled chest, then down over his ribs, and his breath hitched as she passed the sharp jut of his hips. He pushed his head back into the pillow, the tips of his horns pressing into the soft linen, and he let out a shuddering moan that travelled the length of his body.

She kicked the covers back off him and watched his clawed toes flex as his muscles tensed and relaxed in a wave, and she saw that his cock was hard again already. It twitched and left a silvery line of pre-come between tip and stomach. Slightly darker than the rest of his skin, with a single red line running along the underside from the crease of his balls all the way to the head, he was large, but not intimidatingly so. She closed her hand around him and he moaned. He was so hard; she would never have guessed he’d just come only minutes earlier.

His mouth opened a little, dark lips parting just enough to show her his pointed canines again, and he swallowed thickly, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Alys,” he gasped when all she did was gently squeeze the length of him in her hand.

More pre-come drooled over her skin and down the back of her hand. “Mmm?”

“You don’t have to —”

“But I want to,” she said. “Let me?”

“Anything,” he exhaled, shuddering again. “Gods, anything.”

With her permission granted, Alys set about returning the favour, and learned exactly how many times in a row a dremora could come.

___

Hopefully you’re still enjoying this story, and hopefully next time we get to meet Gabriella, and see just what she thinks of Alys’ choice of boyfriend/bodyguard...

Don’t forget to reblog if you did enjoy this! It means the world to creators like me, and it’s the only way our work ever gets seen.

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