#fem dragonborn

[mod2amaryllis]

soooooo he's a bard 👉👈

[monstersholygrail]

omg dragon up next??? can't wait 🤤

im a sucker for dragons. there seems to be a shocking lack of dragon fic on this site

Yessss. I went through a lot of choices and options for what kind of monster the Headhunter in the Choose your own adventure series would be. And they all made rational sense in my mind. But I just really wanted to make sure to include a dragon into this series somewhere

Plus, with dragons taking treasure and hoarding it all, I feel like a Headhunter would be a perfect job for them. So it works out well too

I’m glad you’re excited and enjoy dragons! I love dragons so freaking much. I hope everyone comes to enjoy Headhunter Dragon as much as I do. He’s been fun to write

And I agree! There’s a painful lack of dragon fics here. I have a handful of dragon fics myself. They’re a blast mess around with. One of my favorite fics I’ve written is a dragon bf!

[halybs]

My Tav :)

[councilofcastamere]

UNDER HIS SKIN [AMD.T X READER]

PART I.

summary: Aemond loves his big sister, so unfairly married to another. So unfairly away from him for seven cruel years. So when his sweet sister returns to King's Landing again, he is determined to show her he is not a child anymore.

warnings: none? Correct me if I'm wrong please 🫶🩷

a/n: smut is in the second part 🫶 not this one since it is mostly childhood focused my loves 🫶

Aemond had never gone a day without thinking of you. How could he when you were in his life? His half-sister. His beautiful y/n, his beautiful wife-to-be.

Just after Aemma, and right before Alicent, King Viserys the Peaceful married your mother, Myria Martell of Dorne. In that short time before her death, the olive-skinned woman managed to bear you, her exquisitely beautiful daughter.

A girl possessing both Dornish and Valyrian beauty? The Realm roamed with anticipation. You had the dark skin and olive skin of a Dornishwoman, combined with the features and eyes of a Valyrian beauty.

From his first breath, you were his virtue. You were five years old, holding Alicentʼs third-born. Your big blue eyes shone with adoration, and you could swear his little hands reached out for you.

If Alicent had trouble managing Helaena as a babe, Aemond had to be ten times worse. He cried out your name so often, that his mother would be forced to plead for your help. Every cry of your name was accompanied by a bitter feeling in your absence.

Like the sweet girl you were, you had no objections to helping your stepmother take care of her third child. You doted on Aemond, and you could not contain your excitement when he ultimately, at a year old, took his first steps into your arms. You kissed his forehead as he relished the feeling of your warm touch.

You would spend your free time playing with him and Helaena, his head on your lap and Helaena showing you her bugs.

And as you grew into a ravishing young woman, Aemond continued to follow behind you, his small frame glaring at any Knight or nobleman who looked at you too long.

You had been content to read with him, kissing his cheek every night before you tucked the eight-year-old into bed. Aemond couldnʼt imagine a good night without your kiss. He wouldn't.

One day, you'd be his wife. His and his alone. If his lady-mother betrothed Helaena to Aegon, it is only fair that you and him do the same thing. Once he is of age to marry, he will convince Mother Alicent to keep the bloodline pure.

His annoyance at not being able to obtain a dragon had never been directed at you. Never.

The door creaked open to your chambers, like most nights. The small sound causes you to stir awake. You weren't a deep sleeper.

“Valonqar,” you smile tiredly, scooting over “What is wrong?”

Aemond said nothing, just sighed as he crawled into your arms.

Your hair was unkempt and your eyes were half closed. So adorable.

“Cuddle me, rōva mandia,” he murmured, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms resorted to wrapping around your waist, and his soft sighs sent his breath tickling your neck. “I haven't a dragon yet.”

You sighed softly, taking his face in your hands and beckoning him to look you in the eye.

“Aemond, look at me.” you requested softly, to which he, with slight reluctance, looked you in the eyes. he loved the way you looked at him. how your face softened when your eyes landed on him. “You will get a dragon. How could a dragon not like you? You are everything good.”

Those words did it for him. they made his heart flutter like none could. he took a good look at her face and took some moments to admire her beauty. your sun-kissed skin looked heavenly in the moonlight shining on the sheets and her face, making her eyes shine brighter than they usually did.

At that moment, all the prince could think about was how he’d marry you someday. No matter what people say he could do.

With that thought, his body drifted off to slumber, holding you close to him. His head on your chest and a small smile gracing his face.

So imagine his turmoil when you were announced to be betrothed to a lord of house Lannister the very next evening.

He begged, begged, begged Alicent to discuss this with Father and reconsider.

“Betroth her to me once I am of age.” he urged his mother, his frustration rising as his efforts seemed futile. His lady-motherʼs decision was as if it was set in stone.

The night before your departure, he visited you one last time and slept cuddling you. At a given point, his eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the ceiling.

“Fools. All of them.” he quietly spoke up, his tears dried on his cheek. “At least they didn’t betroth you to that bastard.”

“Aemond,” you spoke up softly, brushing his hair out of his face. “You mustn't call him that. He is our nephew.”

“Be that as it may, his father is still a Strong,” he replies coldly, leaning into your touch. he turned his head so that his lips brushed against your cheek. You’re lucky he loves you enough not to stress your mind with the image of those Strong boys.

You sighed, deciding it was best to drop this matter. Perhaps his childhood crush, along with his disdain for your nephews would fade. You pulled him closer like two cats keeping each other warm. Perhaps his interest would fade once you married a lord of Casterly Rock.

The next day had come by rather quickly, and you had bid goodbye to each relative with a kiss on the cheek.

However, Aemond felt as if the kiss you planted on his cheek meant so much more than the ones you planted on the others.

And off you had gone, married to a man of House Lannister.

7 years of marriage had gone by, and you had sired 4 healthy boys. Your husband treated you better than most Lords and you could not be happier. You continued being the sweet and well-spoken young woman and you couldn't be happier in the presence of your dear sons.

So it was only natural when your sons came with you as you visited Kingʼs Landing again. You kept your sons at your hip as you exited the carriage, greeted by the sight of your dear brother.

Once your eyes landed on him, it seemed you were unable to tear them away. He grew. When he used to be half your size, he grew to be almost as tall as your step-grandsire. His lean and muscled figure stood tall and gracious. His gorgeous sharp features were accompanied by a grin on his face. You were almost envious of his shiny hair.

“Mandia.” he grins, taking your soft palm in his, pressing a kiss on your index finger. “It pleases me so to see you again.”

He had to refrain himself from pouncing on you, reminded of your sons at your side. All he wanted now was to shower you with kisses. Seven, he’d take you in that carriage if he could.

“Valonqar,” you smile, holding your four-year-old in your arms. gods, he grew to hate when you called him that. why must you still refer to him as little? “I hope you have been doing well.”

He wasn't stupid. He knew she was referring to Driftmark. He kept the letters you wrote to him, reassuring him that he was still handsome despite the lost eye.

“I have,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, too close to your jaw. “And who are these little Lords?”

“Vahaemor, Vigor, Vador, and Vahaegon.” you beam with the most radiant smile he’s seen, the youngest asleep in your arms.

“Motherhood soothes you, mandia.” he coos, cupping one cheek with his left hand. you had to refrain from breaking out into a smile at his affectionate albeit slightly inappropriate gesture.

His eyes flickered to your sons, patting their little heads and smiling down at them. Your oldest son Vahaemor stood proudly, trying his best to imitate Aemondʼs posture.

“And I suppose each one of you will make a fine swordsman?” Aemond teases, to which your boys break out in talk and laughter.

“I'm already better than Vahaemor!” your second-born, Vigor speaks up, causing Vahaemor to grow irritated.

“You could not even beat an infant with a wooden sword!” Vahaemor retorts, lightly shoving Vigor.

“Mother!” Vigor whines, hitting your oldest-bornʼs arm.

“Look what you have caused, Aemond.” you tease playfully, rocking your youngest in your arms as your third-born, Vador, waddles over to Aemond to hug his leg.

“Tʼwas merely a compliment.” Aemond grins, looking down at Vador before taking him in his arms. gods, he should have been their father. he has not inquired yet about your Lord-husband, however, he was certain he could treat you better in any and every way. no doubt that if your husband were out of the picture, he would have had you. he would give your sons silver-haired siblings.

“Mhm,” you sigh softly, smiling up at him. what he wouldn't do to make you smile like that every day. “Let us enter the Keep. I wish to have my youngest sleep on a bed instead of me.”

[ryuzakemo128]

The Last Dragonborn

Pairings: Freyja Raengyreon x female reader / Aegon Targaryen x female reader x Aemond Targaryen

Content Warning: implication of foul play

Words: 664

Masterlist

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: “Is this some kind of joke?” You questioned your older brothers Aegon and Aemond. “If it is, it’s not funny. You know how much this means to me, and you threw this in my face?”

You couldn’t believe your eyes, the beast. It was no beast at all. But a woman of immense, significant height. Eyes piercing the darkness like a knife through butter. You were the one to find this large, unsightly ‘beast.’ You were promised a dragon of immense power. Yet the snickering from behind the ladies fan felt more like a joke you weren’t aware of.

“Is this some kind of joke?” You questioned your older brothers Aegon and Aemond. “If it is, it’s not funny. You know how much this means to me, and you threw this in my face?”

You flattened out the wrinkles in your dress, fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, and your excitement met with a bottle of disappointment. Gods know whose judgement made this act possible. Not that it mattered now. Faced with the outcome of their meddling and your obvious disappointment.

“Did you know of this?” You questioned.

“Know of what?” Freyja answered puzzled.

‘Thank the seven, you weren't part of this mess.’ You thought a weight drifted from your shoulders, easing them slightly. “I accept.” You said at this point what they wanted was far away from your mind you couldn’t see it anymore. “I will take her as my dragon.” You continued with a layer of finality.

