#hermaeus mora smut

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Three

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: body horror, tentacle sex, dubcon, power imbalance

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Part Three of Dark Knowledge

Hermaeus Mora gains a secret. You make your escape.

Part Two // Part Four

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

“Now, Dovahkiin. I would like that secret.”

Knowledge for knowledge.

That is what you promised Hermaeus Mora. A deal was made, and you must follow through.

“What sort of secret?” you whisper, leaning back as if you could escape the Daedric Prince. The four tentacles that hold you up in the air vibrate as you shift your weight away from Hermaeus Mora.

“Are you allowing me the choice?” He sounds amused, and you distinctly dislike it.

“No,” you reply, knowing that giving him the decision to select which memory to take is an unthinkable option. “I will make the choice.”

Hermaeus Mora hums softly, his tentacles tightening around your limbs. You’re perhaps a few feet off the ground at most. With these tentacles around your limbs, Mora holds you close to eye-level. In this humanoid form, Mora is tall, almost seven feet.

It is such a strange thing to see a god attempt to be human in any capacity. What was twisting around in Mora’s mind that made him take this form? Why did he believe this would ease your discomfort?

“Then it is your choice,” he replies. “And I will savor whatever you wish to reveal to me.” Mora’s voice is a subtle purr. It is a tone you might hear from a lover’s lips. Is the Daedric Prince taunting you on purpose?

As if human, Mora breathes deep, the inhalation loud. But there is no exhalation, and there is no warm breath against your skin. His form expands. Ripples slightly as if in pleasure. Revulsion blooms in your chest and creeps out into your limbs.

From over his shoulders come four slim tentacles. They slide over Hermaeus Mora and reach out for you. There is no possibility of your escape, and you watch as they move closer, the tips wiggling and stretching. Then they are on you, sliding everywhere.

“Those that follow me and bend to my will do not find my intrusions painful. But since you have yet to know my true influence, I will make sure there is none.”

“How will you do that?” You don’t recognize your own voice. It is soft. Nearly inaudible.

Hermaeus Mora does not tell you with a word but with a touch.

His hand lifts, hovering just above the fabric that separates him from your left breast. The singular eye in the center of his head is focused on that spot. The Prince of Fate hesitates for a moment before closing the distance.

There is nothing human about this touch.

Hermaeus Mora squints, as if thinking, and then his movement changes to that of what would happen if this were a mortal movement. He cups your breast softly, lightly squeezing before his thumb brushes over the nipple through the fabric.

An unknown urge, an eldritch pleasure, stirs in your core. The feeling is strange, and so at odds with what your mind is thinking. Your brain is a fire of revulsion and interest. It is intrigued and yet mortified that you are at his mercy.

One of the four tentacles slithers over and around his arm, accompanying the movement of his hand. Together, they form an unearthly dance of hand and tentacle seeking to draw pleasure from you. At first, the sensation is so odd that you don’t respond at all. But slowly, almost as if not realizing the change, your core begins to warm, and you sense a wetness between your legs.

A second tentacle appears, and it moves toward your other breast. It joins in the dance, and soon you begin to surrender, pieces of you fracturing like fragments of shattered stone. The second tentacle curls around the nipple, lightly tugging as the very tip swishes back and forth. The thin fabric draped over your body does nothing to dampen the sensation.

The two remaining tentacles delve downward, first wrapping around your calves, then venturing upward over your thighs and to the space between them. Hermaeus Mora’s hand draws away from your breast even as his tentacles remain.

“I have witnessed and recorded the mortal forms of mating,” says Mora slowly. “I have yet to put any of that knowledge to use until now.”

The two tentacles slide further up your thighs, and then branch outward, coming together between you and Hermaeus Mora’s bodies. Together, they sink down down down until the joined limbs press against your entrance.

“Look at me, Dovahkiin.”

Hermaeus Mora’s command is a blow. It is sharp as steel. There is no room for refusal. You are in his realm, and his voice holds authority here.

You glance away from the tentacles to his singular eye. While there is no mouth or nose or cheekbones to show his emotions, you still sense that he’s smiling somehow. That Hermaeus Mora is grinning with pleasure at his control over you.

Something wet brushes against your clit. It is not his horrid hand and you do not need to look to know that it is but another tentacle. Yet another appendage exploring your body. This one suctions against your clit, using its naturally, wet flesh to rotate back and forth, creating a vortex of motion that quickly pulls you to the brink of an orgasm.

The stuttering breath from your lungs earn you a deep, rumbling chuckle from Mora. It simmers, and then filters out, his shoulders heaving slightly as if the Daedric Lord is prideful of his actions.

“How does this feel?” he asks. There is a detachedness to his tone, as if he’s observing you like an experiment. But that is what you are after all. You are not the Dragonborn in Hermaeus Mora’s realm but a tool for him to hoard. There is no such thing as freewill or choices with him.

Everything is a game.

Everything is a trap.

“Your touch repulses me,” you reply, making sure your tone is biting.

“Oh. No.” Hermaeus Mora chuckles. “You cannot lie to me in my own realm, Dovahkiin. I see all. I know all.”

“Then you already know how I feel. Why ask?”

“Your venom is not nearly as deadly as you believe it to be,” comes his reply. You feel scolded, and that only makes you angry.

Your hands curl into fists. “Let me give you my secret and be done with this.”

