#miraak fanfiction

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Four

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

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

Word Count: 6.2k

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

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

Part Three

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

Is this what falling feels like?

You thought you knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re a complete fool. An idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

What a mess you’ve made.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does my collection interest you?”

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

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

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

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

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

You throw the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora’s servant.

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

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

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

How…convenient.

You want to laugh but you might sound mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They were simply trying to subdue you.”

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

Miraak stiffens. “That is most unfortunate.”

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

“That was not my instruction.”

Hermaeus Mora’s words come creeping back to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seekers are servants of Mora…aren’t they?

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

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

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

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

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

“That is a Seeker,” replies Miraak flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

Miraak’s answer gives you no comfort.

“Is that all?” he asks, almost bored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell are you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he replies, almost instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You also interrupted my progress on Solstheim.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it not?”

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

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

Miraak shrugs. “I’ve not been idle.”

“Clearly,” you snort.

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

“And that makes you better than me?”

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

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

But here you are. And here is Miraak.

The two of you. Together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you have?” counters Miraak.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The water has grown cold.

The bundles of lavender have unraveled. Wilted.

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

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

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

taglist:

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

[spinchboli]

🫀⚔️Age of the dragons: blood upon the snow⚔️🫀

"A woman leaving a path of vengeance in her wake, surviving in a war-torn land baptized in fire and blood. She cannot run from the past that haunts her, her path takes a jarring turn when an ancient and unholy evil rouses from its eternal slumber within the crypts of Solstheim and shrouds the land in shadow. When an old shadow of her past comes back to haunt her and when the black wings of death take flight when brother has turned against brother as he threatens to destroy the world with his ravenous maw, will she and Miraak put their differences aside? Or with they destroy eachother tooth and claw?"

-

Salmon sharks

Rats

Salmon

Bait ball

Blue shark

Orca

Mudcrab

Tiger keelback snake

Seeker

Horker

Blood dragon

Glenumbrian blue cat

Felsaad tern

Dwarven ballista

Velvet bellied lantern shark

Themes of anti war and found family, this is a long fic that is more slower paced and focuses on building into the world building around the elder scrolls. This fic itself deals with the themes of characters witnessing the worst monstrosities of humanity in a land ravaged by war and themes of religious trauma and corruption, heavy themes of monsters having more humanity then most humans. The thalmor recently being introduced in the background pulling the strings of everything that happens, everything comes full circle and falls into the thalmor in some way- they are the main antagonists of the story.

The main character is supposed to be a similar character as Miraak, the parallel eachother immensely and has been a repeating theme in recent chapters- she's an asshole and not supposed to be likeable, very morally dubious but follow on their journey of the worst people in tamriel relearning what humanity truly is.

Animal and plant symbolism, some stands for subtle foreshadowing. It's up to the reader to figure out what they mean.

[imjustgoose]

Harry Pooter and The Eccentric Dragon Man

Hey gang I just wrote a fanfic for a Redditor I found a month ago. Nevermind the fact I've never posted, give it some love! You can also read it on Ao3 here. It features Miraak the First Dragonborn as a weird Hogwarts teacher absolutely beefing the Wizarding World:

To say that the students of Hogwarts were curious about their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher would be an understatement, for they had only a few whispers of knowledge surrounding the teacher that spread amongst the students like wizard lice:

Professor Miraak was an ancient man with the soul and blood of a dragon. He harboured unique powers and had spent over 4500 years in a realm governed by a tentacle monster. Both he and the monster had voices like warm honey and unquenchable thirsts for knowledge, two of a kind.

The trouble was that such thirsts came at a cost for the man these days. Ever since he was rescued from Apocrypha by the Last Dragonborn, Miraak was still on the hunt for any new power or knowledge he could get his hands on. Unfortunately, the Dragonborn’s job wasn’t enough to cover the costs he required, so Miraak found himself dusting off a chalkboard ten minutes before his class was to begin. It was strange, but Miraak loved to talk and he loved being the smartest person in the room even more. He still donned his typical robes and armour, but his face was visible to the world upon Dumbledore’s request to ‘maintain a welcoming image’. Miraak scoffed at the idea, but he complied. There wasn’t much that he could do to hide the black ink stains around his eyes, his facial scars, his blackened scleras or his slit pupils, but he at least kept his facial hair neat and ran pomade through his tresses. He heard a student whisper something that sounded like ‘cloth girlfriend’ when he was introduced to the school in the middle of the year, but Miraak paid no mind to it. Gender meant little when you were an Atmoran half-dragon who could shout people through walls, and he figured that the cloth comment was in reference to his robes. Before Miraak could dwell on it any further, his senses told him to turn around, so he did. Eye contact was something for him to improve on, since he was not accustomed to conversing with humans for over 4500 years, so he swept his gaze across the room. The eyes that were on him watched with interest, but most were focused on their books and other students. His class was suddenly full of students, time to begin.

“Is everyone seated?” Miraak more so asked himself rather than the students, spying only two empty seats and immediately combing his mind for why two chairs would be unoccupied. He must have looked confused or annoyed, since a girl with a bushy head of brown hair was quick to speak up.

“The Patil twins are away for family business, sir,” she responded in a uniform manner. Miraak quirked a scarred brow before nodding.

“Very well, I’ll make a note of that later…” Miraak answered, eyeing the other students in their respective friend groups. He knew none of the students, but he was nothing if not charismatic, so he offered a thin smile and began writing his name on the board, “the other teachers prefer to be called by their last name, but I do not refer to myself by a family name. You shall call me Professor Miraak,” he stated, writing his name in English and Dovahzul. The girl from earlier furrowed her brows as she saw the strange symbols, waiting a moment before raising her hand. Miraak gestured for her to speak, his eyes narrowing as he observed her rigid state. In fact, the whole class seemed out of sorts. When he was their age, he’d sneak out of the temple for wine and gratifying escapades, not listening to his mentors even when they threatened to beat him. Atmorans were rough, but kids of any race were rowdy, so why weren’t they?

“I’ve never seen that language before. What is it?” Her inquisitive nature pleased Miraak, being a fellow seeker of knowledge. He looked back at the board and pointed at the markings.

“That is Dovahzul, Dragon language. It is from the dragons of my realm, words that hold power in each syllable. Note how the strokes and points look like claw markings,” he ran his fingers down the strokes of his second language, “as dragons would write for mortals to read. Your headmaster would be wise to teach you this language, but I digress. You are here to learn magic with your….wands, spells to defend yourself against the dangers of this world and any other world you may find yourself in. You must unravel the truth of- yes?” Miraak was cut off by another hand, owned by a blonde boy.

“Where is Professor Umbridge? We were supposed to have her for the whole year,” he asked, visibly annoyed at the teacher change. He seemed to be the only one, since the class subtly reacted with disdain upon hearing the name from his lips. Miraak placed a hand on his hip and looked at the podium where she likely once stood.

“I have been informed that she was unable to teach further, so I am here. I am more than capable of teaching you, rest assured.” Miraak offered another thin smile, which did little to quell the boy’s concern, or annoyance. Miraak was trying to smile more in his days as a free man. Living with his counterpart had helped him attain some semblance of happiness, but he was still healing and still deeply wounded. His past could, at times, scare people off, so he was practising a more friendly look. The Last Dragonborn coached him through it for a week, being thorough and supportive of Miraak’s endeavours. It was a new challenge, so he tried his best to accommodate.