Aegon piped up to say something, you were sure of it, yet it was Aemond’s glare that silenced the words in his throat. “Surely, sister, you jest.” Aemond muttered into your ear.

“Surely, you remember it was you that gave her to me and not the other way around.” You countered, stepping away from him. “Surely. You understand the implications of this gift, brother.” Your lips formed a thin line on your face.

“The last dragonborn is indeed mine.” You commented, a slow smirk spreads across your face. Determined to have them see the foolishness of giving you something so rare, so precious as this.

You have chosen this path, and you were more than dead set on following through with it. They have given you something most would have killed for, died for, and clambered for the hope of ever having this chance to begin with.

“To take a mother’s child from this world is a most dangerous thing.” Freyja reminded them. “Taking more life do you no good. Gloat all you like. You are no different from the beasts of old. You are no different from the people of old Valyria. Refined you say? Civilised? Is that what you call this kind of slaughter. Stepping upon the bodies you have killed to make your own side seem worthier. A repulsive desire. More beast than human in its nature. I am twenty years older than you. I have seen more, done more, and felt more in that lifetime than you have in your miniscule length called a life.”

“Silence beast.” Aegon demanded.

“Let her speak.” You countered, throwing a glare at your inconsiderate brother of yours. You won’t allow them to take more from you than they had already. This would be the one chance you have to finally claim something as yours and yours alone.

“I will not beg for you to open your ears and eyes. As far as I am aware, those of privilege will rarely listen. If at all. You decide whether you want to go through with this on your own terms.” Freyja remarked.

“I have.” You said firmly. “You will be by my side until either your death or mine.”

“Then its settled.” Freyja whispered. “A deal set in stone.”

A large weight lifted from you, as if you were holding it all this time. An indescribable amount of relief came from it. Your brothers scowled as they walked out of the room. Their plan backfiring on them so spectacularly it was little to no avail of wonder why you felt like gloating about it. Not like they knew you were going to be so accepting of their ‘gift’ after all.

[primal-savagery]

baldur's gate oc's: Elkas Kenduis, Roshan, Niabi Dyre, Velvela Dyre

They're killing me. They're all killing me. It's too sweet. My teeth are rotting out of my mouth. Elkas put your nipple away.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Four

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Part Four of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First Dragonborn and the Last Dragonborn meet. Miraak makes an offer.

Part Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

Is this what falling feels like?

You thought you knew.

How many times have you slid down the side of a mountain or purposefully launched yourself over a wall you believed was much shorter than what it turned out to be?

Too many times to count, and every time it happened you believed you were falling. But those instances are nothing compared to this.

This is just air. A hover before the descent. Endless amounts of space with nothing to grab on to. You are falling. Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

What were you expecting when you tore at the fleshy wall of your cage? What did you think would happen when you dug your nails in, scratch scratch scratching until the gelatinous hole grew wide enough to fit through?

Before you, beyond your endless air, are towering spires and connecting bridges. There are arches made of books and so many eyes embedded into the wall of the tower you hurtle past. Are they Hermaeus Mora’s eyes? Is he watching you fall? Does he care or is this all amusing to him? A game?

Perhaps the eyes are not his. Perhaps they belong to no one in particular. Just empty pupils and empty irises that are simple decoration. Hermaeus Mora appears to create with purpose, but you don’t truly know him. How can a mortal, even one like you, hope to understand a Daedric Prince?

You’re a complete fool. An idiot.

Those were not bars made of black metal. They shifted under your weight. Wiggled. Bent outwards. Unfurled. There is no victory of escape. No reward for tearing your nails into the wall or using your Thu’um to weaken it.

The Seekers knew, didn’t they? They knew that you were clawing toward your death. That is what this fall is. A precursor. A bridge. The height of the song that swells with the music before the Bard plays the final cord.

Your hands extend outward. Seeking. You put all your efforts into reaching for the monolith beside you. Distantly, you hear those Seekers shrieking. They’re likely signaling others, or maybe announcing your imminent death.

All this falling, that feels so incredibly fast, is also so terrifyingly dull. You’ve already accepted the outcome. You already know what awaits you in the dark water. There is no surprise. Your future—your fate—reaches toward you in eagerness.

Black tentacles burst from the water, completely extended in your direction, vibrating with the anticipation of your falling body. You should have listened to Teldryn. You should have never opened the book. You should have taken it to Master Neloth as you originally intended.

What a mess you’ve made.

The largest and longest of the tentacles greet you with a brush of their slimy appendages. You start to curl into a ball, turning your face away from them and upward toward the sickly green sky. Apocrypha’s illness of an atmosphere roils. Ripples.

But as you curl into yourself in an attempt to protect your head, a winged shadow passes above you.

There is a roar, and it is so loud it shakes your bones and teeth.

The shadow returns and with it comes a dragon’s claw.

The tentacles that pull at you, that tug on your limbs and hair fall away, surrendering to the massive silvery blue beast that catches you before you strike the water. Your waist is completely enclosed in its great fist, as are your arms which are crossed over your chest.

The dragon soars upward, turns sharply, trumpets one more time before threading through the massive towering spires that dot the landscape.

It is a beautiful creature. Unique. Its head is more like that of a snake’s than of the dragons you’re used to. There is also a clear underbite as if the dragon’s jaw is too large for its head. The dragon’s scales are smoother and finer. Its hide shimmers, nearly iridescent.

You twist a bit in the dragon’s grasp. There isn’t much room, but there is enough for you to look out upon the lands of Hermaeus Mora.

The realm of a Daedric Lord is vast, and truly you understand just how large Apocrypha is as the dragon carries you above the landscape. Heights have never bothered you, but your head is spinning, swirling with dizziness. How long has it been since you’ve last eaten? Since you’ve rested properly?

Everything is starting to catch up. Everything is rushing forward, ready to slam into you like a giant’s club. You want to resist the tug of exhaustion. The dragon’s claw is a cocoon of safety, and it lulls you into sleepiness. You desperately fight it, but there is no denying what your body craves. It needs the nothingness of sleep absent of dreaming.

When you awaken, it is because the dragon shifts in the sky. It descends toward a towering structure amongst a maze of many. The largest of the bunch has a platform. It isn’t large enough to hold the dragon but it is big enough for the beast to gently lay your body down on its slightly rocky surface.

It takes flight yet again, circling overhead before retreating into the distance. You watch it go, not knowing if this place will be a refuge or a new hell.

Slowly, you push up from the platform, observing your surroundings. The tower is like that of any other across Apocrypha, and beyond it, the labyrinth is a swirling mass of buildings and stairways. It’s clearly a warning to keep away, but to keep away what? People don’t casually find themselves in Apocrypha. What’s the point of the maze?

Standing on shaky legs, you slowly stride from the platform to the interior space, passing under a low archway that leads into the tower.

It’s…a laboratory? No—not quite. A study? That doesn’t seem correct either. It is a home, but more like someone’s attempt at making something strange into something familiar. On the surface, it is a human space made within the horror of Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

Everything around you appears to have been touched by Hermaeus Mora’s influence. To your right is a massive cutout in the black stone of the tower. Within the cutout is a large bed covered in dark sheets that look exactly like the dark waters of Apocrypha. There are furs as well, and you’re not sure if they’re from creatures of the mortal realm, or from this one. The rest of the space consists of stacks and stacks of books, some of which appear beyond saving.

To the left is a stone desk covered in scrolls and loose pieces of parchment as well as quills and ink vials. There is an alchemist workbench as well as an enchantment area. All the soul gems are black, and all the vials on the shelves are full. There are many ingredients on the shelves that you recognize, and a good many you don’t.

Parts of the space remind you of your own home, but something about it feels…off, as if Mora’s influence is wrapped around every item. In your mind, you envision the large Daedric Lord hovering in the air, his mass of tentacles sliding over and around everything yet invisible to the human eye. You sense someone watching you, but as you observe the large space, you notice no one inspecting you from the shadows.

You touch nothing. You know better than to poke around with things you’re not familiar with. There could be any number of unwanted surprises hiding here, and the last thing you want to do is trigger something on accident. Instead, you peer at everything, keeping a safe distant between whoever this stuff belongs to and you.

Apocrypha wants to consume you. It wants to suck the flesh from your bones and then break them open to slurp up the marrow. This realm desires to keep you in its clutches, to possess you and your knowledge, to chew on your brain until you become one with the Daedric Lord. Even here, in this new environment, the tacky pull of Mora’s influence gnaws at the back of your mind. You shiver, wiggling your shoulders in response as if Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles lay against you like a cloak.

So far, Hermaeus Mora has been unsuccessful in drawing you in. And you plan on keeping it that way.

Glancing around the large interior space, there is no sign of the owner. It is entirely quiet. You observe the space uninterrupted. What you really need is a change of clothes. This…sack you were put in does nothing to protect you. It’s also entirely too revealing. You want it gone and to replace it with your armor.

But that might be impossible. Wherever you are, you’re likely far away from your gear. The next step is figuring out what is available to you in this moment. There has to be something useful in this place for you to take, especially a change of clothes. You’ll even take a blanket off the bed. It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing now.

A movement in one of the many vials catches your eye. You pause, and then turn toward the flickering movement. Something is wiggling around in the glass. Something dark and slimy and wet. Something with tentacles. Something with cloudy eyes.

“Does my collection interest you?”

You drop into a crouch, snagging a knife off the nearby table. You flip the handle around and brandish the knife like any blade. It’s dull, which is disappointing, but it’s better than having nothing. Anything can be a weapon in the right hands.

From the dark recesses of the room comes a specter. At first, it is just spots of color. Then those spots elongate, extending outward into points, glowing brightly and revealing a humanoid figure.

Whoever this is, they wear a mask. It’s golden. Shiny. The eyeholes are thin slits and the top of the mask curves upward at four separate points. The bottom half of the mask look like tentacles. It reminds you of the Seekers and their faces. Their robes are a deep greenish brown accented in gold embellishments around and down the arms, at the waist, and shoulders. The colorful glow comes from an aura around the upper half of the body. It’s dragon-like in appearance.