Hermaeus Mora retreats slightly. The inky, watery flesh of his humanoid form ripples like the waters beyond this tower. But it is momentary. Quick. Like a pebble plopped into a still pool. It all returns to normal.

“You entered my realm. You came to me. You sought knowledge. Fate brought you here, and fate is what brings us together now.”

There is another light twist of the tentacle around your clit. This one pulls forth a moan from between your lips. It is unbidden, and completely surprising. It happens again, and that is when the two joined tentacles begin to push in.

The intrusion is not painful. It is actually pleasant and your body surrenders to it, feeding into the gentle, pulsing sway of them inside you. The tentacle at your clit works in tandem, the three appendages working you right back over the edge.

As you squirm, and writhe, the tentacles holding onto your limbs shift. They lift you a bit higher, and then you’re tipping slightly, legs brought upward, only to bend at the knees and be pushed toward your chest.

You’re being presenting and it is both demeaning and luscious.

Hermaeus Mora brings you closer, and then his arms are around your body, his head dipping in an act that seems far too intimate.

“I’ll have that secret now.”

Mora is right. There is no pain. The tentacles moving between your legs keeps all your focus there, even as he draws you closer to his body. You’re nearly pressed up against him. One of his arms slides up your back to wrap around your throat.

Sprouting from his head, little tentacles come rushing forward. They break over your face and meander toward your nose, mouth, and ears. You try to scream but only manage to choke around them as they enter your mouth.

“Relax,” coos Hermaeus Mora. “Let me in. Bask in my presence.”

The tentacles playing with your clit brushes over you in a way that has your body seizing. This flattens the barrier, and Mora’s connection to your mind is instantaneous.

It is a dull explosion. Bright. Loud. Yet also incredibly calm. He moves through your memory, and you can feel it, as if the tentacles are sliding over, around, and in your brain. It is awful, and yet it feels like nothing at all.

Your lips begin to form words, words that tell him that it is your choice. That the memory you pick is one that you select. He is not to grab and pull whatever he likes.

But Hermaeus Mora does not listen to mortal wishes. He shifts through everything, and then you sense the halt—the collective pause.

“What is this?” His tone is cautious but curious. At first, you’re unsure of what Mora is seeing, but as he accesses the memory, it all becomes clear.

“So…that is what the Greybeards hoard atop their mountain. How…selfish of them.”

Shredded wings, missing teeth, and aged dragon scales flare in your mind. You glimpse the eyes of immortality and power. Hermaeus Mora sees it all too, and he clings to this memory, not allowing it to slip away.

Around the image of Paarthrnax there is dullness, one that intensifies into bright white until you’re completely thrust from your own head and back into Apocrypha.

“Your memory is…delicious.” The word curls in the air as if Mora is savoring it like a fine meal.

All the tentacles have retreated from you other than the four that originally held you. “You said a secret. That is not a secret.”

“But it is, Dovahkiin. It is a secret you keep. And now it is a secret I know.”

“But I told you I would give you one.”

“And so you did,” he says simply.

Your lips curl back, showing your teeth. Hermaeus Mora seems unbothered by the whole affair, continuing like he doesn’t care about your display of anger.

“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.”

Your feral snarl ebbs slightly. “He—what?”

Slowly, the tentacles bring you back to the floor. They retreat suddenly, disappearing into Mora’s form.

Hermaeus Mora’s dark laugh swirls around you like his tentacles. “As a guest in my realm, you are under my protection.” The humanoid shape he molded himself into starts to melt. He begins to lean to the right, the shine of his body rippling like boiling water. The liquification of body and tentacle is horrid. Putrid. Even the eye molts.

You stumble backward, falling on your ass as Hermaeus Mora becomes liquid.

As if there are cracks in the floor, he starts to seep into the stone, disappearing into the rock before there is nothing left of him.

You don’t move. Every inch of you is cold and alert, completely startled by his sudden dissolving.

“Dovahkiin,” comes Mora’s voice and it is everywhere. “No harm will befall you. I will see to it that Miraak does not find you while you haunt my halls.”

Two Seekers drift into the small place, their hands outstretched instructing for you to follow them. You don’t want to go. This place is starting to worm its way inside you. Already, you feel Mora’s alluring pull.

Perhaps it’s because he dug around in your head. Or, worse, the Prince of Fate made you into a whimpering mess that gave in. The very thought is embarrassing, and shame rises in your stomach. You are no one’s property. You belong only to yourself.

And the words are a lie.

You peel yourself off the ground, and the Seekers float into position, one in front and one behind. When you enter the main room where Mora’s most loyal followers work, they do not even look up at you.

Did they hear you in there moaning for their god? Shame creeps in again, and you purposefully stare at the back of the Seeker in front of you. You’re returned to your cage, and you do not want to crawl inside. Now that you’re on the outside looking in, you are not a guest in Hermaeus Mora’s halls but a pet. A plaything. Something he can chew up and spit out once he’s drained you of your memories.

What will happen to you then?

Instead of resisting, you crawl back in, curling up in a tight ball. You keep your back to the cage door, gaze focused on the wall in front of you. The cage is built into it, the metal bars imbedded in the wall.

A plan begins to take shape in your mind. Slowly, you reach out, your fingers brushing at the wall. It is not as hard you first believed it to be. It’s not stone or rock but something slightly fleshy.

With the right Shout, could you rip a hole in the wall? If you manage that, where would it lead you to? Empty air? Another room? Would Hermaeus Mora know your intent before you did it and come to stop you?

Is he even capable of that?