“Now we can finally learn what we need,” Miraak heard a voice mutter. His keen senses immediately zeroed in on a boy in the front, a Draconic stare briefly surfacing before he tried to mask it. The boy looked…stressed. Miraak could practically smell the exhaustion from him, further enunciated by the boy’s pale complexion and dark circles under his glasses. Miraak scoffed, not at the boy, but at the mention of him being the one to teach them after another teacher’s failure.

“Vahzah, you are in the hands of a very capable teacher. I once engaged in a battle so fierce it tore a piece of land off a continent to create an island. I devoured dragons every day to steal their power and have levelled armies with no more than an utter of my breath. I am what the dragons called Dovahkiin, a Dragonborn, and the very first of my kind. If I cannot teach you how to block little zaps from wooden sticks, then nobody can.” Miraak’s tone was arrogant and proud, only boosted by the amazed looks he garnered from his boasting. It made his chest feel hot with fire, a common trait he discovered after the Dragonborn praised him. A dragon’s pride was as precious as the treasures they kept, so looks of awe were logs in his wildfire.

“He's joking, yeah? This bloke’s having a go at wands and talking about dragon-speaking powers,” a redhead spoke to the exhausted boy next to him. Miraak snorted and gave a toothy grin.

“Nothing I do is in jest, unless you find a serpent in your loafers. That would be a prank, done in jest. Magic in my realm comes from hands and mouths, or staves, for those who have a harder time with magicka. No, I was a prodigy, which is why I was chosen to be a Dragon Priest,” Miraak stepped away from the chalkboard and stood on one side of the room after his boast. Without a sweat, he channelled his magicka through his right hand and summoned a skeleton thrall in front of the class. He had to keep himself from inflating too much for the students' praise. Conjuration must have been unfamiliar to them, “tell me now, what spells do you know to dispel an enemy such as this? Anyone can answer, no need for hands,” he asked, looking to see if anyone stands. Surprisingly, nobody stood or answered. Miraak folded his arms in annoyance, “Sahlo kiir! This is an enemy, you’d all be dead by now. Quickly, someone stand and vanquish this thrall before I send it after you!” His words triggered a student to use the Reductor curse. As the skeleton dissipated into blue crackles of magicka, Miraak nodded to him in approval. The student had been the exhausted boy, who looked like someone Miraak should have been familiar with.

“Sir, with all due respect, we already know this stuff. Can’t we, I don’t know, learn stuff that could protect us from real threats?” His voice carried an edge to it that most teachers would have given the student trouble for, but it gave Miraak a streak of satisfaction to see a mind so eager.

“Real threats can come in many different forms. Had I intended to kill you, you’d all be soot, staining the floorboards,” Miraak warned with a cocky smirk, “tell me, what is in this world that you are so eager to fight?” He questioned, moving back to the middle of the room, eyeing the students that seemed almost too frightened to speak.

“Don’t you know about Voldemort? The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” The boy seemed to be growing more frustrated with each name, which Miraak met with indifference. “Petty names for a petty opponent,” Miraak tutted, “In my time, names were a bit less….I want to say stupid? Who gave this man these names?”

“I’m…not sure,” The boy admitted. A few whispers flittered between students, not a single syllable unheard by Miraak. His pupils narrowed as he listened, causing the boy to gulp, also heard by Miraak.

“That is interesting. You children fascinate me. You live in a world where villains less than one hundred years old threaten you. Does he use a little stick too?” Miraak offered a creased smile, feeling amusement from the way his whelps shook in their seats at the thought of a man who hides behind names.

“Sorry, but are you going to teach us or continue to be condescending?” The girl with bushy hair spoke up. Yet another outburst to be chastised for, but it reflected Miraak’s ambition.

“You are right, young one. Vosaraan! Show me what your fancy twigs can do!”

Each student eventually gave their names and demonstrated their main three combat charms as the class progressed. Miraak took note of their strengths, weaknesses and which fighting style of his own knowledge would suit them the most. He eventually singled out Harry, the exhausted boy, and crouched on the teacher’s desk. Miraak sat like a content frog with bent knees and straight arms, earning him a few looks, but he paid no mind.

“In this classroom, we progress by acknowledging the best and the worst. Potter will attempt to strike me, given that he has shown incredible feats of attacking,” Miraak announced, looking between Harry and Neville with a gleam in his eye, “Longbuttocks, what is the best course of action if Potter attacked me and I had nowhere to go?”

“Go up! I mean-”

“Wrong!”

Miraak dodged Harry’s spell by propelling himself to the right. Without a second to breathe, he jumped from the wall he landed on and tackled Harry to the floor. Miraak took Harry’s wand and flung it across the room, watching it land in a fish tank. With a snarl, he jumped back onto the desk, feeling particularly pleased at the looks his students gave.

“Sir? That doesn’t seem like-”

“How do I award points to a house?”

“But- for what?”

“How?”

“You just say the number of points you want to give to a house then say which house you wish to-”

