#i have no life cause skyrim is life | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thydungeongal · 1 month ago

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I can't imagine what life must be like for you. You wake up every day shitting and pissing yourself with rage because somewhere in the world there are people playing D&D and even worse, playing it WRONG. You don't have to play it with them or even hear about them doing it but the fact that they exist and there's no way for you to stop them will cause you endless torment for the rest of their life. "

Stop homebrewing!!!!" you scream through tears, "Don't you understand that there are other games?" But they do not respond because they do understand, but they know you are mentally incapable of understanding that people who heavily homebrew their games do so because the act of homebrewing a game is the fun they are after. You are doing the equivalent of yelling at someone who plays modded Skyrim because don't they know that Pathologic exists? But they do know Pathologic exists. They do not want to play Pathologic. They want to play modded Skyrim. Because modding the game IS the fun they are having. For them, the modding is the game. And going to play a different game instead would not be the experience they are looking for.

You do not and will never understand that for the majority of the D&D playing population, it is primarily a social activity. A way for them to kick back and hang out and have fun with their friends. The idea that they would factor in the opinions of some random loser on the internet is absurd. You are going up to a group of guys who get together and shoot hoops every friday after work and screaming "NO!!! YOU'RE NOT FOLLOWING THE OFFICIAL NBA RULEBOOK! YOU'RE NOT EVEN KEEPING SCORE!!! TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY!!! AND WHY DON'T YOU PLAY HOCKEY INSTEAD!!!" But they do not care. This is a recreational activity to bond with people that they care about, and you are such an unlikable little creep that you will never know what that's like.

"I'm just trying to get them to engage with the art form!" you lie, "Only playing one game is like only reading one book or only watching one movie!" Except that the average number of ttrpgs that the average person has played is still 0, and even when you count all people who have ever played D&D, the vast majority are people who played a couple of games and then never got back to it. You're acting like this is some massive moral social disease that needs to be cured to solve the anti-intellectualism problem in society as opposed to being the niche hobby of a small portion of the population.

"I just want to show people how great other games are," you lie, because if you actually did want that you would spend your time talking about your favorite games and what makes them great instead of spending all your free time insulting D&D players for the fact that they don't already play these games. I love so many TTRPGS and there are so many others that I would love to get to play, but I can't talk to people about them because so many D&D players first exposure to other game is people like you screaming at them that "EVERYONE WHO PLAYS D&D INSTEAD OF MY GAME IS A FUCKING MORON IDIOT FASCIST WHO SHOULD BE SHOT" and it immediately turns them off from wanting to try those games.

Like maybe if more of you spend your time talking about how cool your last game was, posting session diaries online, discussing your favorite mechanical interactions, posting actual play podcasts or youtube videos, that would entice people to want to try, but in order to do that you would have to understand what having fun playing a game feels like, and you fundamentally don't.

You are the worst thing to happen to the hobby you're actively sabotaging people from wanting to try new games. Honestly Hasbro should be paying you for doing their work for them, making it look like if people leave D&D to try other systems they'll be surrounded by people who scream at and insult them nonstop.

At this point D&D is popular because it is popular. If I want to play D&D, I know I can find a group. If I dig harder, I know I can find one of the other big names (call of cthulhu, vampire the masquerade, pathfinder, MAYBE shadowrun) but finding a full table of people who are all interested in playing a more obscure game (and not even super obscure, even stuff like monster of the week or blades in the dark), and specifically who all want to play the SAME more obscure game? That's really challenging and you strike out a lot, and the fact is hat people get into this hobby because they actually want to fucking play game, not sit around imagining what it would be like to play and then argue with people on the internet.

And the funniest part of all this bullshit is that it literally does not effect you in the slightest. Those five friends hanging out after a hard week of work roleplaying about kissing elves in their basement half a world away are not going to break into your house and make you play D&D and play it their way. It shouldn't upset you but it does, because you are an unhappy person and rather than acknowledge that and deal with it you would rather put the blame for how you feel on some random people you have never met and will never meet, so you spend all your time on the internet frothing at the mouth with rage, trying as hard as you can to make everyone else as miserable as you are.