You’re not entirely sure, and you certainly do not wish to dwell in this cage until he calls on you again. You refuse to be his puppet. The answers you sought when you entered Apocrypha are unimportant now. Miraak’s temple is heavily guarded, but you’ll take the risk infiltrating it rather than trying to seek out knowledge in Mora’s halls.

Breaking through will create noise, and you don’t even know if your Thu’um has returned to you. Hermaeus Mora did not take it away, but he did manage to silence it for a time. When does that expire? Can he reset the clock once it’s up?

Running your tongue over your teeth, you consider your options, and settle on a quiet Shout.

“Feim,” you speak into the air.

You’re pushed into the ethereal form, and though it is temporary and lasts for only a handful of seconds, your Thu’um is back.

Shifting until you’re facing the wall, you sit up enough that you’re not crammed into the small space. You scoot across the stone until your back presses against the bars. Steadying your breathing, you inhale, and then release an unrelenting force of power.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

The force of your Voice batters against the soft wall. Some of it gives, but most of it bounces back and smashes into you. The back of your head bangs against the bars and you slide to the floor, clutching your head, groaning. Through parted fingers, you glance at the wall.

It’s still standing.

You laugh and it sounds like drowning.

This is mad. This is insane. Crazy.

Is Hermaeus Mora’s control finally taking hold? Did his tentacles that moved inside you slip a bit of his influence into your body. He grew no appendage like a mortal man, nor did he finish like they do.

But Mora is a god. He is not bound to the laws that the races of Tamriel are held to.

Your spread out on your hands and knees, shifting your body across the floor like a Mudcrab until you reach the wall of your enclosure. Running your fingers along it, you test the portion of the wall where your Thu’um made contact. It gives a bit, and you flex your palm, pressing.

Some of that fleshy wall gives, until a small portion of it falls away. It isn’t large, and not big enough to put your hand through. Using your nails, you start to scratch and pull at the material, more of it falling away. The texture is almost gelatinous, and as the hole grows bigger, you’re able to stare into it.

Through the hole you glimpse towering spires and connecting bridges. You shift position, glimpsing the murky water below. A lone tentacle breaches the surface, slithering up from the depths, squirming around in the air as if seeking something. Maybe is senses you, and this is Mora’s way of silently instructing you to cease.

Yet, there is hope.

There is no deep drop or immediate fall. You glimpse bars. Black metal like your cage? At least, that is what it appears to be. You can’t reach it to find out, but it does look to be the same. You claw at the wall again, this time with renewed energy.

More of the fleshy material falls into the cell or outward. The hole grows larger as you pull more of it away. The smile that spreads across your face is a feral one. From behind you, beyond the archway that leads into the room holding your cage, comes the distinct screech of the Seekers. They heard your Thu’um, and you are running out of time.

With renewed vigor, you rip and tear, not caring is you split nail or skin. All of that can heal. Your freedom is the most important thing.

The screeching becomes louder, striking down to your heart, sending your limbs into an agitated, frantic spin as you try to make your escape route wider.

A hurling, rippling force of air slams into your back. It shoves you forward against the wall. When you make contact, it bends outward. Another rippling force of air follows the next. The wall gives a bit more.

You turn your head toward the room. Two Seekers float just beyond the bars, their face mandibles flaring with agitation. Their hands extended outward, and you put all your pressure against the crumbling wall.

Together, they release another wave, and you grin in victory.

The wall gives. You fall backward.

And roll out into the curved embrace of those black metal bars.

There is a peace for a few seconds. And that metal shifts, revealing not bars but tentacles. Sudden horror of the implication flows into you like a thunderstorm. The tentacles wiggle. Bend outward. Unfurl.

There is only air. A hover before the descent.

Then you’re falling.

Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

Part Two // Part Four

taglist:

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

[tearlessrain]

Dubcon and noncon

No | rather not | I dunno | I guess | Sure | Yes | FUCK yes | Oh god you don’t even know |

I suspect the fact that dubcon/noncon features in 90% of what I write gives it away lol, but yeah I'm a big fan of that one. it's just really fun to write and frequently really hot to read. generally I prefer dubcon over noncon as far is smut is concerned, like my favorite way to do this trope is the type of situation I constantly put Khatte in where he definitely got himself into it but underestimated how sideways things would go, or power imbalance dymanics where the "forced" aspect isn't necessarily explicit but still very present. so I'm kind of picky about it but that's true of basically everything for me (I never got into game of thrones for a reason, etc).

[ma1dmer]

The Elder Scrolls - Miraak NSFW

i read a very specific smut fic,,,,,girl,,,,,,,

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex): he let's you stay close to him as he returns to his 'research' ,he’ll let you place your head on his lap and play with your hair as you drift off to sleep

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): he loves your mouth, will trace his fingers over your lips before every kiss, or simply shove them into your mouth for you to wet, getting distracted by the warmth and the way your tongue circles each digit as you look up at him 

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person): definitely has a breeding kink, always growls about the possibility of knocking you up right as he is about to cum, telling you to be good for him and not let anything leak out

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs): his imagination runs quite wild, has some fantasies that he sometimes brings up in the form of dirty talk but so far hasn’t actually sat you down to discuss about fulfilling them , some include using some magic on you, maybe some of the stuff he has learned throughout his time under hermaeus mora and some of fucking you as a group of his followers watch

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?): he has a lot of experience, he is the first dragonborn , and even without the big title and ego, he has been alive for so long, this man fucked and still fucks