“One hundred points to Slytherin for my victory here,” Miraak beamed with pride, “yes, I am in Slytherin. Okay, work on your disarming charms and write something in Dovahzul for extra points. I will test you again next week, but if I don’t see any progress made I will take points away. Class dismissed.” Miraak finished by running a hand through his hair. The students shuffled out the room, whispering about Miraak clearly being nuts and a ‘goth girlfriend’. He figured he misheard the first letter before, but it still made no sense to him. Either way, he had fun on his first day. Harry dusted himself off and took his wand from the tank with a disgusted look, but gave Miraak a nod before he left. Miraak would make fighters out of his students and give this ‘Dark Lord’ a real threat. In truth, he already knew about Voldemort after a few teachers told him over a cup of tea and dainty sweets that he took to his office for his snack stash. He was not frightened. One strange undead man was nothing to sneeze at, but Miraak would not worry, he was a responsible and good teacher.

~~~~~

Voldemort ended up being easy work, after all the fuss. Miraak’s brassy boots crunched against the shattered glass in the Department of Mysteries as he approached where Voldemort once stood. He picked up a wand and eyed it with a fascinated gaze. Bone, not twig. Miraak snorted and looked back at everyone who joined him in the battle. Nobody had words, not even the Death Eaters. How quaint.

“Pruzah! I knew he’d be no threat,” Miraak gloated. He already felt eager to write to the Dragonborn about his feat. When his eyes landed on the students, he put on a stern face, “you all have a paper due next Friday. This excursion will not grant you an extension, unless you grow ill.”

“Professor, you killed Voldemort like he was-”

“Nothing? I know!” Miraak decided to give the bone wand a flick, eyes widening as the curly haired Death Eater exploded into a swarm of butterflies, “What!? Suleyk ahst aan mal qeth!? Now I get it!”

It was safe to say that Miraak quite liked teaching teenagers magic. Who could have guessed!?

END

Miraak’s language key, translated by Thuum.org:

Dovahzul = Dragon voice, the language of Mundus dragons

Vahzah = True/Right

Dovahkiin = Dragon born, a mortal with the blood and soul of a dragon

Sahlo kiir = Weak child

Vosaraan = Haste/be without delay, used to convey ‘quickly!’

Pruzah = Good

Suleyk ahst aan mal qeth = “Such power in a little bone.”

[blackmonitor]

Miraak - Inspired by: Instincts' Escape from @mighty-peacock and @thebeastinsideusallarchive

Maybe it's not my usual style, medium, or subject, but... we are all changing. I'm turning back to more traditional ways!

[rainhidesmytears]

Miraak × Companion! Reader

Fuck the Dragon Priest. Literally.

♤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♤

{I couldn't resist having a legitimate spicy snippet of our favorite Priest. I tried to proofread it, but hey, were here for affection, not perfection! (May be out of character, but we're not here to ride his personality. Just him.) Sorry if it's bad, let me dream my big girl dreams!}

♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

In the early days of their long standing relationship, Miraak had been very well aware of his lover and how timid she had been in his presence when faced with intimacy. Be it due to his own intimidating nature or her own inexperience, the Priest held a Godly amount of patience. When he brings her in for a kiss, and she is pulling him closer and closer; he eagerly obliges. Allowing her all of his affections- only to be confused when she pulls away just before his hands roam, embarrassed and red in the face as she makes some silly excuse to escape his arms and the situation that he's only making worse.

Naturally, it is a fresh relationship. He's allowing her all of his patience, letting her get a feel for being around him in a more intimate fashion. He loves the extra kisses where she pulls him in for more, the breathless moans against his lips when his tongue presses against her own- he is eager to give her more when she wants it, as much as she so pleases. Only for the kisses to end all too soon with her suddenly flustered and startled by her own behavior. He finds it adorable, at first believing she is shy because he is her first. He lets all this unintentional teasing slide, as he is very clearly aware it is not meant to frustrate him. His woman is simply eager for him yet unsure how to proceed farther, and easily flustered.

He loves getting her breathless and flustered before she hides away in her room from him. But those hours didn't last. Especially not when she'd tried to actually AVOID him due to her own embarrasment in grabbing hold of him. Oh, no Dearheart. That won't do. He corners her before she can run off, already grabbing hold of her jaw to make her look at him- only to see her eyes dilated and her face burning.

"Where are you heading off to at this hour, Beloved?" His eyes bore into hers, swirling with the arcane powers he had so long ago gained control of. If anything, it makes the crimson hue across her features darken. Much to his delight.

"I-I have to wash my armor- There's still sand in it." He knows she's lying, but with how she's looking at him - though still trying her best not to - he's certain of the delicious reasoning behind her gaze. "You needn't be ashamed of your desires, My Love. I will give you anything you wish, you only have to ask." He's teasing her now, able to feel her pulse race under his fingertips. Even dropping his hand to her throat and carefully pressing down just to hear a whimper leave her lips. "You sound so beautiful under my hands. Would you like me to take you, Beloved?"

He watches her swallow, a very prominent habit she seemed to have before she could conjur up an answer. "But you're busy." It's so quiet from her lips that he can hardly resist kissing her. Pulling her closer by the hand secured around her throat as he tastes her to his hearts content- leaving her breathless and gasping for air when he'd finally pulled back. "I will always have time for you, My Love. I could never be too busy for you. Especially when you need me so~" His free hand is against her, feeling over the curve of her breast before catching her hardened nipple between his fingers and pulling- Oh, the moan he gets from her has his cock ready and waiting, eager to fill his lovely little companion as much as she wishes.

"Y-Yes? Um -" Her embarrassment stops her from grabbing at him, red in the face and incredibly flustered over not entirely knowing what to do with herself because he is very much the first man who has ever shown interest that her conscience wit has recognized. She has no idea what she's begging for or what she wants, but she wants him. As much of him and his attentions as he can comfortably provide, and she has no idea just how much he wants to give her.

"I-I wouldn't be any fun- I don't know what to do, I'm sorry." Her consciousness is trying to reason with her, knowing their age difference and her very clear lack of experience. But where she sees a lack of attraction for someone so unknowing, he finds the most endearing woman in front of him. She brings him gifts of powerful tomes and artifacts from ancient ruins, reads with him, and defends his home of her own free will because they're friends. Not because he's a God, not because she worships him, because they are friends.

Now, their relationship has slowly begun to change. It's more intimate. Soft kisses and embraces that swell his heart when he catches her grinning at him from across the room, even more so when she throws grapes at him just to grab his attention from something frustrating to chase her instead- he loves this woman, and he wants even more so to give his love to her in this way as well. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, My Love. I can show you everything. Whenever you're ready for my attention, I will gladly give it to you. Would you like that?" His words are soft, and his lips are warm against hers when he kisses her again, unable to resist with the way she looks at him.

"Please? I want you. I- Oh- that was rude." His laughter has her face only turning darker, pulling her closer by her throat only to drop his hands and then lift her up by her thighs, laughing brighter as his woman squeals from his actions- oh he loves this. The joy she brings to his very soul is indescribable. The chance at meeting someone who desires him and his mind and not the power or riches he could most certainly provide. Such a feat is damn near unattainable, and he covets this newfound love of his greedily. As he should.

Their first time lasts near ages. Slow in the beginningas he allows all of his patience for this woman he knows has no experience in such acts. He's easing her into being comfortable in her own skin and getting her used to seeing him naked. It was such a struggle holding back his laughter when she had covered her face when he'd began undressing, not even halfway bare as his outer robes were laying across the nightstand, watching his easily flustered woman in amusement. "Are you not enjoying the view, Beloved?"