But it doesn't work, because those people aren't reading your posts. They are having fun kissing elves in the dungeon, blissfully unaware of what some miserable, unpleasant assholes on the internet think about it. They are having fun with their favorite hobby and you are not, and a hobby will never be defined by the 1% of people who spend all their time complaining that the other 99% are doing it wrong, it's defined by what the 99% of people involved are actually doing, and that's what makes you mad and that's what makes you such a fucking worthless loser.

Your mistake is assuming that when I write about RPGs, even critically, that I'm having a bad time, but I actually enjoy the intellectual exercise of thinking about the things I enjoy critically. You should try it too! :)

Also I'm very glad that you've really nailed down on my ideology of "everyone who plays D&D instead of my game is an idiot fascist who must be shot," a thing I am always saying and am in fact famous for saying.

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drgnflyteabox · 4 months ago

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the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #skyrim au #i truly don't know but i had fun writing it #hehe #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #cw murder #idk what else to tag #i love skyrim #i dont know shit about goats #genuinely this is jokes but i've been playing a ton of skyrim so here you go

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vexwerewolf · 1 year ago

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I always figured the Imperials were the good guys.

Nnnnnngh… no. Imperials are the better of two bad options, and it's really muddied because Bethesda lost its good writers years before Skyrim came out. I can feel a hyperfixation coming on, so a quick TL;DR: the Empire is an Empire so it's still bad, the Stormcloaks are just racist saboteurs led by a Manchurian agent and Tiber Septim is a gigantic piece of shit who ruined everything.

Okay, so the Empire functionally lost its equivalent of the Mandate of Heaven when Martin Septim died heirless at the end of Oblivion. His sacrifice forged a new compact to end the Daedric incursions, but by that point Imperial infrastructure throughout Tamriel had been so badly damaged that it could no longer maintain order. By the time the Mede dynasty got its feet under it, several provinces had either risen in revolt against the Empire or and were busy violently settling bitter generational rivalries with each other.

Most notably, this included the Thalmor, who are openly and proudly an Altmer supremacist movement. Their primary goal is to end the dominion of Men on Tamriel and institute a second Merethic Era dominated by them. This is the most obvious reason for why they want to ban Talos worship - the idea that a Man could become Divine is grossly incompatible with their worldview. (I must note that there's also a much-discussed fan theory stating that they intend to unmake creation in its current form and destroying Talos worship is part of that, but it's partially based on sources whose canonicity is in doubt, so I'm not going to discuss it further at this time.) The Thalmor are pretty much explicitly Elf Nazis, right down to invading foreign countries and rounding up their religious minorities.

It should be considered, however, that Tiber Septim was an UNBELIEVABLY MASSIVE PIECE OF SHIT. There's credible evidence that during his mortal life he assassinated the Cyrodillian monarch to whom he had sworn fealty and then seized his throne. He had a dalliance with Berenziah that ended up getting her pregnant, then forcibly abducted her and had the child aborted without her consent. After gaining Numidium from a treaty with the Tribunal of Morrowind, he discovered that they hadn't given them its power source (Lorkhan's Heart - understandable, since it was the source of their false divinity), and so he created a new one, the Mantella, by tearing the souls out of Ysmir and Zurin Arctus, two of his most loyal companions. He used Numidium to brutally conquer the rest of Tamriel and then turned it on all the noble families in Cyrodil who hadn't supported him. His empire - as all empires are - was built entirely on murder, pillage and rape. And - as all emperors do - he rewrote his own history because nobody dared openly oppose it. If the Aedra truly did award him a seat amongst them after this (and the fact that his bloody armor counts as "the blood of a divine" in Oblivion suggests that they did), it's questionable whether any of them are worthy of worship.