They take one powerful step forward and you sink closer to the floor. With the distance, there is still a thickness in the air, as if their mere presence is enough to change it. It sits heavy on your chest, pushing you down toward the floor.

The stranger takes another step toward you. Instinct ignites, tells you to strike first.

You throw the knife.

You’re good with blades, especially after spending time with some members of the Thieves Guild. But you’re tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Your aim is shit, and this intruder easily bats the knife to the side.

“In my own home.” The stranger is a man, and you are in his home. “How rude,” he croons. He doesn’t even sound upset, just slightly irritated as if the thrown knife is an inconvenience.

He takes another step in your direction. More and more of his form comes into clearer focus as he nears. He is bright and bold, and the power that radiates off him is like an unrelenting hand around the throat. It’s so concentrated in the air you could choke on it.

But you don’t plan on staying. You’ll make for the maze. That has to be better than being stuck in here with him.

You throw yourself out from behind the table and sprint for the platform. Your legs burn and your chest heaves, but you’re determined, eager to break free and go about this on your own terms.

As you approach the archway, the dragon from before lands on the platform. It starts to slide a bit, but it’s smart, using its massive claws to hook itself onto the wall of the tower. It’s serpentine head swivels toward you, and then it roars.

It is earth-shattering and you fall to your knees in pain. The world vibrates around you and everything spins. The floor is cold beneath your hands and is hard against your knees.

You are so tired, and you hate it. It makes you weak. It keeps you at the mercy of others.

The serpentine dragon shakes as if it were a dog removing water from its fur. Its giant head turns in the direction of the glowing man. “Miraak. Zu’u drun ek.”

Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora’s servant.

The man whose influence corrupted many minds on the island of Solstheim. The man whose power corrupted the stones, the same stones you purged upon request of Storn Crag-Strider. His followers attacked you in Riverwood, tried to slit your throat and claim your death in his name.

Mora called Miraak “Dragonborn”, and spoke of his desire to return to the mortal realm to conquer it, and in turn, Hermaeus Mora’s influence would spread. But the Daedric Prince also mentioned Miraak’s desire to break away from Mora’s control. That he was “restless” here.

This is the reason you are here in the first place. You and Teldryn didn’t venture into Miraak’s temple because it was too heavily guarded. The Black Book was the option you went with, and instead of finding direct answers, it has handed you over to the person you’re seeking information about.

How…convenient.

You want to laugh but you might sound mad.

“You serve me well, Sahrotaar.” Miraak’s glowing brilliance begins to fade, and then it slowly melts away from his body, disappearing into the air. “Go. When you hear your voice on the wind, know that it is me.”

Sahrotaar shifts, his massive head turning toward you one more time before he pushes off and disappears into the sky. Miraak watches him go, and then slowly twists in your direction. Now that the glowing aura around him is gone, you can see Miraak more clearly than before.

While his robes appear a bit aged, they’re in good repair. Miraak looks regal, almost kingly, which is so odd in a place like Apocrypha. Everything drips with Mora’s influence, and while you see that influence in Miraak’s mask, everything else about him seems detached from Hermaeus Mora’s touch.

Miraak fits right in, and yet is very much out of place.

“You are Dragonborn.” Miraak’s voice almost echoes as if there are two of him speaking. “I can feel it.”

Exhaustion might be setting in, but you’re feeling sharp. Your tongue is a blade and your words are the sting of steel. “How perceptive,” you bite, trying your best to slowly put some greater distance between you and Miraak.

“And yet,” he pauses, masked head tilting slightly to the side, “you do not understand just how much power a Dragonborn can wield.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “And you do?”

“I know things that the Greybeards will never teach you.” Miraak starts to walk toward you again. It’s leisurely, as if he’s not scared of you at all.

And why would he be? You are disheveled. A mess.

“I’m not looking for a teacher,” you snap, slipping as you try to stand.

Miraak is so close, and you’re desperate to escape him. That is what your survival hinges on. Escape. You have no chance if you try to take him on like this. It will not be a fair fight. And you will lose.

Throwing yourself to the right, you reach for another knife. It’s just as dull as the other one, but you don’t care. You’ll use your nails and teeth if you must in your attempt to flee him.

Miraak dives toward you, and you swing at him. He leans back, the edge of the knife scraping against his mask as he moves out of the way. You try again, and this time, you know your exhaustion is truly sneaking up on you. Your reaction time is poor and Miraak grabs your wrist out of the air.

He twists and pain shoots up your arm. You release the blade with a strangled cry. Pinning your arm behind you, Miraak thrusts you toward the floor, your cheek smashing into the cold rock as he pushes you against it. When you kick out at him, Miraak sits on your legs, his weight concentrated on your upper thighs.

You try to buck him off, but only end up rubbing up against him. The sack you’re wearing rides up, dangerously close to exposing yourself to him.

Miraak laughs softly and bends forward, the mask incredibly close to your face. “An enticing offer. But you are…filthy.”

“I hope Mora chokes you with a tentacle,” you growl, wiggling some more.

“I suspect you’ve already choked on one.”

You throw your elbow back but Miraak pushes you right back down against the floor.

“Behave,” he purrs. “I don’t intent to harm you.”

“Liar,” you growl, the air from your lungs pushing some of the hair off your face as you speak.

Miraak shifts his weight on your legs. “What have I done to illicit such anger from you?”

Is he serious? Has he completely forgotten that he sent his worshipers after you?

“Your cultists attacked me,” you say through clenched teeth.

“They were simply trying to subdue you.”

“They tried to kill me. One of them even had a note. It said that whoever struck the killing blow would earn your favor.”

Miraak stiffens. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” you laugh, bitterness in your tone.

“That was not my instruction.”

Hermaeus Mora’s words come creeping back to you.

I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.

“What do you want from me?” you murmur.

Miraak is silent for a moment before he speaks. “If I release you, will you try to stab me?”

You pause, considering it until Miraak begins to fidget in irritation. “No promises,” you finally answer.

His chuckle is low and soft. “I value your honesty.” Miraak removes his weight from your legs and releases your wrists.

You push up onto your knees and glance up at him from your position on the floor. Miraak towers over you, the two of you observing each other in silence. His chest rises and then falls with each breath, but he makes no other move. It’s a bit unnerving, and you question what it is he’s thinking about behind that golden mask.

There is a break in the silence. A flash of movement. It is Miraak’s gloved hand. He offers it to you, palm upward.

You glance it. Then back at his mask. Then back to the hand.

What options do you have? Where will you be if you refuse him? It is unlikely that Miraak will so easily let you go. You don’t trust him, but you trust Hermaeus Mora even less.

With a deep frown, you slide your hand into his. Through the glove, you feel his warmth. That heat is human, and it is an oddly comforting thing after so much strangeness.

Miraak helps you to your feet. Your legs wobble, exhausting swinging its angry head again. Everything aches. It sits down in your bones, the weight of it like boulders. Your stomach growls loudly and you want to cringe from the volume.

Miraak still clutches your hand. You don’t hate it, but it does make you uncomfortable. Yanking your hand away, you drop your arm to the side, hiding the fingers as they curl to form a fist.

“You can bathe through there.” Miraak indicates the direction with a light tilt of his mask. “You need it.”

You snort. “Now you’re the one being rude.”

Miraak crosses his arms but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge you’ve said anything at all. Giving him your best scowl, you turn on your heel in the direction he indicated. There is a deep cut in the wall, one that cannot be seen straight on. You pause right at the opening, and turn back toward Miraak.

He’s walking away in the opposite direction. Your gaze darts to the arch and platform, to the maze beyond the tower. If you time it right, you might be able to slip away from him, to enter the maze and lose him.

As you take a single step toward freedom, and Miraak’s voice rings out around the room. “Don’t even consider it.” You freeze, one hand firmly planted on the wall, every muscle tense. “You cannot flee from me, Dragonborn. I would find you.”

“Bastard,” you whisper, and Miraak turns in your direction as if he heard you.

Slipping inside the opening in the wall, you enter a small, private washroom. In the middle is a tub made from the same black stone as the rest of the tower. There is a drain in the bottom but no indication of how to fill it.

More importantly, is there water on Apocrypha? There is the dark water you plummeted toward, but is there actual water? The kind you drink or bathe with? It seems impossible, and yet there are hundreds if not thousands of Hermaeus Mora’s most devoted followers who haunt his halls, preparing his Black Books.

Do they eat? Do they hydrate? Or are they sustained on Mora’s influence alone? The very idea makes your skin crawl.

You’re about to back out of the room when a Seeker floats in. Its mandibles flare in agitation, and you gasp, stumbling into the wall as you move out of the way. The Seeker doesn’t even give you a second glance. In its four hands the Seeker clutches four buckets of water. Slowly, it empties each one into the tub before disappearing out the way it came.

Seekers are servants of Mora…aren’t they?

You follow it out and watch as it floats to a well-like structure. It’s not exactly a kitchen but there is a small fire pit near it. The Seeker begins filling the buckets and you take this time to glance at the rest of the room. Next to Miraak is another Seeker. A third floats near the bookshelves. A fourth slowly ascends the stairs that leads to another space out of sight.

“What is this?” You gesture at the Seeker fetching your water.

Miraak quickly turns in your direction, his back straightening. “Why are you still wearing those rags?”

You blink, stunned that he completely stepped around your question to ask one of his own. The Seekers floats toward you and you step to the side.

You wave your arm in the creature’s direction, and repeat your question. “What is this?”

“That is a Seeker,” replies Miraak flatly.

“I know what it is,” you retort. “But what is it doing here?”

“It serves me.” Miraak’s arm extends to the rest of the room. “They all serve me.”

You shake your head. “They serve Hermaeus Mora.”