He's teasing her, and the groan from her lips sounds far sweeter than he had thought it would. "You are a chisled work of art, and I have never seen you even remotely undressed, save for you mask and gloves." She's grumbling at him, complimenting him and making it very clear she is absolutely enjoying the sight of him as she pouts at his laughter- only for her eyes to widen at the sight of a very naked Priest.

"Oh my Stars-"

"Basking in the glory of a God, Pet?"

He teases her, flustering her and turning her face red before he's letting her touch and get a feel for him. For them. She has free reign across his skin, and he melts into her careful touches when it's clear she's admiring him. Scars, old burns from a spell gone wrong- she's leaving kisses across where she can reach, and he is doing the same. It's so soft and patient in comparison to the past lovers he's had, mainly because those lovers had at least some semblance of sexual knowledge, where she didn't. This is a very new and very delicate experience for her, and he intends to make it a good one.

He yearns for the chance at showing her how very wonderful such intimacy can be with the right partner. His touches and kisses are slow and mapped out, taking every opportunity to trace his tongue over all the places he's been yearning for - making her squirm beneath him. He knows how aroused she is and he knows he's making it worse, but he's making certain that she is ready for him long before she's allowed to have his cock. Miraak is very well aware of just how big of a man he is and how small his woman is by stature. Stars when he gets his hands on her she is so responsive. He loves how she arches into his touch, mewling and quietly begging for more- he can't resist kissing her, letting her pull him in for more and more and more because it's so addicting- especially when she uses her tongue against him.

It's such a lovely little surprise that he'd let her fuck his throat with the appendage if only she knew how. "May I touch you, Dearheart? Please?" His lips are against her. Kissing her. Biting and sucking marks into her skin that has her moaning beneath him, her breasts decorated in softer bites and her shoulders bruised just a bit more- and she teases him as he basks in his own joy of tasting her. "You're already touching me, Miraak~ Isn't it a little late to be asking?" She's joking, running her fingers through his hair only for him to bite down on her inner thigh as punishment for her response - dragging a very excited whine of his name out of her.

"I want to hear from you that I am allowed to touch you more intimately, Beloved. Either I have your words that you want this, or I will not touch you." He's already reaching up to cradle her face, pulling her for soft kisses on her lips as he explains. "You're not in trouble, Dearheart. I want to make sure you're comfortable with me, and what we're doing before I go farther. There is no shame in wanting to stop. The moment you request that I stop, I will. May you believe that I will not harm in any way that is not enjoyable."

He gives her time to absorb his words, understanding that she needs a moment or two in order to think of what she means to say before she's already leaning in to kiss him again, and he lets her. "I like it when you touch me. It sets my skin on fire and I want you to touch me more, i-if that's alright with you. Please?" She's flustered, eager for more of him and finding the words to consent like he wants. Not just because he wants it, but because she wants more of him too.

"I'd love nothing more than to get my mouth on you, Beloved. Let me know if it's too much, and we can stop. It's alright to be nervous." He's encouraging her, taking the majority of his actions slow enough for her to get a feel for what it is they are doing together so she isn't startled, and by the Gods she is soaking wet and he wants so badly to taste her; and when finally given permission that's exactly what he does. His companion doesn't have a chance to be embarrassed about her cunt or how aroused she is before his lips have already made contact with the sensitive flesh. The God has his arms around her thighs, spreading them so he can be between them, hiking her legs over his shoulders before she can comprehend what he's doing before he's already tasting her. His tongue is flat against her, making her gasp and shiver as he licks up the juices that have dripped down her thighs and her cunt, already pressing his face into her as much as he can to taste this beautiful woman in his bed- devouring her to his hearts content.

She has no leverage to keep herself up, having dropped to the bed only to arch up at the feeling of his tongue sinking into her, and the bastard is using magic to mimick her own elongated apendage so he can reach as deeply as he wants. She's already cuming on his tongue before she knows what that feeling is and it's so heavenly that her moans are breathless and broken, overwhelmed in such a good way that she doesn't want him to stop and he doesn't. He lets her pull at his hair, moaning against her at how good it feels, and this poor woman only wants more, and he intends to give it. But he wants her soaking wet before he'll even consider using his fingers. He gets her to cum twice more before pulling his tongue out of her. Though he does it slowly. Making her watch, and he has half a mind to fuck it back into her when he can feel her clenching at the sight. She's so pretty like this. Thighs trembling, her blush coating her throat and all the way down to her breasts, only accentuating all of his marks across her delicate skin. Oh, the sight is to die for.

"Do you want more, Pet?"

"Y-Yes, Sir! Please - Yes!"

He's already grasped her chin in his hand, not liking how that word sounds on her lips when she speaks to him. It is far too formal for his liking. He loves how she disregards his title, and views him as someone she cherishes- though now would be such a lovely time for her to beg him with such regard. "You may refer to me as your Master. It should give you some semblance of respect for your God~" At first it turns her pink because he's referring to himself as hers, and then it has her grinning at him in a way that has hold of his heart.

"You just want to hear me beg, don't you?" She's teasing him. That much he knows- but for some reason it just sounds so delicious on her lips. Especially when she pulls him closer to kiss him. Tasting herself on his tongue and licking his lips and chin clean of her own arousal that had gotten everywhere due to his own excitement in finally having the chance to bury his head between her legs. The growing confidence she portrays makes his cock twitch in excitement.

"Please, Master, I want more. I want to feel you, to touch and kiss you-" She only adds to her own begging when she pulls him in for needy kisses, able to hear him groan against her lips at how eager she is for him and his touch- oh she makes him want more than he thought was already possible. "I'll be good, I promise~" Her playful words cause him to pinch her cheek softly, making her whine and pout at him through her lashes.

"You're lying to me."

"But you love it when I lie to you~" She kisses him again, and he gives in, loving this playful woman and how eager she is for him and his touches. He wants her drooling. Unable to think enough to tease him- but it sounds so good that he can't bring himself to even imagine a gag. Though his hand is already against her as she kisses him, playing with her clit and pinching at that little bundle of nerves to get her attention- only to trace his fingers over the opening of where he'd just had such a lovely meal. Her cunt has a vice grip on a single digit of his and he can't help but love how it feels, sinking his finger into her and pulling it back out just to repeat as much as he likes, getting a rise out of her from the feeling.

"Oh- Stars~" Those breathless moans from this new sensation have him in a choke hold, loving the view of her squirming, trying to get a little bit more friction from him, only to be held down by her hips.

"Be still, Pet. We need to losen this beautiful cunt of yours if you're going to have any chance of taking my cock tonight." The way she clenches down on that finger at his words makes him grin, teasing her as he thumbs the bundle of nerves just a bit more before attempting to add a second finger. She only tightens around him as he's pressed two fingers inside of her, able to feel her tense and shudder beneath him. As powerful as he may be, he is equally understanding and patient with her. Pressing gentle kisses to her face and her temple, keeping his hand still to allow her time to adjust to this very new feeling. His hands are rough and calloused from years of mastering the arcane arts, and the moment he's moved them inside of her he feels a very distinct sort of popping, and she's already jolted beneath him. At first, he worries. Naturally, as this is definitely her first time, and he isn't sure if the motion of breaking past her hymen has startled her.

She has tears in the corners of her eyes from the initial sting of pain, having jolted due to surprise from the feeling of being stretched open, but the moment he slowly starts curling his fingers upwards, she had already cum again on his fingers, holding his arm in place so he wouldn't pull away too soon- as he was worried he'd hurt her and wanted to check in.