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual): you on your knees or bent over some surface, your legs and arms restrained so he has full access to your body, his hands bruising your hips

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc): he is definitely more serious, he can be quite intense and he does enjoy the way he can make you nervous, he’ll chuckle about how you are scared but your body still reacts to him

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.): he is very hairy but keeps himself surprisingly tidy

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…): he can be quite the charmer, he enjoys a bit of a classical courtship sometimes, playfully trying to woo you, wants to play the role of finally winning you over before he has his way with you

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon): he’d much rather have someone else to help him but if he can’t , he likes to take his time , does some light edging on himself and thinks of how he'd like your next meeting to go, how he’ll have you scream for him 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks): bdsm, praise and degradation etc

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do): has no shame, after being in apocrypha for so long where privacy probably wasn’t much of a thing he just got used to being watched, would honestly not care if someone walked in on you

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going): submission, he wants to see you kneel for him, wants you to expose yourself for him and plead, leave yourself at his mercy 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): not much he couldn't be convinced into trying at least once with the right wording

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc): loves cock warming , loves having you on your knees simply letting you do your thing for hours before he remembers you are there and thrusts up in the heat of your mouth

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.): it really depends ,he is definitely rougher, but whether he goes slowly or not is up to his mood

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.): wants to take his time with you , he has nothing but time in his hand, hates being rushed

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.): he generally knows what he likes but is more than happy to indulge your interests every now and then

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…): he has a lot of stamina and a lot of pent up frustration to burn out

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?): wants to watch you use various toys on yourself, things he bought or made for you, telling you exactly how to use them and constantly stopping you right as you get close to finishing because he wants to make you cum himself

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease): can be quite mean with his teasing in and out of bed

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make): he does not stay silent, he groans deeply and speaks a lot ,no reason to keep quite, he wants you to hear how much he is enjoying himself

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice): he is surprisingly sensitive, loves when you rake your nails over his chest or when you drag your teeth over his throat, he always has to restrain you just so he can keep more of a semblance of control, otherwise he gets lost in the pleasure of your touch

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words): i wish i could say he is compensating for something with that ego of his, but its big and it curves slightly

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?): he has a really high sex drive but has a very good grasp on his needs, always weighs his options, does he want you right now, or does he want to wait for later in the night so he can take his time

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): i don't think he sleeps very well in general, he'd never admit so but having somebody next to him definitely helps a lot

[foxyanon]

Zahkriisos

Summary: No summary, just notes. So for those who don’t know anything about Skyrim, I’m going to give a simple overview of a few things. The Dragonborn is essentially (in its most basic form) a hero of legend. Hermaeus Mora is a Daedric Prince (kind of like a demon) and his realm of Oblivion (kind of like hell) is Apocraphya (he’s know for being a hoarder of knowledge, hence the book named world). The title of the story gets its name from a dragon priest mask, which means Bloody Sword or Sword-Blood.

Pairing: Cultist!Masema x Dragonborn!Reader

Word Count: 2772

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: Implied smut, blood, mentions of death, Dragonborn is a Breton but no other descriptors used, religious references

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Wheel of Time or The Elder Scrolls nor do I own any of the images used.

Dividers by @arcielee

Masema had been found on the shores of Solstheim by the Skaal, having washed ashore after a bad storm ravaged the island a couple years ago. He had foggy memories of his life before, but he did know he was a warrior and not from here. He was taken in by the Skaal shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, and nursed back to health, so he felt he owed it to the old man to stay and help out as needed. Even though he never felt connected to the All-Maker the way everyone else in the village did, he was still respectful of the religion and the culture. Even though he wasn’t born of the people, they still treated him like one of their own which is why the shaman decided he should help protect the pilgrims during their pilgrimage to the All-Makers stones. It was to be a long journey, one that would take months as the stones were scattered across Solstheim’s landscape.

It was at the Beast Stone, just beyond the borders of Thirsk Mead Hall, where he felt his lord’s presence for the first time. They had traveled to all the other stones and this was the last one before they would return to the village, something Masema was grateful for as he was tired of living on the road. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy spending time in nature, but the northern part of the island was all snow and ice which meant it was really fucking cold all the time. He was standing guard over the camp when he heard Lord Miraak’s voice call out from the stone before he was enthralled, the entire party starting to chant about the return of the Dragonborn and erecting shrines to their new overlord. Masema followed the orders of Miraak, first through entrapment and then of his own free will as it was the closest he had felt to any divine being in his entire existence.

As the Cult of Miraak grew, he moved through the ranks and eventually was the one giving orders to the new recruits from the Temple of Miraak. When rumors of another Dragonborn reached his ears, Miraak had given the command for Masema to send people to eliminate the ‘false Dragonborn’ in Skyrim and upon proof of their death, he would be rewarded. At first he sent out some recruits who were eager to prove their loyalty, but when they didn’t return, he started to get suspicious. There were reports of what this mysterious person was capable of, claiming they could slay dragons single-handed and were currently one of the more well known adventurers of the land. After the third attempt at killing this person, Masema started sending the more skilled men and women. After eight months of failure and many dead worshippers, Masema was well and truly pissed. If he wasn’t needed at the Temple, he’d go out and handle business himself but that just wasn’t possible right now. Preparations for the return of Miraak to the island took priority, so he resigned himself to sending another small group in the hopes this thorn in his side would finally be dealt with.