Miraak rolls up the scroll before him and tosses it onto a nearby pile. “They did serve him. And now they attend to my every command.”

The Seeker that floats next to Miraak trills. Miraak glances at it before returning his attention back to you. Even though his features are hidden behind the mask, you feel his gaze roaming up and down your body. You immediately cross your arms over your breasts.

Miraak’s answer gives you no comfort.

“Is that all?” he asks, almost bored.

You glance away from him and back at the opening in the wall. The Seeker emerges, carrying empty buckets. You’re too tired for this. Not liking his answer but accepting it nonetheless, you head back into the small washroom.

You stare into the water in the tub, and keep staring until the Seeker returns, emptying the buckets. The tub is full, and the Seeker gives a little nod of the head before it dismisses itself. Stepping up to the tub, you hesitantly dip your hand into the clear water.

It is cool, and the temperature sends a little shiver up your arm. While you’d prefer it warm, you’ll take anything at this point. You’re coated in grime and even a bit of slime. There are still some crusty bits on your face from when the Cipher removed the paste they slathered over your eyes.

Glancing over your shoulder, you check to make sure no one has entered uninvited. There is no one there. You are alone.

Slowly, you slide one arm and then the other out of the worn rags. It falls to the floor, pools at your feet. You take one step toward the tub. The moment you begin to lift your leg, an arm slides along your back and around your waist.

The touch is so surprising that you shriek and then lash out. The side of your fist hits Miraak in the middle of his mask. He makes a humph sound and draws backward from the blow.

With your hand still raised in alarm, you stare at him in disbelief. Then you realize how intimate the placement of his hand is. That disbelief quickly turns to anger.

“What the hell are you—”

Miraak lifts his hand and flames erupt above his palm. The sudden fire snaps your mouth shut. He hasn’t released your waist, and with the mask, you’re not sure if he’s staring at your face or the rest of you.

His attention shifts to the tub and you take this opportunity to hook your toes under the sack and bring it up enough to snag it. You immediately hold it against your body, clutching it like a shield as the flames in Miraak’s hand vibrate and shift, swirling and then extending as he begins to heat the water in the tub.

You watch in fasciation as the water ripples and then starts to steam. Before it comes to a simmer, Miraak abruptly cuts the flame. He reaches into his robes with his free hand, and from it he retrieves several bundles of lavender.

Miraak tosses them into the tub, and only then does he step away from you.

The gesture of heating the water and throwing in the lavender is…odd. You hate that you like it. But it’s too human. Too kind. Too intimate. Isn’t this man supposed to be your enemy? Isn’t he trying to take over Solstheim and the rest of Tamriel? Does he not see you as a threat to all his carefully laid plans?

“Are you going to join me, too?” you ask, irritating slipping in your tone.

Miraak pauses at the opening in the wall. “Your stink is nauseating.” He disappears, leaving you open-mouthed. Shocked. Fuming.

Growling, you throw your poor excuse for clothes on the ground and step into the tub. The water is perfectly warm and you instantly melt into it, sinking down down down until your head is under the water. When you come up for air, your eyes are closed and you’re smiling. You push your hair back out of your face and breathe deep, reveling in the comforting warmth of the water.

As you open your eyes, a shadow takes form in front of you. At first, you’re confused, and then you quickly realize that it’s Miraak. The entire upper half of your body is on full display, laid bare before his gaze.

You cover your chest and sink into the water until only your head bobs on the surface. Frowning, you stare him down as a he places a chair in front of the tub. He sinks into it, reclining casually, and then tosses a bar of soap at you from one of his pockets.

Snatching it out of the air, you bring it to eye-level. You sniff it, and smell nothing.

“I didn’t poison the soap,” Miraak deadpans. “If I wanted you dead—”

“If you want on my good side, I prefer compliments. Not an insult to my intelligence,” you interrupt, wetting the bar of soap and lathering it between your hands.

Miraak doesn’t finish his sentence. He leans back in his chair, watching as you start to move the suds over your arms.

“Please leave. You’re making me uncomfortable,” you say. Miraak doesn’t move. He just sits there. You drop your arm into the water to rinse it off. “Think I’ll run? Is that why you’re sitting there watching a naked woman bathe herself?”

“Yes,” he replies, almost instantly.

“You are unbelievable,” you mutter, starting to work on your other arm.

“You’ve consumed dragon souls,” states Miraak, completely changing the subject.

You pause in your lathering and glance at him. “You’re just like Hermaeus Mora. All this knowledge and yet everything that comes out of your mouth is incredibly dull.”

Miraak moves as if in a silent laugh. You roll your eyes and return to scrubbing your arms.

“Do I amuse you?” you ask, inspecting the undersides of your nails.

“You bite,” replies Miraak. “And teeth are useful.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or a threat.

He takes a deep, audible breath and shifts in the chair, lifting his hips as he adjusts. You keep your gaze firmly on your nails as if that one subtle movement didn’t stir something in your belly.

“Do you ever wonder if it hurts?” he asks, almost absently, like he’s not really expecting you to answer the question.

“Do I ever wonder if what hurts?” you hesitantly reply.

“To have one’s soul ripped out. Do you think the dragon’s feel it? Do you think they understand what’s happening to them?”

The soap almost slips from your hand. Miraak sounds pensive, almost sad. “We are not dragons,” you answer softly.

Miraak nods. “You’re right. We’re not. Because we’re better than them.”

There it is. Arrogance. Now you feel it. Now you understand a bit of what Hermaeus Mora hinted at. That overwhelming heaviness is back. Miraak’s power is potent. It crackles in the air. Sizzles on your tongue.

His gloved hand taps against the arm of the chair. “When the dragons ruled over mortals, I served as a dragon priest on Solstheim. That was my purpose for many years.” Miraak’s golden mask is turned away from you as if he’s recalling an old memory. “During that time, I came to possess one of Hermaeus Mora’s Black Books.”

Miraak stops tapping the arm of the chair. His hand forms a fist. “He taught me many things. A great many powerful things. One of these things was a dragon shout capable of bending dragons to my will.”

The pause afterward stretches, and you decide to fill the gap, to play along. He is revealing information. Pieces of his history. Why he’s doing so is a bit of a mystery, but you also know that if you play this right, you might gain something that will give you an upper hand on him.

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

Miraak’s mask swivels in your direction. “Knowledge like that was forbidden. I was a dragon priest serving my dragon masters. To use power like that against them was unthinkable.”

You know where this is heading. “Yet you did it anyway?”

“I betrayed them,” states Miraak. “I used that shout and my power as Dragonborn to devour their souls. With each soul I consumed, I became more powerful. I terrified our dragon overlords. I threatened the power the dragon priests possessed.”

You move to the edge of the tub. Placing the soap on the ledge, you cross your arms over the lip of the tub, you give Miraak your full attention. Men are all the same in the end, and it is clear that Miraak is just that. A man.

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “During the Dragon War, I was…propositioned. Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, and Felldir the Old all pleaded with me to use my power as Dragonborn to assist them in defeating Aludin. But I refused them. I attempted my own rebellion against the dragons instead.”

“I suspect that did not go well for you?”

“No,” he admits. “I was unsuccessful. And because of my betrayal, the dragons razed my temple on Solstheim.”

“I’ve seen your temple,” you say. “It’s something to behold.” That much is true. Those words are not lies. You and Teldryn were both impressed with how large the structure was on the outside, and the two of you discussed at length just how massive the temple must be on the inside.

“You also interrupted my progress on Solstheim.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, sinking into the tub a bit. “I did.” He stares at you a long moment before you decide to bridge the gap. “You didn’t tell me what happened. After your temple was razed.”

Miraak glances away again. “There are two stories that are told. The first is that a fellow dragon priest named Vahlok became my jailor. Restraining me to Solstheim. The other story is that when Vahlok was about to kill me, Hermaeus Mora stepped in and saved me, transporting me here, to the realm of Apocrypha.”

You laugh and Miraak’s head snaps in your direction. “What?” he asks, clearly flustered.

“It’s obvious that the correct story is the second one.”

“Is it?” replies Miraak, a bit of amusement leaking into his tone.

“Is it not?”

He shrugs and you only shake your head, returning to your soap, this time lathering it into your hair.

“So if Hermaeus Mora stepped in to save you, what have you done all this time?”

Miraak shrugs. “I’ve not been idle.”

“Clearly,” you snort.

Miraak sighs. “I’ve devoured many dragons. Far more than you have I suspect.”

“And that makes you better than me?”

“It makes me more powerful. But you are Dragonborn. You are the only one who I can consider my equal.”

The pieces are falling into place. What was it that the Greybeards told you all that time ago when you first ventured up the mountain? They told you that there is only ever one Dragonborn at a time.

But here you are. And here is Miraak.

The two of you. Together.

You swallow, and your salvia sticks in your throat. “You crave power. Why would you ever see me as an equal?”

“It is foretold that the Last Dragonborn will be my freedom. For so many years I believed it involved your death. But I was wrong.” He leans forward in the chair. “Hermaeus Mora does not lie, but he does twist the truth until you believe that up is down and down is up. He likes control, and I am a thing to collect. It’s what he wants from you, too.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know what Hermaeus Mora wants from me.”

“Beware, Dragonborn. Hermaeus Mora will betray you as he has me.”

“I am not Mora’s puppet. Nor will I be yours.”

“We are the First and the Last. We are the beginning and the end. I am the first blood drawn and you are the killing blow. We are bound by fate. We are inevitable.”

You don’t like where this is going. All this talk of fate is pulling at your nerves. Hermaeus Mora said fate you brought you to him, and now Miraak says the same. But Teldryn told you different before you opened the Black Book. He insisted that the woes of Tamriel are not yours to fix. That your life is your own.

You grip the bar of soap hard enough that your nails begin to sink in. “And yet, you did not slay Alduin.”