Nonetheless, worship of Talos was of extreme cultural importance to the Nords, because he was considered by history to have been a Nord, and indeed born in Atmora, the mythic first homeland of the Nords (although, again, it's likely he was just fucking lying - heterodox historical accounts suggest he was born in High Rock and never saw Atmora in his life). The White-Gold Concordat was formulated specifically to provoke division between the remaining provinces of the Empire - the Thalmor correctly predicted that the Nords would never tolerate being stripped of their right to worship Talos, and would rise in revolt against an Empire that mandated it.

The specific cause of the Stormcloak Rebellion is also… dubious. During the war with the Thalmor, the Imperial Legion had all but pulled out of Skyrim. This allowed an uprising by the Reachmen, an ethnic minority within southwestern Skyrim who, notably, had been brutally disenfranchised and stripped of their land by… Tiber Septim! Thanks, Talos, you continue to be a gigantic piece of shit! Anyway, they seized control of Markarth and held it for two years, during which by most accounts they ruled it as an independent kingdom that was making overtures towards being recognised by the Empire. After the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, Ulfric Stormcloak raised an army to retake it, and was promised by the Jarl of the Reach (and, allegedly, the Empire itself) that worship of Talos would be freely allowed in Markarth. Ulfric Stormcloak then proceeded to lay siege to the city and butcher it, ethnically cleansing the city of every last Reachman down to the women and children, slaughtering any Nord who had collaborated with them and allegedly even killing those citizens of Markarth who hadn't answered his call to arms.

Inevitably, the Thalmor found out about the Talos worship anyway and the Jarl was forced to sell out Ulfric and his men. This is generally considered to be the betrayal that sparked the civil war, but at this point we must examine who Ulfric is.

Ulfric was trained in the Thu'um from an early age by the Greybeards, but abandoned his tutelage to fight in the Great War. We know little of his performance other than that he was captured by the Thalmor, tortured extensively, and falsely made to believe that the information he had given under torture was instrumental in the fall of the Imperial City. His father, the Jarl of Windhelm, died while he was in prison, and he was forced to deliver a eulogy via a letter that he had smuggled out of the prison. He claims he escaped from captivity, while Thalmor records claim that they let him go intentionally; neither source is particularly reliable.

From a sociopolitical standpoint, Ulfric is a staunch Nordic traditionalist who openly states that he doesn't believe Skyrim has had a "true" High King for centuries, considering recent monarchs to simply be puppets installed by the Empire. He also seems to be deeply racist: in contrast to his father, he banned Argonians from entering Windhelm proper, confining them to the Assemblage on the docks, and he's allowed racist sentiments towards the Dunmer residents of the Grey Quarter to worsen. Even citizens of Windhelm who support the rebellion comment that isn't doing very much governing, since the civil war eats up most of his attention.

One point I will give to Ulfric is that establishing Skyrim as an independent kingdom that can actively resist the Thalmor isn't actually as far-fetched as it seems. After the White-Gold Concordat ceded half of Hammerfell to the Thalmor, Hammefell said "how about fuck you," broke from the Empire entirely, and smacked the Thalmor down so hard they had to sign the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai and retreat from Hammerfell entirely. This rendered the nation a haven for those opposed to the Thalmor, and they're in such a strong position that the Alik'r can actively hunt Thalmor collaborators like Saadia in other nations. Hammerfell is in a better position than Skyrim, and it did it without any Imperial aid.

(A hilarious fact about the Hammerfell situation is that the Thalmor tried the exact same thing there - inciting a civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears, two factions that have hated one another for generations. Unfortunately, they fucked it up so badly that it actually managed to end the rivalry and unite both of them against the Thalmor.)

But this is where Bethesda's inability to actually capitalize on the good parts of their writing really gets to me.