It was another cold day in the temple when Masema heard the most wonderful news. The other Dragonborn had sailed from Skyrim and was currently at Raven Rock, thanks to none other than Gjaland Salt-Sage, the same ship captain he “persuaded” to send the cultists to Skyrim originally. He even learned that the secretive person was a Breton, but no name was ever revealed to him. He thought things were finally looking up and that he’d be able to deliver the body of the false one to his lord, but how seldom does the fantasy match the reality.

As it turns out, this mysterious creature was working with the Skaal to remove Lord Miraak’s influence from the island. Somehow, on one of his trips away to check on a few things at the Earth Stone, this infuriating Breton got into the temple, killed all the cultists there and stole the Black Book from its pedestal. The nerve of that foreigner to desecrate sacred ground really solidified his resentment for them. Masema decided to take matters into his own hands and search out the defiler on his own, swearing to his lord he would handle matters before he set off in search of his target. Naturally, of course, this would be a monumental task as he would have to be careful to avoid the people he once called friends and his elusive prey seemed to be a master of hiding in plain sight. The only identifying thing about them other than the full set of ebony armor was the mask they wore, the ebony metal hiding them from the world. He recognized it as Zahkriisos, the mask of the dragon priest that was buried in Blodskal Barrow, an old Nordic ruin north of Raven Rock.

He tracked his query across all the island, but they were always one step ahead of him. With the help of Frea, Storn’s daughter, they slowly but surely cleansed the stones and cut off Miraak from speaking with any of his worshippers. After the second to last stone was cleansed and the false one had obtained all of the Black Books, Masema knew he needed to return to the temple and try to defend the last stone. It was here that he heard his lord’s voice for what would be the last time, telling him that all was as it should be and that his destiny was to battle the Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. Lord Miraak claimed that the fate that had been chosen for him would come to pass and that he was pleased with the loyalty and devotion Masema had shown him.

It was here that Masema was waiting for them, standing in front of the Tree Stone in his robes and mask, the last member of a once strong cult. He saw the Dragonborn glide down the hall, their cloak flowing behind them and the mask covering their face as well. He tried to determine the identity of the Dragonborn, but their armor covered them from head to toe, the ebony metal muted in appearance and fitted in the most generic of ways. The soft clanking of their boots on the stone echoed down the hall and into the chamber he occupied, steadily getting louder the closer they got. When they finally stopped several feet away, the tension was palpable as they sized the other up.

For a moment, they both stood there and stared at each other in silence, the weight of their respective destinies entwining with one another in the space between them. He noticed they traveled alone, the Black Book in their hands as they prepared for the final battle against Miraak. There was an energy that clung to them and their armor, the kind that only the favored of the gods could possess and that gave him pause. He found he had no desire to fight them, the futility of their situation coming into focus for him. He could not prevent their destiny from playing out, but he could choose whether he be another body for them or to stand aside and live another day. He chose the latter.

”I will not interfere with what fate has decreed. I shall watch over your spirit as you do what you must,” Masema stepped off to the side, head bowed slightly as he addressed the Dragonborn. The only response he received was a simple nod before the masked warrior opened the book, the tentacles of Hermaeus Mora bursting from the enchanted pages, wrapping around their form and pulling them into Oblivion with a sickeningly green flash of light. All that remained of the mysterious Breton was a spectral image, one that offered no insight to the identity of the physical person.

After what felt like an eternity of pacing back and forth in front of the stone, the book came alive and unceremoniously spit the body of the Dragonborn back out. Masema was startled at the sudden appearance, until he saw the blood dripping from a wound on their side and off their blade onto the stone ground beneath them. There was a new crack in the mask, their shoulders heaving as they pant in an attempt to catch a breath. No words needed to be said, Miraak was dead and the victor returned to the land of the living.

Wordlessly, Masema helped them up, careful not to agitate the wound as the two staggered down the dank halls of the crumbling temple. The walk to the old medical room passed in silence, the sounds of footsteps and heavy breathing bouncing off the stone walls with a soft echo. He helped the Dragonborn onto a wooden cot draped with furs before wandering towards the shelves in search of healing herbs or potions. He hears the telltale signs of the wounded Breton removing their armor, the sounds of metal and leather hitting the ground while his back is turned. When he turns around after having found a single healing potion amidst the disorganized shelf, he nearly drops the glass vial when he sees the Dragonborn for the first time.

He’s surprised to see a woman sitting on the cot, a thin wound bleeding from her hairline and the once pristine linen tunic sticking to her torso, the gash on her side bloodying the fabric. He was frozen in place, her eyes capturing his and the smirk gracing her lips indicating she is used to such behaviors. She holds her hand out, waiting for Masema to hand her the potion he holds. Even though her injuries look serious, she doesn’t push or taunt him, simply being patient as he collects his thoughts. With a shaky breath, Masema closes the distance and hands her the vial, watching as she downs it in one. He’s so caught up in being in front of such beauty that when she speaks, it startles him.

”What is your name?” She asks simply, her voice soft as she lifts her tunic and gets a look at her injury. She lifts her hand, a warm light emitting from her fingers and wrapping itself around her like an aura as she casts a healing spell that closes the wound better than any stitching. Masema watches a little starstruck as the woman literally glows for a moment, forgetting she had asked a question. When she raises a brow at him, he blushes furiously and swallows hard, having been caught gawking at her.