"Oh- no, please! Don't stop!" Her begging pauses his attempt at removing his hand, testing the waters by moving his fingers again, only for her to moan and drop her head back onto the pillows.

"How do you feel, Pet? Answer me, or I remove my fingers." Her whine at his words have him stretching her again, admiring the eager roll of her hips for more before being held down again.

"It feels good!" She chokes back a moan when his fingers move again, a little show of blood trickling down his hand and onto the sheets demanding he make sure she isn't lying to please him.

"Describe it to me. Tell me what it feels like." If she likes pain, he's more than happy to keep going, but if not, he'll stop completely.

"It burns, and the sting is sharp, but Stars, please - Give me more~ Please, Master~" He'd concluded that she was truly enjoying herself, and he was certainly enjoying it too, moving his fingers deeper and curling them upwards had her seeing stars before she'd cum again, mewling against his lips when he'd give in and kiss her again, letting her wrap her arms around him to pull him down for more as he massaged her tight walls.

When he'd gotten three fingers stuffed into her, it was increasingly harder for her to stay still, and it set his pride on fire. He loved holding her down and flexing those digits in her tight cunt, basking in her moans and whines and attempts to move her hips for more.

"You take me so well, Pet. Absolutely breathtaking." He praises her, trailing bites across her breasts and down her stomach only to trail back up to her lips before finally deeming her ready enough to possibly take his cock hours long after they'd started together. +

Naturally, he uses a generous amount of lube on his cock and the shock on her face at how big he actually was had him grinning, especially when he gets to watch her clench around nothing at just the sight of him. "Is that even going to fit inside of me? How the fuck did you hide that under your robes?" He's kissing her again, amused by her words as it only further stroked his ego.

"I'll help you, Beloved. You can take me. Remember, we can always stop if its too much, I won't be upset." His gentle reminders are met with soft and appreciative kisses before he has her pick what position she would prefer for their first time together.

"Do you want to be in my lap as I take you? Or would you like to start where we are and see where the night takes us?" Rubbing the tip of his cock against her wasn't helping her think, especially not so far into a all of his teasing and experienced fingering. Though the Priest found an other worldly delight in watching her try and focus enough to decide. Though when he'd press in, only to pull back out had her whining at him, pouting up at his grin- only for her to startle the God when she'd pounced on him, straddling his lap and moving her soaked cunt against his cock. His nails digging into her ass as she teased him, only met by low moans of his name before she'd finally had a chance to answer.

"Please don't tease me. It's not fair." She whined at him, only to receive hotter kisses that bruised her lips and left her breathless as she leaned forward for more when he'd pulled back to speak.

"Shall I take you in my lap, Pet? Sink as deeply into your needy little cunt as I can?" Met with eager agreement and begging had finally earned her a prize when he'd helped to hold her up, sitting back against the headboard so he'd have leverage as she began lowering herself onto his cock. The both of their heads had dropped at such a feeling. His against the wall behind him and hers against his shoulder. Her cunt is squeezing the life out of his poor cock as he stretches this woman so much more than his fingers had the chance to do so. The feeling of being so full with such a delightful sting has her gasping. The twinge of pain bordering so far into pleasure that it became intoxicating, urging her to drop herself a little too fast for his liking.

The words of scolding die in his throat as her orgasm rips through her when he's nestled into her to the hilt that neither of them can move in that moment. Her thighs tremble as an orgasm overwhelms her senses at being so very full of him in such a quick movement and he is doing his damnedest not to pour his seed into her so soon. But, oh, how he wants to. The tears in her eyes from the stinge of the stretch have him only partially worried, as her thighs are still shaking and her cunt is spazzaming around him. He would understand if she were overwhelmed in that moment. All of these new feelings coming one after the other paired with how very deeply he is sated within her and how very full she feels with him there. He kisses away her tears, praising her and telling her how beautiful she is like this, how well she's taking him and it's not helping his control when each praise goes straight to her cunt and it's squeezing him again after she had only just been able to catch her breath- oh he learns so very soon how much she truly likes it when he praises her, and he loves it.

The praise is endless now, paired with him deeming her ready enough to move on his cock- and it is pure ecstasy when she finally has his permission to move. Riding his cock with reckless abandon has him twitching inside of her, unable to keep his hands to himself as he only pulls her closer and closer, letting her fuck herself on his cock to see how she likes it before he even thinks of taking over and the view is absolutely magnificent. Her horns on display for him to grab and her wings he can caress all he likes? Oh she cums so many times on his cock that she's got his poor heart in a vice grip at this rate.

No sign of exhausting or pause has him eager to take control, only truly railing into her when she finally wins him over with her begging and pleading, wanting more of him and he eagerly provides all that she asks. The night is long, and the large bed leaves them endless opportunities as he fucks himself into his beloved companion. Stuffing her completely full and dragging all but the tip of his cock from her twitching hole, only to slowly push back in until he meets the little nudge of her cervix, drawing mewls and whines from the beautifully ravished woman beneath him.

"Tell me where you want me to spend, Beloved. Shall I fill you to the brim with my seed, or shall I paint your glistening cunt white? You must tell me, for my control is slipping." His words are slow against her ear, a groan pulled from his throat as he restrains himself enough to ask, basking in her soaking warmth as she quickly locks her ankles behind him. The both of them crying out when she pulls him forward and the action causes a rather rough nudging against the deepest parts of her.

"Fuck! In-Inside- Inside me- Please~" Her hands are in his hair. Tangled in the strands as his thrusts become rougher, fucking his aching cock into her greedily as her legs prevent him from pulling far enough out to tease her much more. Her begging is rewarded with kisses, hot and bruising as his movements become ragged and sloppy. Dragging their bodies as close as physically possible as he buries the head of his cock completely against her cervix when he cums. The force of his thrust and the orgasm he eagerly pours into her wanting cunt has her screaming his name when she arches into him, his face in her breasts as her warmth swallows him in- milking him for his worth.

♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

<pleaseee let me know if anyone likes this I'm dyinggg>

[thedaikidevil]

I couldn’t resist drawing @99corentine ‘s depiction of miraak and LDB Chrysanthe.

I’ve completely read this fic four times now and every time is a good time. It’s one of my comfort fics and I am so grateful to have found it.

(I am at chapter 29 of my 5th re-read at this moment)

I read this fic for the first time a good year or two ago, and I had waited for updates and was always impressed every time. The way you successfully portrayed Miraak and all his flaws was brilliant and Chry’s character as a whole is just great writing. I absolutely loved the implementation of Lucien and Teldryn, they gave the story its much needed comic relief at times and balance the dynamic between them all very nicely.

Also- I looked forward to the end notes of every chapter, they were sometimes my favourite parts XD

Also- don’t mind the messy colours- I got a little lazy after the sketch/ lineart XD

If I could wipe my memory of this fic just so I could experience the same wonderful moments for the first time again, I would in a heart beat. The chapters while Chry was on that island and Mirrak was looking for him had me pulling my hair (from suspense) the first time.

Your work is amazing, please accept this gift of artwork.

[lathepoquerose]

EPISTLE AND ELEGY ON THE GUARDIAN AND THE TRAITOR

(Link in Title)

Rating: M/Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings

Chapters: 3/? Running Words: 12,181

Relationships: Miraak/Vahlok the Jailor

Tags: Angst & Tragedy, Fictional Religion & Theology, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Eventual Light Smut, Past Torture, Fluff and Angst