The Empire in Skyrim… sucks. Like, from your perspective as a player, the first experience you have of the Empire is "okay, so you were at the border alongside this guy and we're executing him today so I guess you get to die too." The only decent Imperial you meet is Hadvar, who makes a lukewarm plea for your life but doesn't press the issue.

All of the Imperial Jarls except for Balgruuf and Idgrod Ravencrone are dogshit. Elisif is a naive, incompetent teenager. Siddgeir is an arrogant, incompetent ponce. Igmund is a spineless Thalmor toady reigning over stolen land, having broken a promise he made to Ulfric and thus being partially responsible for the civil war. The replacement Jarls you get if you side with the Empire and conquer territories the Stormcloaks hold at the start of the game fall into two categories: "who?" and "oh fuck not you." If I say the names Brina Merilis or Kraldar, I bet you won't even remember who I'm talking about. Brunwulf Free-Winter, the replacement for Ulfric Stormcloak, has ONE personality feature and it's "I'm slightly less racist than Ulfric." But when you capture Riften for the Empire, the new Jarl is MAVEN FUCKING BLACK-BRIAR, THE SECOND-WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

But the Stormcloaks suck worse. Laila-Law Giver is a puppet for the Black-Briar crime family. Skald the Elder is a grumpy, hidebound old man. Korir might as well not be ruling anything at all. If you side with them, you have to sell out Balgruuf when the matter of Whiterun comes up - a man who has never been anything but helpful, supportive, trusting and forthright with you. Oh, and let's not forget that if you take the Reach for the Stormcloaks, the new Jarl is THONGVOR SILVER-BLOOD, LITERAL SLAVEOWNER AND WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

(There is an absolutely cursed timeline wherein during the "territory trade" at the peace talks you can hold during the main quest if you haven't finished the civil war quest yet where Maven gets the Rift and Thongor gets the Reach, meaning you have just installed the two most powerful crime families in the country into positions of executive power.)

This isn't just a case of "of course both sides aren't perfect and have issues." This is just "both sides fucking suck." A better game would allow you to make some headway in resolving the massive issues that face Skyrim, but I've already written like nine billion words here so maybe I should go into that at a different time.

#skyrim #the elder scrolls #writing #bethesda

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thana-topsy · 1 year ago

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SKYRIM OC ASKS

I wanted to make a more in-depth and lore-building set of questions for people's Skyrim-specific OCs! This can be used as an ask game, or if you just want to answer them all without waiting for people to ask, have at it!

(Thanks to my good fandom buddies for all the suggestions!)

Which areas of Skyrim do they find most beautiful and most dangerous?

Which cities do they prefer to stay in and why? Which cities to they avoid at all costs?

What are their religious affiliations, and how does their worship (or lack thereof) affect their day-to-day life?

Do they believe the College of Winterhold caused the Great Collapse? If no, what is their theory?

Would they be able to live off the land if they were lost in the wilds of Skyrim? How skilled are they at foraging and hunting?

What is their opinion on Skyrim's "bandit problem"?

Do they regret journeying to Skyrim? Or, if they were born in Skyrim, do they wish they could leave?

What is their favorite kind of food that can only be found in Skyrim?

Do they believe in snow/sky whales?

Are they a part of any factions, guilds, or organizations?

If they are a magic user, what is their favorite school of magic? Do they have a natural talent for magic, or does it require diligence and study?

What are their prejudices? What groups have they come to think of as 'other'? Mages? Nords? Elves? Lollygaggers?

Do they believe the old nordic tales about the Dragonborn? If they are Dragonborn how has their experience differed?

Who is their mentor? Who do they go to most for lessons?

How do they feel about consorting with daedra? Do they collect their artifacts? Are there some they would never interact with vs. some they would consider calling upon?

What are their opinions on the civil war? Do they support a side or leave them to their own devices?

Do they have family? Who doe they consider to be family?

What is their stance on taking a life? Do they kill without a second thought, in the name of a god or daedra, or do they adhere to pacifism?