He clears his throat and looks at the ground, grateful for his mask hiding his face from her. “My name is Masema, Dragonborn,” he spoke quietly, fidgeting with his gloves and taking a few steadying breaths.

”A pleasure to meet you, Masema,” she gave him her name and he tasted it on his tongue, finding that the name suited her beautifully. “Would you mind if I asked your story? You are the only cultist who hasn’t attacked me outright and I’m curious as to why.”

He nodded in agreement and they proceeded to talk for hours, the candles burning low by the time they finished. She listened to his story, no judgment or anger in her eyes when he told her the truth of his involvement with Miraak. About halfway through, Masema felt comfortable enough to remove his mask and the act of trust made her smile, something so minor but it made his heart beat a little faster.

After she decided needed to leave the ruins to find food and clean up, Masema found himself unwilling to leave her side. He followed behind her after she got dressed again, letting her lead the way through the labyrinth of halls. Once outside, they both breathed in the cold fresh air, a far cry more refreshing than the stale air inside the temple. He hesitated as she started off in the direction of Thirsk, wanting to stay with her but unsure if she would want that. He looked around at the landscape, trying to gather the words to ask, but she beat him to the punch.

She was stopped several feet away, Zahkriisos held loosely in her hands at her side as the sun shone brightly behind her. ”Masema, how would you like to adventure with me?” Her question offered him the choice to walk away, but when she was looking at him like that, he couldn’t resist accepting her offer. He’d follow her to the end, to the very halls of Sovngarde and beyond if she’d let him.

She smiled and nodded, looking out over the horizon before turning and continuing on her journey. Masema breathed a sigh of relief, a smile on his face as he looked at the yellow mask in his hands. It was a symbol, a reminder of a life he was no longer living. With a sigh, he left his mask on the stone steps of the now deserted place he once called home, leaving behind one life and eagerly walking towards the next.

Masema had been traveling with the Dragonborn for several months now and he learned a lot about this woman in that time, like the reasons his assassination attempts never worked. For starters, she was the leader of half the guilds in the damned kingdom. He also learned that she only used her respective titles when outright doing business for them and wore different masks when dealing with the general population, only a select handful of her closest allies knowing her name. He practically swooned upon learning she had trusted him enough to know her identity, even more when he discovered through a friend of hers that she rarely kept traveling companions for more than a few weeks. Apparently this was to help maintain her secrecy, but since he had proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal to her, she kept him by her side.

His life finally had purpose again, serving and protecting her on their travels having made him realize that Miraak was a fraud, using his divinely given powers to assert dominion over the people he was meant to protect. Whenever he felt shame for his past actions, she was right there to tell him that his future doesn’t need to be weighed down by the consequences of the past. She did, however, prevent him from falling down the same path of reverence he once showed Miraak, claiming that she had no desire to be worshiped by the masses and that history wasn’t kind to those who sought such power. Even if she wouldn't have a following like her predecessor, Masema had no qualms being wholly devoted to her. He found her desire to aid everyone, even the poor and displaced, inspiring. It’s no surprise her kindness towards him and everyone else had him falling in love with her.

It was during one of their adventures, camped somewhere in Whiterun Hold under the stars and two moons of Nirn, when he finally confessed his feelings to her. He had felt nervous, his palms sweaty and avoiding her gaze as he stared into the small campfire. When he heard her get up and walk over to him, he finally dared to look up at her and was shocked to see her hand outstretched towards him, a silent request to take it as she stood there in the low light of the fire. He placed his hand in hers, standing up and following her towards their shared tent, his breathing uneven as she pulled him along behind her.

No words were said, their lips finding the others in the darkness of the tent and hands pulling at laces and straps of their garments. Masema laid her back on her bedroll, taking his time to learn her body even if he couldn’t see it. His fingers traced over old scars, his lips following close behind. He licked, kissed and bit her skin, leaving physical marks on her the same way she had done to his soul. He doesn’t know how long they stayed wrapped in each other, just know that it wasn’t nearly long enough. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the sounds of her soft breathing as she rested her head on his chest the most wonderful thing he thought he’d ever experienced. Masema sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Creator and the Divines for giving him a chance to find redemption, feeling a sense of certainty spread through his veins at the idea of aiding the true chosen of Akatosh.

Taglist: @valeskafics @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @gemini-mama @alexagirlie @thenameswinter99 @mrsarnasdelicious @synintheraven

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Mephala: So, brother, what's the second book?

Hermaeus Mora: *looks at title* Smut.

Sanguine: *zooms across the room* What?

[tidesfate]

Magic - Our muses have sex as part of a ritual WE ALREADY KNO WHO

❛[ VARIOUS SMUT PROMPTS ≻ accepting !

TO UNRAVEL IS NOT TO UNMAKE, BUT TO REMAKE. Fate had lay hidden from the eyes of its Observer, its pen-hand // THE REASON HAD BEEN OPENED WHERE ONCE BLINDED. A knotwork, itself and his bound into a tapestry that the Prince could not lay endless hues upon yet. Time. It shall come-- - what mattered was what could be traced. A line, an unpleasant fate-string of the Lord of Rots that had not a single inkling of itself writ within. Slow, SLOW did it begin to paint black rivets over flesh under own bare theft-flesh. IT MAY SETTLE STRIPPED, BUT THIS WOULD SURELY SEE IT TRULY UNDRESSED. This forms edges already began to seep, the ink from facial orifices serving as the scribe running down claws.