“And you have?” counters Miraak.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

“Alduin would not face me because he knew I would defeat him. But the two of us? Together? We could do it. Easily.”

You’re beyond clean now, but Miraak goes too far. He wanted you brought to him so that he can manipulate you into serving with me? To help him…what? Conquer Solstheim? Skyrim? All of Tamriel? Would that even be enough for him, or will Miraak demand more, dragging you along with him in his lust for power?

“You presume much, Miraak. What makes you think I’ll join you?”

Miraak stands from the chair and walks to the edge of the tub. He grabs the back of your neck, and lifts you slightly out of the water. Leaning in, the golden mask is all you can see.

“Do you not feel this? We are tethered. Either we fight it and end up fighting each other. Or you join me.”

As quickly as he grabs you, Miraak releases you, and you fall back into the water, your arms wrapping around your torso protectively. He stares at you behind the mask, and then turns, disappearing from view.

The water has grown cold.

The bundles of lavender have unraveled. Wilted.

You sink further into the water, watching as a lavender stem floats by. The purple petals are dark. Almost black.

You’re not in a physical cage. There are no bars. No restraints. But you are not free with Miraak. He demands an answer, and there is only one he is expecting.

But it’s not the one you want to give.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82

[mistwood]

decided to embark on the journey of making my own bg3 gear mod bc im sick and tired of so little being available for female dragonborn. be the change u want to see in the world

[cramberrytea]

How Could an Angel Break My Heart?

Characters: Kaidan x Kimiya (Original Character)

Summary: Even in the depths and throes of despair, she's always there in the back of his mind.

Word Count: 1,097

Warnings: The Thalmor, Graphic depictions of violence, Kaidan getting tortured :(

A few wee notes:

the main character is a redguard woman (she's black y'all). while i describe her in detail please feel free to envision her however you'd like.

almost done with the short chapters i promise!

Chapter 2 (Kaidan)

⋆｡‧˚ʚChapter 1, Chapter 3 ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The soft scratches of a quill on parchment bounced off the wooden walls of the room they were in. Periodically the sounds would come to a halt, as the red eyed man looked over his shoulder towards the lump in the bed behind him. His eyes rolling over the figure nuzzled into the bed, the sheets under their arm and lightly draped over their curves. Her curly hair sprawled over the white pillow beneath their head. It was a sight that he could gaze at for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t. Kaidan tore his eyes away and forced them back onto the letter he was writing.

He finished the sentence with a period, pressing into the parchment for a prolonged amount of time dreading finishing the letter. But he had to at one point, pulling the quill away was torture. It signified the beginning of a journey he was taking, alone.

With shaky hands he gingerly placed the folded parchment on the pillow next to her head. It took everything he had to not gently stroke her cheek. So he willed himself to grab his pack and walk away. As he crossed the threshold of the room towards the rest of the inn, he looked back as he closed the door.

“Up.”

Kaidan’s eyes snapped open at the stinging feeling of a fist striking his face. The sudden violent action pulled him out of his surprisingly deep sleep, also causing him to bite into his cheek. A heavy metallic taste filled his mouth. His crimson eyes cut back towards the perpetrator, practically bleeding them out with a glare alone. Too bad that wasn’t possible, so he settled for imagining it, though that did little to quell the growing rage in his belly.

He had no idea what time it was, or what day it was, or how long he’d been trapped inside this god forsaken prison cell. His captors never gave him the opportunity to find some sort of schedule, some sort of way to figure out what time it was. The elves coming in at random points to torture information he didn’t even know out of him.

“You know, if you tell us the truth we will set you free.” The Thalmor Justiciar spoke tauntingly as he loomed over Kaidan’s crouching form. It wasn’t the first time they whispered these false promises in his ears, coaxing and tempting him. But he knew, not an ounce of remorse or empathy ran through these men’s veins. Due to that knowledge Kaidan remained silent, opting for a hateful glare. The blood in his mouth gathered at the center. Before the Altmer had a chance to react, Kaidan shot a glob of blood and spit at his face.

Kaidan’s torturer recoiled, his face twisted in disgust and fury. A gloved hand came up to his face to wipe off the spit.

“You know,” He taunts, “Someday I’ll watch you choke on your own blood.” Kaidan growls out, his voice hoarse as he hadn’t spoken to anyone in several hours.

The Altmer’s fist collided with the side of Kaidan’ bruised and battered cheek, only adding to the severity of his accumulation of wounds. Kaidan attempts to hold in a grunt from the force and pain of the punch, ultimately failing.

The Justiciar signals to the two Thalmor soldiers situated outside the dank and damp cell. Without a reply both soldiers enter, their faces blank, but their eyes dark and void of compassion. The Justiciar steps back looking down at Kaidan with a smug grin on his face.

“Perhaps another whipping will quell this defiant spirit of yours.”

The sound of his arm restraints clinking open didn’t completely register before both soldiers were dragging him to the center of the cell.

Kaidan struggled against their tight grip, suddenly he was able to free one of his arms from their grip. Without wasting a second, using all the strength he had left in his reserves, he shoves the soldier who was holding his other arm. The soldier was caught by surprise for a moment, stumbling slightly, and accidentally letting go of his arm. Kaidan takes this moment to shoulder charge the same soldier before he could recoup. The soldier falls flat on his back with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him.

Kaidan veers to see the other soldier’s fist flying towards his face, he quickly moves his head out of the way in the knick of time. Using the same maneuver he lunges his shoulder into the other soldier's abdomen, compromising his center of balance. The other soldier topples backwards. Kaidan stands over him for a moment about come down with another attack, until he felt the cold hard metal of an armored fist strike the back of his head. Kaidan grunts and stumbles, his knees hitting the damp ground. He falls on his hands, his wet black locs falling around his face as the word around him grew blurry and the sound of ringing filled his ears.

He feels his arms being restricted once more, but all the energy he had left was gone, he spent the last of it. As his vision returned he watched the justiciar step around him, his face eerily calm despite the commotion.

“Now that your insubordination has been taken care of for the time being…”

The quick sharp lash of a whip came crashing down on Kaidan’s back. His muscles tense as he grimaces, again doing his best to not give them a reaction. Until another lash struck his back, this one instead reopening one of his previous wounds that one of the Thalmor agents had shittily stitched up. Kaidan groaned in pain, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows. The admittance of pain emboldened the justiciar, his lashes becoming more fierce and vigorous, but never sloppy.

This time Kaidan couldn’t hold back his screams. Each and every hit opened up old wounds that never got a chance to heal. His mind couldn’t help but drift despite the pain, maybe it was his brain’s way of protecting him, maybe she was the only thing on his mind as he slipped from consciousness. Who cares, all that mattered was that she wasn’t here to experience the same pain.

But was she safe, was she okay? Does she still smile the same way? Does she still moisturize her hair and braid it down every night? Does she still need help braiding the middle two braids?

The last thing on his mind before collapsing were those soft coily tresses, and her deep brown eyes.

[xelitzenith]

There needs to be more Hermaeus Mora x non binary reader/dragonborn fanfics. Because there are so very few.

You know how many times I've.seen a fem dragonborn or somebody else's character?

[agirlandhersweetdelusions]

I'm having a lot of ideas for a summer story, but I can't pick one. Help?

[goldieclaws]

Decided to restart my Baldur's Gate 3 run to play it properly this time (eg. using a guide so I don't miss anything important) and because I just had to play as a Dragonborn it is my brand through and through.

Her name is Loge (Loh-Ga) and I named her after one of my favourite comfort videos about a Very Bad Game.

[aurumalatus]

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝟏

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

genre/warnings. pixelprincess!au (princess!reader x knight!kinich), nsfw (duh)

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

as a dragonborn, kinich can sometimes take on dragon-like features (claws, fangs, etc.). when he enters this form, he gets a bit more feral, and he will bite you if you let him.

knows how much you adore his voice, and will talk you through it so, so hot in your ear

"does that feel good, princess?" "you're taking me so well" "so good for me"

he just loves praising you so much...sigh......

soft dom imo... his kink is literally just to make you cum as many times as possible

i think he would struggle a bit to do anything that hurts you, but would try if you asked as long as you both discuss good boundaries

lowkey has a kink for risky sex. he's kind of a control freak most days because he's always worrying about your safety, so doing something risky/semi-public just feels really hot to him (aka, he WILL fuck you in one of the emptier hallways in the castle)

will stuff your panties in your mouth to keep you quiet

in "close quarters," kinich sleeps across the room because he really does want to respect you, but also because he doesn't know if he has the self control to sleep that close to you without wanting to touch you

kinich keeps one of your ribbons tied around his sword/dagger as a sign of your favor. sometimes uses it to tie your wrists up in a pinch.

always fucks you the hardest after you attend a ball. he thinks you look so gorgeous, and often some idiotic prince comes trying to talk to you not knowing that you're his. it drives him crazy the whole night

he is a giver 1000000%. could eat you out for the rest of his life if you let him. when you give him head though, he's a bit of a head pusher, but it's solely instinctual. he tries not to because he doesn't want to hurt you (unless you tell him you're into that)

kind of genuinely goes feral when you get on your knees to give him head. he's bowed to you tons of times, when he was knighted/inducted/etc., so it's normal for him, but something about seeing the princess on her knees for him makes him insane. he will cum SO fast.

he's usually really gentle with you, but he's def holding back...if you ask him not to, you're in for a whole different world lol

[an-angel-in-the-garden]

If you’re familiar with the games and their lore; if not I’ll happily settle with Fem!Siren or Fem!Dragon Reader; could I have some headcanons for Fem!Dovahkiin Reader x Aizen, Dottore, and Pantalone?

So I don't really know about skyrim but I did a little research to get to this, I hope you enjoy some dragon born reader!