How are they with money? Do they hoard, or do they spend until their pockets are empty and they have to find work again? Have they saved for any houses?

Can they read?

#ask game #oc ask game #skyrim #skyrim oc #skyrim fanfiction #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #tesblr #worldbuilding #character design #writing

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xxspellbloxedxx · 14 days ago

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Kara, an ex forsworn now a Shaman of the reach who helps weary travelers along the roads

#fun #i have no life cause skyrim is life #skyrim original character #Skyrim oc #Skyrim original character design #skyrim character #Skyrim #the elder scrolls oc #tes oc #tesblr #tes #the elder scrolls #forsworn #breton #hagraven #oblivion #morrowind

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stoutguts · 2 months ago

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I am such a firm believer, that if Soap and Ghost are an item/boyfriends/husbands,—then Gaz is Soap’s bsf, while Roach is Ghost’s bsf. While, Roach and Gaz would be together, (at least in my mind, I love GazRoach).

Soap and Gaz are incredibly chaotic together and get into all kinds of trouble. Motherfuckers cannot take ANYTHING seriously. Drinking and smoking together, (often getting wasted or as high as a kite, which often leads to more shenanigans). Doing drinking games or showing off smoking tricks to each other. Starting shit with random people just cause they can, Kyle joining Johnny at the demolitions site and in blowing random stuff up around base, pulling moronic or downright despicable pranks on everyone on base just for laughs, or messing around at the range, making their own crude targets to shoot or knife. Maybe even a bit of vandalism, arson, or other stupid stuff when the two are off-duty together,—but don’t tell Price that. They especially like to prank Roach and Ghost and get under their skins. Price often separates them on missions, because he’s afraid that they’re going to royally fuck things up somehow, if they’re together. Constantly sending each other memes they think the other would find funny. Or brainrotted, almost incoherent conversations over text at 3 in the morning. Sending each other dumbass voice messages or notes of them screaming, singing, or doing impressions/horrible attempts at voice acting. They also like to dunk on and make fun of the other members of the 1-4-1, or gossip about them to each other. They just love to talk shit. They both always need to know latest scoop or bout of drama on base. Both have ADHD, and are constantly in need some form of stimulation. So, when hanging out in person (and when they’re not getting up to nefarious activities)—They’re listening to music (hard rock and metal or alternative rock (like Korn, Slipknot, Muse, Radiohead, System of a Down, etc) often times, but they also both love pop (particularly Britney Spears, Kesha, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry),—while also watching YouTube, (random video essays they find interesting or entertaining, old YouTube poops, or Moist Cr1TiKaL/penguinz0/Charlie’s videos),—while also showing each other memes on their phones, while Soap also may or may not be drawing, while Gaz also may or may not be writing, while also buying random shit they think is funny off of Amazon.

Ghost and Roach are just the types to play cards together, or maybe watch a movie, or play a board game. (They particularly like watching horror/thriller movies or rom-coms. They like Candy Land, Monopoly, Battleship, Life, and Clue in terms of board games. While, they’re favorite card games are Slapjack, Poker, and Go Fish. They also like playing Chess, Checkers, The Oregon Trail, Exploding Kittens, or Cards Against Humanity from time to time). (Both are extremely competitive, and will often get into petty fights, whether it’s a case of one or the other being a sore loser, or one accusing the other of cheating). Maybe even going out to a local Tesco’s together for a snack run or some fast food drive thru at 1am, or they’ll have a day at the mall, mostly window shopping around random stores or getting something to eat at the food court. (Both are heavily food motivated). Something low-key or chill is really always their go-to. The occasional sleepover. They love to do each other’s nails or hair, or attempt random makeup looks they’ve found on Instagram or something for shits and giggles. They’re also gaming buddies. They’ll play stuff like Minecraft, GTA, Sea of Thieves, Left 4 Dead, Team Fortress 2, (some of Gary’s favorite games). Or they’ll play DND, Overwatch, or some first-person shooter game together (much to Simon’s delight). Roach will even just watch Ghost play rhythm games like Project Diva, Guitar Hero, or Geometry Dash—Or dark fantasy RPG games (Simon’s favorite genre of video games), like Dark Souls, Bloodborne, Skyrim, Elden Ring, or The Witcher. Lots of deep conversations, either over text or in person that’ll last for hours, (might end in one or the both of them crying, and hugging it out/comforting one another). They also often call each other just to check in, and just to hear each other’s voices when they’re apart or when they’re not together. Roach being like the only person Ghost feels comfortable opening up to, besides Johnny or Gary just being the person he’s closest to outside of it’s partner. To be fair, they bond by just being in each other’s presence/they just enjoy each other’s company. No words need to be spoken between them for them to have a good time.