GOLDEN HUES DRANK IN THE LITTLE TWITCHES AND NOISES OF ITS BEFATED LAY 'NEATH IT. Last moment that had been had where Hermaeus Mora begun to OUTLINE THE STRINGS IT COULD SEE // COULD TOUCH, it had witnessed the same. It desired to see, to hear, TO FEEL. Feel as he did-- - not waste a moment of sensation. Talons formed a sigil 'pon Agravaine's; a thrumming green begins where once black // AND IT TUGS CAREFUL. In tempo with hands coming to rest on its fashioned hips, thumbs hooking where golden gifted chains still lay like other pieces strewn across its shape.

A WISPY STRING OF EMERALD IS PINCHED BETWEEN THE OLD ONES GRASP, TUGGED FROM THE CURSED'S CENTER. The hum that comes from the breath the other released tapered something ANCIENT as he presses himself in as it seeks to pull out. A beginning // BUT TOO EARLY TO BECOME UNDONE YET. Legs shift, body relaxed in familiarity as it continues the process as he continues on. Hermaeus Mora does not ignore-- - it cannot ignore. Composure does not diminish the pulses of PLEASURES WAKE like waves lapping awaiting shores // OH HOW IT CRAVES. Fate-string is brought to mouth, tendril-tongue wrapping around it. THE MAW BEGINS TO SWALLOW // AND IT SEEKS ONLY MORE OF HIM WITHIN IT.

FRAME IS BROUGHT CLOSER TO ITS MATE AS LIPS FOLLOW THIS FRAGMENT OF WHAT SHALL NOT BE. It rolls hips rhythmic with the Lords ministrations, breaking stead when SOMETHING VIVID IS HIT. A warble churns from throat, brackish sludge falling from lips as Agravaine hits a hilt within depths. Teeth snare claim // HE ARCHES TO THE PULL, IT ARCHES INTO HIS MOTION. Mouth presses to the same rune at center. A growl rumbles against his ribcage, spreads, BLOOMS. IT BLOOMS.

THE MAW SNAPS OVER THE STRING, SEVERING IT-- - THE ROOM BATHES IN A DROWNING VERDANT MIASMA. Pace lifts feverish // PRIMORDIAL, FERAL PERHAPS. It did not matter. Its presentation begins to snap at the seams-- - skin splitting for tentacles, folds where flesh sat splitting for eyes, claws solidifying themselves into LOVINGLY BROKEN SKIN // ADORING, EVERY ANGLE AND PIECE OF HIM INSIDE AND OUT. Body part which had removed what should not be, what need not be, placed to his neck. A purr, a growl, a clicking, a rolling grotesque cacophony of noises bleeding into words. “&– - A unfavorable fate.... I seen it.... I do not exist within it. It has been removed..... not needed-- -.”

THE LORD OF ROT PIERCES YET ANOTHER CENTER OF DELIGHT, AND IT NEARLY BECOMES UNDONE. Mouth cannot help unlatching, digging into flesh-- - his taste blossoms in its mouth // A CADAVERS BOUNTY IT CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF. It cannot get enough of him, it merely wants more and more endlessly. A BEAST OF HUNGERS, AND FOR HIM ALONE IT FINDS ANOTHER CRAVING. A need. Agravaine is a need like the bottomless gnawing it feels endlessly. Tongue presses wound site, attended but unbreaking of the ASSURANCES AND PROMISES CLAWING UP THROAT. The next utterance, nearly a vow. “&– - We are fated.... we are fated.... Mine.... yours... ours-”

[chawsthetransfemdino]

Do

Do you not know Ao3 terms?

Im only on Ao3 for Hermaeus Mora smut research purposes

[ms-katonic-of-tamriel]

Chapters: 29/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak Characters: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Lucien Flavius, Teldryn Sero, Hermaeus Mora Additional Tags: Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Soulmates, Soul Bond, Slow Burn, It's Miraak ofc it's slow burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Redemption, Touch-Starved, Miraak Lives (Elder Scrolls), Long, Don't think I've ever used that tag before but I feel it's justified for this story, There's smut but it's quite a long way in, Hurt/Comfort, Possessive Behavior, As you might expect from dating a dragon Summary:

Bound by fate, a thrall-turned-Dragonborn meets a Dragonborn-turned-trophy.

(AKA my take on a LDB/Miraak romance while staying true to Miraak's character, with soulmates themes. Loosely follows the events of the game).

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

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

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, 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. It 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 boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

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

[evil-is-relative]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak Characters: Miraak, Paarthurnax (Elder Scrolls), Hermaeus Mora, Female Imperial Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Jordis the Sword-Maiden, Blaise (Elder Scrolls), Elisif the Fair Additional Tags: Slow Burn, at least I'm going to see how long I last, Enemies to Lovers, Rivals to Lovers, first multichapter, Fighting, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Distrust, Little bit of body horror, because turning into a Seeker certainly freaks me out, Strength Kink, lots of armor both metaphorical and physical, Masks Summary:

Dragonborn Verity avoids conflict when she can. She's an Imperial, after all. Diplomacy is a national pastime. But when her latest bargain lands her with an ancient Dragonborn with a massive ego and no idea how to function in this century, she really wonders if she's taken on more than she can handle. Especially when Miraak gives her cause to question whether he's even still human...

~☯~

My first attempt at a slow burn! Feed back is very much appreciated!