Summary

"What a fool you've made of me. To allow your hands to take my love and life; could you not grant me one such intimacy?"

Apostled as savior, crowned as Solstheim's Dragon Cardinal, and burdened with the title "Vahlok the Jailor", Vahlok has spent nearly seventy years suffering the weight of the myth of the Guardian and the Traitor. Unable to reconcile his grief, he composes a memoir of his years with Miraak, back when they were still Mika and Loukas, in hopes it somehow reaches him in Apocrypha.

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

"And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. I swear, by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you [...] I am your Master, and you're mine. It seems I cannot possess your soul without losing my own." — Jamie Fraser, Outlander

Here's Jia, my Last Dragonborn, but this time I decided to give her company—her most beloved one at that! So, this is my rendition of Miraak as he appears in my fic; he is Atmoran with Snow Elf blood, and I like to think of him as the ice, the thunder, the winter personified, while Jia is quite the opposite: the sun, fire, and summer. They're my contrasting forces of nature who love each other very much, and they happen to be soulmates in every sense of the word, with the growing crescent moon being the symbol of their soul-bond! 🥰

(again, don't look at this way too closely, I'm only a beginner, and even more of a beginner when it comes to drawing men, specifically...🥹)

[comradeacerbus]

Yeah finals are over so NOW I HAVE MORE TIME TO DRAW THE EDGY TENTACLE MAN

BEHOLD

[themildlyanxiousmage]

Loredas at Denny's

Characters: Reader insert, Erandur, Taliesin, Gore, Lucien, Miraak, General Tullius, Elenwen

platonic, but could be read as romantic with Miraak if you want

No plot, just breakfast

GN reader has social anxiety and is shorter than Taliesin and Miraak. Lore accurate heights, so everyone is shorter than Taliesin and Miraak. Reader is vegan. Just suspend your disbelief or pretend you're on a diet or something sorry.

This is my first fanfiction, so I apologize in advance. Also, I started it while drunk, but I feel like the drunk parts might be better, so sorry about that too.

And sorry about how I wrote the custom follower characters. I had a harder time writing them.

Not a modern au, there is just Denny's

Words: idk I wrote it on my phone's notepad

After successfully stopping Potema for the second time, your adventuring party decided to splurge for a celebratory breakfast at the Solitude Denny's. You hadn't been the biggest fan of eating out, but you had hopes that this could be a fun experience for the group. Erandur, the most mature out of your band of weirdos, led the group through the large wooden doors, followed closely by Lucien, Taliesin, Miraak, you, and finally Gore.

Erandur approached the entry counter and greeted the lone server, an argonian woman whose name tag read "Waits-Many-Tables."

"Good morning, my daughter. We would like a table for six, please." Erandur requested in his usual calm, comforting priest tone.

"BOOTH!" Gore shouted from the back.

The exhausted, overworked employee quietly sighed with a gentle eye roll and grabbed a stack of menus. She gestured for your group to follow and led you to a booth clearly meant for four. You could hear a quiet sigh come from General Tullius, who was seated at the booth next to yours. He was not very pleased to have such a large group seated so close.

"Perhaps we should request a table for six instead" Taliesin remarked.

"No tables for six available" Waits retorted.

"Not even in the back room?" Asked Erandur.

"Back room's reserved."

"This will be fine then. Thank you, my daughter."

"I'm calling a window seat." Taliesin said hastily as he slid into the booth connected to the back of General Tullius's.

"I would also like a window seat, please." Erandur politely requested. Everyone unseated quietly gestured for him to take the open seat, so he slid into the space opposite Taliesin.

"I will be on an outer seat." Miraak demanded in his deep, booming voice as he moved to stand next to the booth Taliesin was sitting in. General Tullius side eyed Miraak as he sipped his coffee.

"I wouldn't mind sitting between you two!" Lucien cheerfully stated as he stepped forward to slide in next to Taliesin, only to be stopped by Miraak shoving him away to the other side of the table.

Miraak grabbed your shoulder and pushed you in next to Taliesin. He slid in, sitting half way off the booth, pinning you between the two towering men. They both let out an uncomfortablely annoyed exhale as you scrunched your shoulders to try to make yourself smaller. Lucien quietly slid in next to Erandur, followed by Gore sitting with one leg out of the booth. Waits-Many-Tables placed menus in front of each member of your party, giving Erandur the senior menu and you the children's menu. Before either of you could protest, she was off tending to another table. You realized your hood was still up, and next to the two giants you're seated between, she must have mistaken you for a child. You glanced at Erandur and noticed a slightly disappointed look on his face.

"Are you going to ask her for a normal menu, Erandur?" You asked in a low tone, trying to keep quiet enough to not disturb the general sitting directly at your back.

"No, my child. I was intending to order from this menu when we came in." He responded priestishly. "But, I would have preferred to request the menu myself." he added with a short chuckle, trying to hide his pain.

You didn't want to go through the trouble of asking Waits to bring you a new menu, so you decided to see if you could find anything to order on the children's menu. Unfortunately, the only thing that would meet your dietary needs was a bowl of pre cut fruit for four gold. Disappointed, you thought that maybe you could look over Taliesin or Miraak's shoulders to read theirs. Taliesin was almost as scrunched as you were, so his menu was almost closed. No use trying to read his. You stretched your neck a bit outward to the side to get a better look at Miraak's without moving your torso at all. Miraak let out a mildly irritated sigh and held the menu closer to you, and you gave him a quiet thanks. Unfortunately, none of the meal options were vegan, but you did see a few more side options that you could use to build a nice breakfast. Maybe this meal wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Is that Elenwen?" Lucien asked, looking over his menu towards the entrance of the diner. Taliesin inhaled anxiously as he quickly buried his face deep in his menu. You heard the general nearly choke on his coffee, and you carefully turned as much as your neck would allow to see Elenwen and a party of five other thalmor gather in the entry. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Tullius trying to lower his head and carefully cover his face with his hand. To the relief of both Taliesin and the general, Waits-Many-Tables led the group of thalmor past both of the booths, and through the archway of the back dining room.

"Why are they here?" Taliesin hissed in a whisper tone. Gore leaned out of the booth a bit to try to get a better look through the archway far behind him, but saw nothing unusual. Just a group of thalmor sitting down during the Loredas breakfast rush.

"They're just sitting there, but they're at a pretty big table. Could probably seat a large party." Gore reported as he turned back to face the table. "Hey Blood," he whispered as he leaned towards you, resting his elbows on the table "Maybe the general would know."

All eyes from around the table shot at you like arrows, waiting for you to ask Tullius what was going on. You let out a dreading sigh, not happy to have to be the one to disturb the general during his breakfast, but resigned to the fact that you had the best shot out of anyone in your party to get an answer out of him. You carefully shifted and turned as best you could, slowly spinning around between the two giant men on either side of you until you were seated on your knees. You looked down at the back of General Tullius's head and quietly cleared your throat, hoping to get his attention. When he did not respond, a pain in your stomach grew as you realized that you would actually have to disturb him.

"Excuse me, General Tullius sir?" You asked quietly, voice shaking slightly. The general heard you. You know he heard you. But he did not respond. He took another sip of his coffee, slowly lowering his head even lower to try to deter you from talking to him.

"I'm sorry, General, may I ask a quick question?" You asked a bit louder, but still with a quiver in your voice. Again, no response. You started to shift back around, but you felt a strong, gloved hand grab your shoulder and hold you firm facing the general's direction. Miraak was not going to let you back down. You took a deep, shaking breath and gathered your strength. You shouted down dragons with barely any effort. You could ask General Tullius a simple question. You breathed in, and one more you inquired, "Excuse me general!"