It’s the best though when all 5 of them get together, (Soap, Ghost, Roach, Gaz, and Yuri), as it’s the perfect amount of chill and chaotic at the same time. Super Smash Bros, Mariokart, or Mario Party is always best with five players, after all.

Yuri being aroace, and his friends are all that he needs. He’s able to handle both the chaos and peace. Though Nikolai is his true best friend. The two going way back, and are brothers in arms through and through. Having met when Nik was still in the army. A good portion of it is that they’re bonded through shared trauma. They have a father and son sort of relationship (Nikolai being much older than Yuri), and care about each other deeply. In fact, they’d die for each other, they’re that close. They mostly keep in touch via text and phone calls (not by choice), but will meet up together at a bar or tavern every now and then.

Price and Laswell being best friends and also going way back, like before they even joined the army/CIA. Having met each other in high school. Price, Nik, Laswell, and her wife having dinner parties. Chatting about old times and catching up with one another every so often. They try to call to see how the others doing every now and then, though they much prefer seeing each other in person. Sometimes they’ll even go mini-golfing or bowling together as a double date kind of thing.

Also, Yuri is such a slept-on character. People forget about him/that he exists, and I wish he was appreciated more. :(

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skyrim-forever · 11 days ago

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WIP Wednesday

Hello everyone it’s another Wednesday ✨ Thanks for the tag @hircines-hunter loved seeing blorbo children and I’m also bringing blorbo children 🥰

Tagging: @lucien-lachance @dirty-bosmer (know you’re v busy so tagging you so you can have a laugh 🤭) @firefly-factory @pocket-vvardvark @ladytanithia @umbracirrus

@bougainvillea-and-saltwater @captain-of-silvenar @changelingsandothernonsense @thequeenofthewinter @scholarlyhermit (if you’d like to join in ☺️)

This week I’m working on finishing the second part of a fic I put out in November called You Didn’t Say Your Parents Were… in which Theodora’s daughter brings home her new boyfriend from the CoW to meet her family. This snippet is over dinner while Theo is sharing some of her Skyrim stories, particularly how she wound up in Cidhna Mine and her eldest is being a bit of a shit disturber 😛

“Oddly comforting to hear Markarth has not changed.” Theodora and Ondolemar share a knowing look before he leaves the room.

“Some things never change, love.” Looking back at him, she provides the truth. “The first time I went to Markarth, I cannot remember what brought me there now, but I ended up investigating corruption within the city. There’s more corruption than there is city, truthfully. That investigation got me thrown in the prison, Cidhna Mine, a dreadful place where supposedly you earn your freedom mining silver. Not that anyone has gained freedom, let us not be mistaken. Only prison in Skyrim to be privately owned. It was there I met the Forsworn leader, the King in Rags Madanach and aided him in escaping. He managed to escape and just when I thought I’d be hauled back to prison, the Jarl’s guards told me my name was clear. Apologized for arresting the Dragonborn and the Silver-Blood family, Markarth’s elite who own half the city, even held a celebration for me. A way for them to cover themselves, arresting the Dovahkiin is not a good look and I was also newly joined the Legion. They did not need the Empire looking too closely at them.” She sighs deeply. “But I did not defeat Madanach, I was sympathetic to their cause but honestly I was more concerned with not rotting underground for the rest of my life.”