Aizen

As with most things involving Aizen this started as scientific fascination He saw a use in you, a weapon to bend to his will but it only takes a few months for it to become something more

Your fighting spirit, your will that commands respect and your ability to communicate with not only hollows but those of dragon kind is simply stunning

He takes his time with courting you, gifts and sweet words in hopes of having you willing fall to his side

Aizen would wants to help you cultivate that power, let it grow and burn bright so you both may rule together

Nothing but praise once you start dating, he needs the world, all three worlds to know just how powerful you are

Any draconic features you might have must always be on display and he'll make sure the outfits for you proudly help show you off

By the end everyone will see how powerful you are and how much he's willing to do just to keep you around

Dottore

Dottore in a very similar way sees a scientific value in you but for him its becomes obsession quickly

There's no doubt that he wants to take you apart at first and he fully tries more then once

All the segments know to keep an eye on you and make sure you can't stray very far

He wants to tie you up and keep you forever close to him but he knows that wouldn't be very fun for either of you

That won't change how possessive he gets, Dottore wants to keep your background a secret, something only he knows

Of course that doesn't mean he won't help you control it but it does mean freedom is limited

More than anything Dottore's love is hard to bear but he knows you can handle him that you're willing to fight him on things and that only makes him more in love with you

Pantalone

He had no interest in what you were, ones background matters not to him but your strong will has always stood out

Pantalone is more interested in your work then you but business deals soon tip into lunches then friendship and finally real affection and love

The strength you show, the skills he sees you work hard to better, it all matters to him and leads him to trusting you over time

Truly being a dragonborn person really doesn't mean much to him it what's you do with said skills that matter, are you ashamed? Proud? No matter, he's here to support you and remind you blood means nothing

The most independent partner, his work and you will be kept separate and he prefers it that way once you start dating but if you ever need his help he's willing to lend it

A power couple in the sense that people fear you but Pantalone still takes the time to show you off, lots of public dates to remind both you and the public that nothing will stop him from loving you

Though he doesn't care much about your background he won't deny when he wants to learn more. If you know things, how you learn them, if you're interested in it then he also wishes to join you in finding out more

You will always just be yourself. No matter your looks, history or skills in his those things change nothing what matters is the here and now and for that he loves you

Not gonna lie this isn't really a dragonborn reader and I am sorry about that. It was really hard to make it work since I didn't know how far I wanted to take it and that led to it being very vague. I hope you still enjoyed this and thank you very much for requesting and reading. Have a good night or day~ Lilly

[primal-savagery]

Finished my big save a couple days ago now and broke my heart having someone else become a Mind Flayer besides Orpheus. I'm still ironing out Elkas and Roshan's backstories, but I do know that Roshan likely wasn't a good person before she met the rest of the party and decided that this would be a fitting ending for herself...Though I feel terrible for Halsin having to witness it.

Also going to have to stick with my original headcanon that Niabi runs off to the Hells with Karlach and Wyll, because SOMEHOW Vel ended up with more Karlach approval than she did. And as a result, Niabi got left behind.

THEN TAKE NIABI WITH YOU. SHE'S READY. SHE HAS THE NECKLACE THAT SETS HER CON TO 23. SHE'LL BE FINE. YOU LITERALLY PROPOSED TO HER MY MAN.

Obligatory Vel getting ready to beat some ass posting, but I was thrilled to finally get the updated epilogue bedroom chat between her and Astarion because somehow them holding hands gets me worse than anything else. I was also thrilled at the conclusion of the conversation she had with Minthara in the end. They never really got close; definitely an alliance of convenience more than anything. But part of me likes to believe that Vel sticking to her guns so hard throughout the whole ordeal, maintaining that she would never be tempted by power, and then following through with that in the end earned her a strange sort of respect in Minthara's eyes. Vel knows what she's about, and it isn't whatever Minthara's about.

Made sure that she also hugged Halsin. Figured he needed it.

Also WHY can't Elkas run off to the Astral with Lae'zel if Orpheus is alive? He geared up to fight Vlaakith! He was ready to go! This was his new calling! But...Perhaps dealing with Vlaakith's holdouts on the Sword Coast is a worthy cause too. And they are indeed raising Xan together which is the one outcome I was chomping at the bit for. Absolutely in love with how in love Elkas is with her. This man is hopeless.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Five

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, tentacles, dubcon elements, forced proximity, power imbalance

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Part Five of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First and Last Dragonborn come together. Hermaeus Mora makes a move. Reality is returned.

Part Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

What are the options before you? What cards do you have to play?

The answer is few. There are not many things you can do when you’re at someone else’s mercy. Having to submit is insulting, but your pride is of little importance when there are greater perils showing their faces.

You escaped Hermaeus Mora only to land in Miraak’s lap. One hell for another. One terror traded for an arrogant, power-hungry bastard who believes you’ll join him, that there is no question about your compliance, and fighting against him is imaginable.

Miraak is wrong to think you won’t push back about his quest for power. Teldryn was right when he said that all of Tamriel’s ills are not your responsibility. They aren’t, even though sometimes it feels that way, and that every error or catastrophe can somehow be rectified if you take up the mantel yourself.

After the bath, you emerge to food. It isn’t exactly warm, but it is filling, and you notice that Miraak does not eat. But he does watch you from behind the mask, as if you consuming the meal is somehow hypnotic to him.

It’s unnerving, and every bite becomes staler in the mouth the longer he watches.

As the First Dragonborn, he must be incredibly old, but how is it that he has lived for so long? Is it because he has dwelled in Hermaeus Mora’s realm for all these years? Is Miraak alive simply because Mora has made it so, or is there something else going on? What magical secrets does Miraak keep locked away in his head?

“Afraid I’ll choke?” you ask dryly, not particularly liking his undivided attention.

The old rags you wore before are gone. They were whisked away by a Seeker, likely destroyed or maybe used for some nefarious purpose. In their place, you were offered simple, plain black robes. They’re similar to the robes the Ciphers of the Eye wear except yours ties off at the waist.

You’re thankful for the coverage of the material but nothing about this outfit will protect you in a fight. It seems inevitable that blood will be spilled. Whether that is yours or Miraak’s—or someone else’s—is yet to be determined.

Miraak is not your friend. He is not an ally. Nor is Hermaeus Mora. You distrust the both of them, but the Daedric Prince of Knowledge is the one you fear more. Gods are eternal. They can be pushed back, kept down, even restrained. But killed? No. Not Mora.

The easier target is Miraak, but right now he is all you have. He is just a man. He is arrogant, and clearly needful in his quest for power. Stringing him along might be enough for now until you can find a way out of this awful place.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” states Miraak, completely ignoring your question.

“Thanks for the reminder,” you mutter, consuming another bite of food. The bath Miraak provided was lovely, even if the conversation the two of you had struck a nerve, and made you question everything. Those followers of his tried you kill you, and yet Miraak didn’t want that. He’s made that perfectly clear several times over.

But there is still a part of you that doesn’t trust his offer. Even if you join with him, help him break out of Apocrypha and back into the lands of Tamriel, why would he have any reason to keep you around afterward? With his quest for domination, you would eventually become an obstacle, a barrier he’ll need to break through.

Miraak circles around the side of the table, coming to a stop next to you. You pause, utensil halfway to your mouth. His golden mask tilts slightly to the left, his broad shoulders taking up too much space.

It’s like you’re in a cage again. Trapped. Boxed in. But this time, there is a sensual sway to the way Miraak inserts himself into your space. It’s not exactly a threat, but there is certainly an underlying hunger radiating off of him.

With deliberate slowness, Miraak lifts his hand, and gently runs the back of his gloved knuckles down the length of your upper arm. There is an immediate spark, a quick burst of power that appears when he makes contact and then blinks out the moment he retreats.

You’re so focused on that sudden wave, that Miraak’s voice is a distant, gnarled thing that sound like you’re submerged in water.

“What?” you ask, blinking, your mind refocusing on the present moment.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” he repeats. “I shall replace it with my own.”

I shall replace it with my own.

No. You are not Miraak’s to toy with. You are not his wife, or even his partner. You owe him nothing, and you are not his property.

The utensil drops from your hand, clattering against the vessel your food is served in. Power ripples up from your toes, sending the edges of your fingers tingling with need to lash out. A deep, primal part of you tells you to do just that, to rip off that mask, and go for his eyes. But you are also incredibly exhausted, and the rising power fades as quickly as it appears.

“I am not an object,” you growl, pushing off from the table.

You need some distance even though there is little space for you to escape to. Whatever you decide, Miraak will simply run after you. It’s clear that he’s not going down without a fight, especially on keep you to himself and not leaving you to Mora’s whims.

“No,” croons Miraak. “You are more than that. You are Dovahkiin.”

When Miraak speaks the word, the ground and earth shakes. It startles you so severely that you reach out for the table, eyes widening in fear. Won’t Hermaeus Mora hear that? Won’t he know that you’re here?

“What are you doing?” you snap. “Hermaeus Mora will hear you.”

“Will he?” Miraak replies, the delivery so casual that you nearly choke in disbelief.

“This is Apocrypha. This is his home. He knows all here.”

Miraak taps his knuckles on the table. “You should finish eating.”

Now you’ve truly had enough. Pushing off from the table, your cross your arms over your chest. “If you want my cooperation, you need to be nicer to me.”

Miraak’s hand flattens against the top of the table. “I have bathed you. Provided you food. Showered you with compliments.”

You snort. This man is arrogance personified. “You told me I smell and then proceed to order me around.”

“Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us. He knows you’re here with me. Likely amused with our…disagreement.”

“You’re delusional.”

Miraak slams his hand against the tabletop. Everything atop it rattles. “And you are trying my patience.”

“My apologies,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

Men are always complaining. They always whine when they don’t have their way, especially if a woman will not bend to them. You’re not going to bend, but you might twist a bit as a way to ensure your survival.

Miraak’s hand forms into a fist, and yet you know he does not intend to strike you. There is something defeatist about the way he does it, like he’s losing hope. But about what? While you are aware that Miraak desires freedom, that he longs to return to Tamriel once again, you also know that Hermaeus Mora is in the way. As are you to a certain extent.