[jellycatagenda]

Summary: Sanguine goes out for a night of revelry, crashes a cult, pesters the all-knowing bastard, and gets way more than he bargained.

Rating: E

Pairing: Sanguine/Hermaeus Mora

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls, Skyrim

Warnings: Tentacles, shameless smut

Read on A03

[mighty-peacock]

Chapters: 29/29 Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Major Character Death Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Hermaeus Mora, Hermaeus Mora/Miraak, Hermaeus Mora/Miraak/F!DB Characters: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Hermaeus Mora, Original Breton Character(s), Original Dragon Character(s), Paarthurnax (Elder Scrolls), Alduin (Elder Scrolls), Sanguine (Elder Scrolls), Sahrotaar (Elder Scrolls), Ulfric Stormcloak Additional Tags: Rough Sex, Hate Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Dragonborn - Freeform, Graphic Description, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape, Forced Partners, Tentacles, Tentacle Rape, Non-Consensual Bondage, Bondage, Size Difference, Loss of Virginity, Blood and Violence, Love/Hate, Daedric Princes, Daedra Machination, Dark, apocrypha, Forced Orgasm, Threesome - F/M/Other, Torture, Violence, Humiliation, Depowered, Collars, Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Angst, Depression, Forced, Orgasm Control, Mutual Masturbation, Haphephobia, Cock & Ball Torture, Forced Breeding, Castration, Adultery, Miscarriage, Forced to Watch, Forced Yaoi, Orgy, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Loss of Control, Reverse Forced Oral, Aphrodisiacs, Insanity, Death, Paarthurnax - Freeform, Portals, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Nightmares, Fluff and Smut Series: Part 2 of Fahliil-Sunvaar-Wahlaan Summary:

****PLEASE READ TAGS**** TRIGGER WARNING ****

Triggers: Rape, Tentacle Rape, Forced Partners

Yeah, we're back already lol This one is dark guys. Really dark. Read at own risk.

Hope you like this one, Darkshards :D

[deleriumofyou]

L, M, T

L: Weirdest AU you ever came up withWeirdest AU I ever came up with: something I'm working on right now, set to be a oneshot. Crossover with Skyrim with Lovecraftian themes; where Hermaeus Mora finds a way into Thedas, starring Aslaug who is certain he's the World-Eater. (I'll probably finish it this year, as I've planned it to be a long oneshot)M: got any premises on the back burnerI am working on something! Multichaptered with Solas and Aslaug POV; an AU where they end up as slaves in Tevinter; very Roman-gladiator-esque. I meant for it to be lighter than it is currently, but my plans always fall apart. T: tropes you can't standI avoid tropes that deal in obsessively possessive or jealous partners. And I'm not a fan of ABO in general. I also find it very difficult to get into oneshots that only have smut without any plot, usually. Thanks for the ask! :)

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

For the horny and embarrassed asks:

Hermaeus Mora's voice and Teldryns voices in particular are ones I'd like to hear say some very inappropriate things. Hermaeus Mora would probably kill me IRL in an instant, but when it comes to smut- sign me up.

And this one, this one is far more embarrassing but- Dagoth Ur's voice. If it wasn't for the fucking statue glued to that man's head I'd definitely have more to say here

NO! ANOTHER TENTACLE KISSER ESCAPED CONFINEMENT! 😭🤣 You're good, Nonnie. Mora's not my cup of coco, but there is a reason Teldryn Sero won the Skyrim Sexyman Poll. You're Gucci! ❤️‍🔥

But? He sends you wedding dreams? And they're so creepy and sweet? 🥰✨

[mumia0813]

Chapters: 38/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Cicero/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Cicero (Elder Scrolls)/Original Female Character(s), Ancano/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Lucien Lachance/Listener Characters: Cicero, Nightmother, Ulfric Stormcloak, J'zargo (Elder Scrolls), Ondolemar (Elder Scrolls), Ralof (Elder Scrolls), Hadvar (Elder Scrolls), Dark Brotherhood, Lucien Lachance, Sithis (Elder Scrolls), Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Hermaeus Mora, The Night Mother (Elder Scrolls), Aludin, Paarthurnax (Elder Scrolls), The Greybeards (Elder Scrolls) Additional Tags: Consensual Possession, Family Drama, everyone is so dramatic, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Motherhood, Miraak Lives (Elder Scrolls) Summary:

Skyrim...Id just wanted to get to Winterhold. --------------

(Based off my playthrough yet also not. More along the lines of what I wish would/should happen) ---------------- Changed rating fyi

[tentacle-explosion]

Do you think Miraak read smut in Apocrypha? Mora is bound to have some lying around in the place.

Probably. There’s very little to do in Apocrypha except for read, and he had thousands of years to waste. I’m sure that many of those years were spent reading up on magic and other sources of power to facilitate his escape, but he couldn’t have spent all his time working. I’m inclined to think that for some time after he arrived, he probably still had a sex drive, but being there for so long probably crushed it eventually. (Only to have it potentially reawakened by the LDB.)

Side note: I have to wonder how much Miraak could possibly remember from all those years in Apocrypha. He may be Dragonborn/have a dragon’s soul, but he’s still physically human, and his brain would theoretically have its limits. It’s already incredible that he could have regular exposure to Hermaeus Mora, his realm, and the Black Books without going absolutely insane like everyone else who has attempted those things. It seems like there’d have to be a limit to how much information he could cram into his brain and actually retain. So he probably read the same books over and over again, maybe not even remembering that he’d read them before.