There had been much, much more to the story than Ralos anticipated, but how intriguing was it to learn that the truth was far stranger than the rumours made it seem. Heroism was complex as he was learning, rather rapidly, over dinner of all things.

“I’m so sorry to hear that Mrs. Vi-” He stops himself, falling into old habits. “Theodora, that sounds terrifying. Ceri has mentioned wanting to visit Markarth but now I know it is best to avoid it entirely.”

“You’re very sweet Ralos, but I would not worry. I think you two should visit, we own property there, Vindral Hall, you two would be more than welcomed there.” He gives her a puzzled look. “Though Markarth has a bad reputation, my experience being on the worse end, I have plenty of wonderful memories there. Beautiful architecture you will not find in another city, waterfalls, a very good alchemist at the time. And it was at that celebration that I met the children’s father for the first time.” Ondolemar returns at the tailend of this, new bottle of wine in hand. By Mephala these people can drink it seemed the wine was never ending. The Altmer refills her goblet yet again.

“That is true, we met that night. Though I did not know of your extent of your treatment there at the time, it was completely unacceptable.”

“You would have taken issue with it, even then?”

“Of course.” He responds. A faint snicker is heard from beside him, Arthano noticing there has been peace for too long.

“That’s doubtful.” Ondolemar makes the rounds refilling goblets, conveniently between Ricardo and the older one at the moment.

“We always encourage you to share your thoughts, speak.” Addressing his mother, he does share his thoughts on the matter. Sharing a bit of the messiness Ralos expected earlier.

“Well, and I say this will all due respect, Ata. Nothing but respect for you.” Reaching his arm out, he offers his father a reassuring look. “But wasn’t he awful when you first met? Or rather less awful and more…” He pauses, thinking hard for the right word.” “Stereotypical? Yes, that’s the nicest way to put it.”

“How kind my son is to me.”

If you asked the Dunmer if he enjoyed gossip, he would firmly say no. That he found no pleasure in the personal lives of others, no matter how juicy the details. Affairs, bribery, secret children. No, no when his aunt discussed those matters with her friends he ignored everything. Certainly never listened in, shocked by the hidden lives of the population of Narsis. Even further, he only listened a little when the other students would gossip, they conversed loudly in front of him, it was hard to not hear. And of course Ceri would tell him things but, he was listening to his girlfriend. That’s all, making sure she was heard and understood. Which is what he is doing now, making sure he is attentive to her family and if he happens to learn more inadvertently than, so be it. A very annoyed sigh is heard as Ondolemar begrudgingly gives his son more drink.

“That is between your mother and I, how do you even learn that?”

“Blame Aunt Phy, she tells me things! Also told me mother had a whole arena career I didn’t know about until I wanted to join.” Theodora laughs.

“Your aunt would say that, both those things. Do not hold your father’s past transgressions against him.” It is a quick comment, low and vaguely hushed.

“That woman let’s me have no dignity.” Their mother continues her point.

“It was a very different phase of life, for both of us. Clearly everything turned out as it was meant to. Is it not enough to torture your siblings, you must do so your father as well.” Returning to his seat, their father makes one more remark in response to Arthano.

“Should you ever consider a career change, your quick wit would serve you well as a jester. You could inquire as early as tomorrow.” The whole table snickers and even he laughs.

“Well played Ata, perhaps I deserved that.”

“Perhaps indeed.”

#wip wednesday #finally finishing this family dinner fic #already longer than chapter 1 by a fair amount 🤪#Arthano bullying his father #peak swoose moment “peace was never an option #he’s been especially disturbing the shot this chapter bits it’s okay he’s going through something 💔

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