It is entirely likely that Miraak can return to Tamriel with or without your assistance. Why all this effort to keep you around if you’re entirely capable of putting a stop to all of his plans? Is it only to keep you out of Hermaeus Mora’s grasp? Or does Miraak seek something else?

Whatever Miraak’s internal conflicts, they aren’t yours to figure out.

“Hermaeus Mora probably thinks you’ll kill me or I’ll kill you. Which is why he hasn’t intervened yet,” says Miraak flatly. “That is unfortunate…for him.”

“How so?” you ask, entertaining him for the hell of it.

“Because you will join me. That is inevitable.”

You sigh heavily. “I’m not interested.”

Miraak shrugs. “It does not matter that you’re uninterested. You have no choice in this.”

“I have no choice?” you scoff. “Are you listening to yourself?”

This man is truly delusional. Miraak is almost or perhaps even more arrogant than Hermaeus Mora. You’re in hell. This is torture, having to listen to and be pushed around in this forsaken place with no will of your own.

Returning his hand to the top of the table, Miraak starts to walk toward you. His stride is languid, and you’re sure he’s smirking behind that golden mask.

“The Last Dragonborn will join me. Or die. Those are the only options.” With the agility of a serpent, Miraak grabs the back of your neck, and draws you closer. On instinct, your hands go up to rest against his chest. You try to push back, but your muscles are tired, and there is true power behind Miraak’s grip.

“Do you wish to die, Dovahkiin? Or will you waste such beauty?”

Snarling, your rip yourself out of his grasp, almost tumbling to the floor in your haste to find space.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap.

“My scent belongs on you,” replies Miraak, his voice soothing even though you feel anything but. “And you on me.”

Grabbing the nearest object—an empty bowl—you hurl it at Miraak. He bats it aside. The bowl strikes the ground, shattering.

“You’re mistaken if you believe I’ll ever lay with you.” You back up, not watching where it is you’re going.

“Oh, but you will. Don’t you feel that attraction? That power between us? Because I do. And I know it is not something easily denied.”

This time you grab a book. It’s rotten, and your fingers sink into it, but you hardly care. “You’ll only find pleasure with your own hand, Miraak.” You hurl the book at him and he catches it out of the air, lightly tossing it to the side.

“Then you will watch. And want to join.”

You can hear the amusement in his tone, the teasing underneath his words. It’s irritating, and yet your body warms with the idea, betraying your growing anger. This isn’t right, and it’s not fair. You don’t want any part of this.

Turning on your heel, you run for the platform, intending to throw yourself over the ledge and into the maze below. Miraak does not stop you. He only follows, moving slowly, as if his pace will catch up to you.

When you make it onto the platform, you jump, preparing to use your Thu’um to catch your fall. Hovering in the air, you are weightless, holding in suspension. Now, you feel true freedom.

Your body starts to sag, and then descent kicks in.

But it is short-lived. Fleeting.

One moment you are falling and the next everything blinks out and returns, your feet on familiar ground. You’re back in Miraak’s tower. You’re back in the room and Miraak is only a few feet away.

“You can’t run from me,” he says.

You don’t stop to question what just happened. Instead, you take off again, priming your legs to lift you off the ground.

Your feet leave stone, and then it happens all over again. This time, you’re even closer to Miraak. Again, you run, and again you are pulled back to him, teleported over and over until you’re nearly within his grasp.

Trying once more only lands you directly in front of him. This time you cannot run. This time you cannot bolt.

“I can call you back to my tower as often as I like. There is no fleeing from me.” Miraak takes hold of your upper arm. Your strike out at him, but Miraak is quicker, twisting your arms against your back and bending you over the nearest table.

“So you’re going to take what you want?” you snarl, bucking against his hold which only presses you into his groin. You feel the hard outline of him through his robes.

“That is where you’re wrong, Dragonborn. I am not going to take from you. You are going to give in. You will surrender to me. You will join with me of your own desire.”

“I doubt that,” you growl.

Miraak does not respond. Instead, he drags you off the table, spins you around, and effortlessly lifts you by the waist and situates you on the edge. Miraak stands between your legs as your hands grip the front of his robes. One hand stays on your waist while the other rests against the top of your thigh.

“Shall we test it out?” Miraak’s gloved fingers squeeze your flesh through the robes you wear. “Spread your legs, Dragonborn. Let me have a taste.”

His touch is fire, rippling through your body like an inferno. Miraak is right. The teether is strong. Its tug is even more apparent now that you’re nearly under him.

“You wish you could feast between my thighs. It is an honor you’ll never have.” Your words are hollow. Deep within yourself, a primal part of you understands that it will happen, that the two of you will join bodies even if it is momentary.

Miraak leans closer, the golden mask nearly brushing against your cheek.

“Grant me this one request, Dragonborn. And then you can decide.” His voice drips like honey. It is sweet and deadly. Poisonous comfort. His hands are under your robes, massaging bare thigh. “Remove my mask.”

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, even as your fingers loosen around the front of his robes.

“Don’t deny yourself.” Miraak’s voice is a caress, one that moves you to action.

Slowly, you release his robes, hands falling upon the sides of his golden mask. Miraak does not draw out of your touch, nor does he cower or hide. He stands perfectly still, waiting for you to remove it.

There is a slight tremor in your fingers before your resolve shifts into place, becoming steel. Perhaps under the mask, Miraak is a monster. Or he is simply a man. Nothing more. The only way to find out is to get this over with, to remove the mask, and face him directly.

Your fingers grip the sides, and then the mask gives, surrendering as you start to remove it. Miraak’s features come in a slow reveal. First, there is pale skin and scars. Next comes piercing dark eyes followed by a strong chin and jawline. The last feature is Miraak’s hair. Silky, shoulder-length, and blond. It falls into place once the mask is gone and resting in your hands.

Miraak is handsome, and for some reason you did not expect that, which is downright irritating. He is your enemy. You need to escape from here, to get away from him, and yet his knowing smile is all sultry prowess, like you removing the mask is the first step to victory.

His hands are what bring you back to reality. They are at the tops of your thighs where your legs meet your body. He is dangerously close to your core. Just a small movement and he’d be brushing his thumb over your clit.

“This is your monster,” murmurs Miraak, his mouth dangerously close to yours.

His fingers dig in deeper, and then tug you to very edge, your legs forcing further apart around his hips. “Am I so terrible?” he asks.

No. He’s not. In the mortal world, if a man like this propositioned you, you’d likely take him up on the offer. But this is Miraak. The First Dragonborn.

“Not physically,” you reply, immediately hating yourself for admitting so.

Miraak’s smile is nearly playful, and perhaps it’s really not so bad. He is just a man. Not a god. Give him some slack, let him believe he is winning, and then tug it all out from under him.

Leave him hanging. Leaving him swinging.

Those hands of his ease upward, his forearms pushing your robes open further, revealing more leg and thigh. Miraak starts to sink to the floor, and you’re utterly hypnotized by the way his gaze slowly drops to the place between your legs.

You’re not sure what you see upon his face. An emotion passes over it, one that appears and disappears quickly, slipping through your fingers, escaping your ability to comprehend it before its gone.

Miraak’s breath against your thighs is warm. It tingles, nearly tickles your skin. You’re not ashamed of your body, but you are nervous. You’re vulnerable like this, and this man is supposed to be your enemy.

But an enemy does not place their mouth upon you like he does. When Miraak’s lips and tongue touches your flesh, there is an immediate connection, a string pulled taut, your back arching, hips nearly coming off the table as he caresses your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“There she is,” murmurs Miraak. His tongue darts out against, circling your clit with several soft strokes that has your thighs quivering, squeezing around his head like you’re trying to crush him.

“This changes nothing,” you groan as Miraak’s hands drag along your thighs and he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your hands go out, grab at his shoulders and his hair. Your fingers tangle in his blond locks, mouth hanging open as you try and fail to slow your breathing. The power is drowning and ice cold. It is a slap against the heat burning under your flesh.

Miraak releases your clit, only to lazily flick over and around it. It’s almost lazy in the way he does it, and you’re so sensitive, that the pleasure building in your spine rockets upward, rippling out into your limbs, seizing your muscles.

Your back bends, curls forward, fingers digging into his scalp as your end appears with a choked moan. Miraak grins against your sex as your body responds in little tremors. He is victorious, and while you’re buzzing, this is not enough to make you join him.

As the peak of your orgasm begins to fade, your lips part, words forming on your tongue. It’s to tell him he’d failed. That, while his tongue knows what it’s doing, it isn’t enough to make you join him.

Seeming to sense your rebuttal, Miraak’s mouth returns to your cunt, his tongue sliding over you yet again.

“Oh, gods,” your groan, completely falling back against the table, your grip on him slipping.

One of Miraak’s hands fall away from your thigh, only for a finger to press at your entrance. Your legs obediently fall wider, opening like a flower. Miraak’s own groan on pleasure drifts up from between your legs, and the sound is enough to make the power under your skin vibrate in response.

The connection is growing, becoming stronger, deeper. Perhaps inseparable. And yet you’re hardly thinking of that. You’re concentrated on the slow thrusts of his finger in and out of your body, and how his tongue moves in perfect rhythm with it.

Another wave slams into you, and Miraak does not cease. He devours and tastes, giving and giving until tears form in your eyes. The pleasure is unending, bordering on painful. Only then does Miraak give you relief. Only then does he pull away from your body.

Miraak’s lips and chin drip with you. He grins, proud of his accomplishment. “What do you think now, Dragonborn?”

Your chest heaves, and your mind is gone, drifting off into Apocrypha’s atmosphere. “Can’t speak?” he chuckles. “Perhaps you need something else to find your voice.”