Your voice made a sad, cracking squeak as you spoke. You heard a couple of quiet chuckles from your friends as you prepared to turn back around. But whether from pity at your feeble attempt to be assertive or just from a hope to get you all off his back, General Tullius sighed and turned around to face you, resting an arm on the back of the booth.

"Yes, dragonborn?" The general asked with an extremely apparent annoyance in his voice.

"Sorry to disturb you sir, but I was wondering if you knew why the thalmor were meeting here?" You asked in an anxious, hurried tone, visibility uncomfortable from the feeling of inconveniencing him. The general's face softened as he let out a sigh.

"No, I don't." He responded in much more understanding tone than the group was used to. "I was wondering myself, actually." He looked down with a deep pondering expression. Everyone sat in thought for a brief moment until Waits-Many-Tables brought over the general's grand slam.

"Okay. Thank you. Sorry, to disturb you, sir." You said as you slowly shifted back around to face your table. The general gave a quiet "no worries" nod and hand wave as he turned back to eat his biscuits and gravy.

"Is it possible they're just enjoying breakfast like we are?" Lucien asked. You all exchanged looks as you considered the possibility.

"More thalmor!" Gore warned. Taliesin buried his head again, and you heard the sound of choking from behind you. Six more altmer in thalmor robes walked past to join their comrades in the dining room.

"Taliesin, if you're worried about being noticed, why are you still wearing your old uniform?" You asked after the thalmor had cleared the archway.

"It's not my fault all of Skyrim's clothes itch and don't breathe!" Taliesin fired back.

Before anyone could discuss the new additions to the back room, Waits-Many-Tables walked up with her note pad to take orders. She looked at Erandur and waited for him to give his order.

"May I have the strawberry yoghurt with granola and a cup of canis root tea please?"Erandur asked politely. Waits wrote his order with a confirming grunt. She looked up towards Lucien, and you felt your chest tightening as you thought about how you were going to have to order.

"May I please have a French toast slam with scrambled eggs please? And just water is fine, thank you." Lucien asked in his polite, cheerful tone. Waits took down his order.

"I'd like a lumberjack slam, please. And a coffee and a glass of milk too please!" Gore stated. Waits took his order, then looked at Taliesin. You felt yourself jump with nervous anticipation as you prepared to ask about your order.

"May I please have the apple cinnamon pancakes, with a large glass of apple juice?" Taliesin asked in his song like tone. "And may I substitute the horker bacon for potatoes please?"

"No substitutions."

"I'll eat your bacon Taliesin!" Gore exclaimed.

"It's two gold to split a plate." Waits added.

"Then just keep it on my plate." Taliesin said with an exhale.

"We're out of large on the apple juice."

"Don't you just pour it into a glass?"

"We're out of large glasses. Slips-Often broke the last one this morning."

"Can you put it in two smaller glasses, please?"

"No."

"Okay." Taliesin said with confused acceptance. Finally, it was your turn. You felt your heart race as Waits's eyes met yours.

"Hi, I'm sorry, I was wondering if the hash browns were made with any animal products please? Sorry." You asked nervously as you heard a sigh come from both Miraak and the booth behind you.

"No."

"Okay, thank you. Then may I please order a side order of hash browns, a side of fruit, and a side of sourdough toast with no butter, and ice water please?" You asked quickly with a high pitch and hurried tone.

"We're out of sourdough. We have honey wheat."

"Then, uuuhhh, no thanks on the toast... please. Thank you." You sat back with an exhale, sinking back into the booth.

"Country fried steak. Side of fruit. Black coffee." Miraak asserted as he handed his menu to Waits. She wrote down his order and collected everyone's menus. As she left Gore's eyes turned to Taliesin.

"How're you going to hide now?" He asked. Taliesin's eyes widened at the realization.

"Miraak, may I borrow your-"

"No."

You gently patted Taliesin's shoulder. You stretched your neck a bit as you tried to get a better look through the back room's arch. You couldn't see much, but you could see Waits-Many-Tables taking the orders from a large banquet table. If orders were already being taken, then everyone was probably already back there, and hopefully you could enjoy a bit of peace. Maybe even be finished and leave before they left the back room. You sank back a bit and let out a quiet, content sigh. Yes, you were a bit squished, but you were safely tucked between two of your friends. And in Skyrim's cold, it wasn't so bad to be this close sometimes. As Waits came to set out your drinks, you started to feel a bit calmer. Maybe this meal would turn out okay after all.

"Elenwen." Miraak stated in a monotone voice as he brought his mug up to his face. Taliesin began to panic and tried to look down. Miraak ripped his mask off and passed it over to Taliesin, his arm almost smacking you in the face as Miraak reached across. Taliesin rushed to put it on, and then sat perfectly still, waiting for Elenwen to approach. Miraak calmly sipped his coffee, not looking up as she made her way over to your table.

"Dragonborn, what a pleasant surprise to see you here too." Elenwen spoke in a diplomatic, but assholeish tone. You knew she didn't mean a word of it.

"Nice to see you too." You said keeping your response short, trying not to shift nervously in your seat.

Why she was coming over to greet your group, you had no idea. You watched as she eyed everyone, making mental notes on each of you, stopping with surprised eyes as she made eye contact with the giant atmoran to your right. She did not expect to be met with Miraak's face, with skin almost translucent white from thousands of years of no sun exposure and dark green, glowing eyes that glared back at her. It would be amusing to see her caught off guard and confused if you weren't currently worried about Taliesin's own mental state right now. Her eyes drifted away from him before finally regaining their composure and locking back with yours.

"Dragonborn, it was a pleasure to see you." Her gaze shifted to Taliesin sitting stiffly in the corner. "Oh, and a pleasure to see you again, - "

A crash rang out, drowning out Taliesin's real name, much to the disappointment of everyone but him. You all looked over to see who you could only guess was Slips-Often on the floor surrounded by a pile of broken plates scattered about with some unlucky table's food. When you looked back, Elenwen was gone. Taliesin slowly pulled Miraak's mask off and quietly passed it back to Miraak, not looking at anyone as he sat silently.

Waits-Many-Tables came walking up to your table with a black tray full of plates. As she passed them out, Gore reached across the table to grab the bacon off of Taliesin's plate. Looking at his own plate of food, Lucien commented on how delicious the hash browns looked.

"They are good. They're made with horker fat. Very flavorful." Waits responded.

You put your fork full of hash browns back on the plate. Waits was gone before you could respond. Gore slowly reached for the small plate of hash browns, quietly asking if he could take them, and silently thanking you when you nodded.

As you contemplated whether you should try to order anything else to go with your tiny bowl of fruit, Miraak assertively pushed his side of fruit in front of you. He grabbed your horker grease covered fork from your hand and replaced it with his unused one.

"But Miraak, you ordered this specifically as a side for you. I can't-"

"Eat, dragonborn." Miraak commanded. You looked up at him and saw him look at you with much softer eyes than he usually displayed.

"Thanks, Miraak." For a second, you could have sworn you saw the corners of his mouth almost smile. Maybe eating out isn't so bad, as long as you have your friends with you to help you out.

[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

[sparda-ly]

Hi, I saw your requests are open, so she's taking my chances to hopefully get something. Could I hopefully get j'zargo, arcano, and miraak when their jealous, please?

(jealous) j'zargo, ancano, miraak x reader

note: hey there! sure! i hope this isn't so bad and cringe, especially j'zargo's part, he's a very difficult character to write!

warnings: none

j'zargo

j'zargo being a khajit definitely helps him sense a lot of things

whether it's danger, fire, breaths, or simple whispers, he is quick to notice when something is wrong

but this time it was a little different

j'zargo was in the hall of attainment when he noticed you talking to odmund

he suddenely could hear his hearbeat quickening and words getting messed up

he felt something in his chest looking at you two getting along a little too well for his comfort

j'zargo makes everything a competition, however he wasn't looking forward to this one, which is really suprising

coming up to both of you, he listens for a bit and decides to join the conversation

"j'zargo doesn't find you amusing ogmund, if you spend so much time trying to steal j'zargo's y/n, you might as well give up on your dream involving becoming a nord mage"