With a quickness that surprises, Miraak lifts you off the table and into his arms. You are soft and pliant, more like melting snow than the strong warrior that you are. It is but seconds before Miraak brings you down on the bed, slipping your robes off in the process, leaving you bare and open for his gaze.

He sighs with contentment, hands roaming up and down your body. “By the end you will want only me. I promise.”

The orgasms Miraak just gave you make it hard to think, to even process his words. The euphoria of pleasure is still beating beneath your skin, burning bright and hot. Miraak is removing his own clothes, tossing them aside as if they’re nothing at all.

You reach for him, and his response is a low growl of need, his hands slipping between your legs to guide your thighs open and up. Where has all your resistance gone? It is washed away. Missing.

Miraak’s cock slides over your cunt, coating himself in your slickness. The head bumps against your clit with each pass, and it only drives your sensitivity higher, the muscles in your thighs quivering with anticipation.

Slowly, Miraak starts to drape himself over your body, trapping your legs in this position as the head of his cock begins to slide in. There is brief resistance before it glides in, and then your body welcomes him entirely.

You both groan when he bottoms out.

Miraak rolls his hips backward, and then thrusts forward, his head falling to burrow against the side of your throat. His hands reach for your arms, bring them over your head, crossing your wrists. Then, with one hand, he presses down on those wrists, pinning you to the bed with more than just his hips.

Using your locked wrists as leverage, Miraak begins to pound into his, each thrust powerful and steady. He hits deep, and each meeting pushes the air from your lungs. You can hardly hold on. You can only desperately reach for reality. It is slipping. Falling away.

Like this, you are at his mercy. You are at Miraak’s pleasure. And he takes full advantage, claiming you in a way that no other man ever has. There is no reason for sex with him to be this good. It’s simply impossible.

It has to be the connection, the buzzing battering of power that seems to exchange hands every time his hips smack into yours. His nose nuzzles against your neck, and Miraak inhales deeply, sighing as he exhales. His lips, which are surprisingly soft, brush against your skin in tender caress.

This isn’t fair. It makes no sense.

Miraak shifts position, forcing your legs open wider, his pelvis rubbing against your clit with each renewed thrust. You sink into the bed, surrendering to the pleasure, basking in how perfectly the two of you fit together.

Those powerful, steady thrusts of his become erratic and needy. He is heading toward his own end, seeking it out in desperation. You can tell by the way his soft grunts become breathy groans against your throat.

Miraak’s hand encases your throat, squeezing slightly as he arrives at his end. He grinds forward, groaning loudly as your cunt squeezes around him, his releasing emptying inside you.

“How does it feel, Dragonborn? To truly be mine?”

Using his hand around your throat, Miraak guides you to face him, his lips hovering against yours but not fully closing the distance.

You don’t answer him. Don’t dare speak. There is no agreeing to that, regardless of how wonderful you feel.

And Miraak does not kiss you. He only nuzzles your cheek before he releases your throat and then your wrists. With a carefulness that surprises, Miraak slides out of your body, leaving a hollowness you don’t particularly like.

He lifts himself up enough to help your legs fall to bed. Kept in that position, the backs of your thighs burn, and seeming to know this, Miraak starts to caress and massage these muscles even as he shifts to lay at your side. He is incredibly tender, but you’re unsure if it is performance or genuine concern.

One of Miraak’s hands slides between your breasts and pauses on your belly, pressing lightly. This one touch pulls at a thought, draws forth a doubtful tug that sits heavy in your chest.

“Miraak!”

Hermaeus Mora’s voice rings loud around the tower. It’s piercing like an arrow and you slap your hands over your ears in an attempt to cut off the bloody sound.

Miraak’s arms immediately wrap around you, tightening. He pushes you onto your back, his body draped over yours protectively. The middle of his brow wrinkles with anger, and his mouth is formed into an animalistic snarl. Miraak’s gaze darts everywhere, searching for the Daedric Lord.

He lowers his body, head dipping toward your face. Miraak to press his lips to your ear. “He will not take you from me.”

The possessiveness of his words twists your stomach.

“Show yourself, Miraak. Release the Last Dragonborn to me.”

Miraak chest expands as he inhales. His anger is palpable, nearly vibrating against your skin like a Seeker’s rattling cry.

“There is a Black Book at the top of this tower,” he continues to whisper against your ear. “Open it. And you will return to Solstheim.”

He draws back enough for you to turn to him.

“I will distract him,” mouths Miraak, carefully moving to the edge of the bed. Once there, he leisurely stands, completely naked. Only then does he begin to dress, taking his time in doing so. He’s drawing this out. Giving you a chance.

Knowing this is all the time you have, you snag your discarded robes and secure them quickly, not caring if they don’t look perfect or even practical. You just need to get to that Black Book and you’ll be free.

“You are trying my patience,” comes Mora’s voice. It is a rolling rumble, one that shakes your skeleton.

It is closer now, and you hurriedly slip out of the bed, keeping low as you move toward the spiral stairs at the far side of the room. Miraak is still taking his time, but his gaze is intense, watching you while also keeping any eye on the open platform.

Hermaeus Mora might appear right there in all his horrid splendor, and you don’t want to be anywhere near that space when he does.

As you slink by the alchemy shelves and place your foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you hear the slimy squelch of tentacles. Glancing over your shoulder, you watch with horror as at least a dozen black tentacles appear on the platform and archway. They curl around the stone or slide over it, seeking something—or someone.

But Miraak is not watching it. He is watching you. The golden mask is in his hands and his eyes are pleading, telling you to go. Swallowing down the memory of what Mora’s tentacles felt like, you ascend, stopping just as you step out of sight and hear Hermaeus Mora speak in a voice that is so near it sounds like he’s speaking just over your shoulder.

“Where is she, Miraak? I know she dwells within your tower. I sense her.”

Keeping low, you peer around the small structural wall that supports the ceiling and the level above. Mora’s form takes up the entire platform. He is so large, even larger than the dragon that brought you here. Miraak seems like nothing more than discarded parchment in comparison to the Daedric Lord of Knowledge, and yet Miraak appears unafraid of his master.

“I do not command the Last Dragonborn,” replies Miraak, voice calm.

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his tentacles vibrating as if he’s shaking off a shiver. “But you want to. I sense your desire to control her. You believe she’ll bring you great power.”

Miraak says nothing, and Mora’s massive form deflates slightly as if releasing a great exhale. “She hides from me. Tell me, champion, where is she?”

Still, Miraak says nothing.

“What do you think you will gain?” asks Hermaeus Mora. More tentacles appear, sliding into the interior of the tower from the platform. “Is it power over me?” The massive singular eye in the middle of Mora’s horrid form blinks slowly. “That would be foolish.”

“I do not seek to usurp you.”

“But you are restless,” replies Mora, one of the larger tentacles snapping in the air like a whip.

Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye swivels in the socket, seeking you out. You sense Mora’s magic creeping up from nowhere, sinking in to everything around you. It is an anchor, and you realize that he is physically trying to draw you out into the open.

You will not go back to him. You will not return to the prison he put you in.

That anchor, those invisible teethers, are tentacles in their own right as they attempt to snatch you from your dark shroud and drag you into his horrific presence. Resisting their pull, your foot slips, slamming hard into the rock, the sound echoing around the tower.

Hermaeus Mora large eye snaps in your direction. Miraak turns too, his shoulders stiff. It is quiet before chaos.

“Dragonborn!” roars Hermaeus Mora, the tower rattling from the sheer strength of his voice.

Twisting, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend.

Turning, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend. The tower shakes, and Mora roars, his anger palpable. You throw yourself up the last bit of stairs, only to be spit out into a small room with a singular window. In the middle of the room is a black stone pedestal. Resting on top of it is a Black Book.

Like the one you opened, this too oozes black mist and hums in its own voice. This time, there is no nefarious pull. There is only desperation on your end as you the tower rumbles, tossing you to the side like a discarded doll.

Crawling on your hands and knees toward the pedestal, your reach of the rock, helping yourself up to standing, staring down at the large tome before you. This is your out. This is your chance. It is done.

Grabbing the edge of the cover, you force it open, the pages moving with you, following the cover.

Just as before, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time, and Hermaeus Mora’s roar is a distant thing. Even the shaking of the tower is far away. You don’t even feel it.

The sudden silence is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward. The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your feet lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness, sliding over and around you, wrapping around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push as this time you do not resist them. While you know what’s coming, you also know that this is your only way out. Escape is possible as long as the tentacles pull you through before Hermaeus Mora finds you.

You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet land on…wood.

The odd, almost stagnant temperature of Apocrypha is gone. Instead, there is warmth. Physical heat with the slightest bite of cold air. Your nostrils flare, inhaling the scent of burning firewood, and roasting meat.

Glancing up, you find yourself in a vaguely familiar structure. It’s a shaman’s shack. You’ve been here before. You’ve stayed in this home, eaten shared food, and listening to stories.

It’s a Skaal home. This is Storn’s home.

A familiar voice calls your name. It’s a bit slurry as if you’re listening on the other side of a door. Slowly, you shift to the right, glancing in that direction, only to see Teldryn. The edges of him are blurry but become clearer by the second.

“Teldryn,” you breathe, arms going out to him.

He sighs with relief and wraps his arms around you. “Azura be praised,” he murmurs against the top of your head.

“You’re squeezing me too hard, Teldryn,” you mutter against his chest, voice muffled.

“Shut up. I’m sad I’m not getting the house.”

You laugh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. When he pulls back to glance down at your face, all that relief washes away, replaced by worry.

“What is it?” you ask just before the world starts tipping.

You blink. Shake your head. Attempt to throw off whatever this odd feeling is. There is a slithery sensation over your skin. A creeping that drags, pulling you into a soft weightlessness.

Teldryn calls your name but you are falling to your knees even with his arms around you.

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

Within your chest and head, Mora’s voice blooms and grows, shoving you down into an abyss.

Part Four

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82