he takes your hands with his and leaves the hall, leading to the quaters

"j'zargo doesn't like you talking to ogmund. he doesn't trust him"

"he's just an acquaintance, he helps me with my spells. no need to be jealous"

he huffs and responds with "you don't need him. j'zargo can teach you anything you'd like"

you just smile and nod appreciatively, thankful for such an amazing husband

ancano

when ancano is jealous, he always overuses the punishments he can give away as an "advisor"

if he so much as sees someone looking at you for too long, he just knows the perfect way to make them regret it

he gets jealous very quickly, probably because under that confident and arrogant mask is an insecure man

you were talking with one of the new students the other day, some random guy, when you noticed he was blushing and blabbering nonsense

you of course didn't think a lot about it, you're used to it plus you are loyal to a very strict altmer

it was fine at first, just small talk but then the "touching" started

arcano appeared next to you in a second, grabbing that guys robes, looking at him in disgust

"what your filthy hands apprentice, or you might lose them soon"

let's just say that you never saw the guy again.

miraak

to be honest, miraak doesn't get jealous often

he knows he is powerful and could just destroy anyone that ever wanted to ruin things between you two

he feels more threatened by himself, he understands his actions are often questionable and rash

however there are situations where he feels at least a bit of jealousy, you won't ever hear him admit it though

if anyone sticks around you for too long, follows you all the time and tries to steal your attention

miraak notices it immediately.

one single glare and the person instantly understands, giving up hope for any interaction with you for a long ass time

you don't really see any of these situations happening, miraak knows how to be slick and also he doesn't want you to be concerned about such little unimportant things

when you notice that some servants are missing, you begin to question him where did they dissapear to?

he feeds you some lie and carries on like nothing ever happened

the less you know, the better you sleep at night

[rainhidesmytears]

Miraak x Reader NSFW

(This is literally just an idea I had in snippets all piled together for Miraak, it's a lil bad but that's okay, we're here for affection not perfection. Lemme know if anyone likes it!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time he'd woken to her kisses, she was startled and bright pink in the face, worried she had crossed some invisible like that they hadn't spoken of yet, only to be greeted by an amused gaze as he would play with a strand of her hair that was close enough for him to reach.

"Enjoying yourself this morning, Dearheart?" He'd take notice of how her eyes dilated, and that silent swallow she did when she was nervous whenever she was scolded, watching as her gaze sort of flickered down to her hands that were placed on the bed to hold herself up, else she'd fall on him-

"I- um... Yes. I'm sorry- I thought- um?" She'd flounder for a minute, the tips of her ears turning a cherry sort of red as he slowly understood in his sleepy haze that she had very much been enjoying herself. "I-I'm sorry, Miraak. I should have asked beforehand- but you looked comfortable and... and I didn't want to wake you. You don't get enough sleep as it is- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that." She's embarrassed and flustered- and this man has half a mind to fuck the insecurities out of her right that instant. But of course, he contains his own urges. Bringing a hand to hold her jaw and bring her gaze back to meet his own, still very comfortably lounging against the large and very luxurious pillows he refuses to go without.

"What if I was to say that I enjoyed being woken like this? It's not every day a God is loved and cherished with the warm and gentle kisses of his lover. How could I deny such a delicious request if it were to come from your lips?" His words are sincere and clearly just a hint of a tease as his hand moves to the back of her neck, gently tugging her down to his level to taste her kisses himself, able to feel her melt against him, her hands hesitantly hovering in place just a little closer to him as she sits up on her knees now so she won't fall, only for him to grab her hands, physically moving them and placing them on his naked chest.

"I am yours, My Love. Be selfish with me. Touch me, kiss me, taste me, bite me if you so wish. You need not shy from me. Regardless of whether my attention rests with you wholly or if I am still asleep. You may take me as I am in any form you choose." The tone that he says this is almost like he's begging her to continue, and he is. His voice is still soft from sleep, kissing her, pulling her closer, and letting her touch him with his hands over hers so she isn't unsure, begging this woman who loves him so honest and deeply to be selfish with her own desires because he desires her just as much, if not more.

"I can - I can kiss you when you're not busy? Even when you're tired?" Her tone matches his, wanting to make sure she is allowed what he is silently offering her, only for the Priest to laugh and kiss her again.

"You can kiss me always. I only ask that you mind the attention you wish to give me when important guests arrive, but yes, My Love. Yes, you may kiss me. Busy or not. Kiss me, touch me, and give me any of your attention. I am eager for your affections. Especially if I am to be woken by such gentle cherishing. You make my heart sing for you, Beloved. Never doubt this." His lips are against hers as he mutters the last part, before she has pulled back a little bit and he watches her chew on her lip a little bit, moving to sit that much closer so she can reach him-

"Does that mean I can kiss you more?" She means now. In that moment that he'd woken to, only for him to grin up at her and give his very eager approval, only for the woman to kiss him again. It's slower and deeper than he'd usually expect from her, but his hand drops from her neck to her thigh beside him, enjoying this new wave of confidence from his woman as her kisses begin to travel. Across his face and even over his eyes, feather light in nature and even against his ears- oh his poor heart beats to life in these moments.

Her kisses trail from his face to his neck and just under his jaw, knowing she can get away with it because he thinks she isn't aware of what it does to him when she IS, and she just keeps little discoveries like that quiet. Her lips travel to the center of his throat and then to his pulse point, but she keeps those kisses mostly closed, and then more open mouthed kisses across his shoulders and then down his chest, her tongue just barely hinting over the scars she can reach and the hitch in his breath tells her how much he is enjoying this. Her slow kisses began lulling him back to sleep only for the feeling of her tongue against him to pull him back up- and he can't even find it in his heart to groan about it because it feels so good, especially when her teeth graze over his nipples - oh, this Dragon Priest is in love.

She's not fast or harsh enough to jolt him awake, but his cock is another story. His woman is taking her sweet time in getting a taste of her lover, letting her fangs just barely graze over the center of his chest where his ribs connect or the center of his stomach before her tongue has pressed against him again before she sucks a mark into his skin- she can't keep her hands to herself, and it's as if time stops between them, allowing her to kiss and suck and caress as much of his skin as he allows before a quiet moan finally breaks from his lips. His cock is hard under the blankets they share, aching from her playful teases and cherishing and pulsing when she travels low enough he can feel her lips against his hips, following the curve lower past his pelvis and then finally pulling at the blanket. But his woman is infuriating.

She does it slow enough that the friction against him is prominent but not fast enough for a rush of cold air to properly wake him- she's takes such care to keep him comfortable and relaxed and partially dozing off again only for her lips to make it to his thighs, these slow careful bites into his flesh bringing him frustration and ecstasy,  only for her kisses and playful licks to meet the inside of his thighs instead of where he wants it.

When her lips finally make contact, it's not what he expects because her slow open kisses are against his balls first, and it makes him drop his head back into the pillows with this breathless moan leaving him at the surprise of how thoroughly she's taking this, only for her to start sucking and licking where she knows is most sensitive- but she's so careful with her attentions, not allowing him the chance to drift again but also not rousing him enough for him to be aware of anything other than her lips on his cock- and by the time he's finally vaguely beginning to drift again because it just feels so heavenly she's finally taking the tip of his cock into her mouth. Slow sucking that makes him pulse and twitch because he wants more, but his exhaustion doesn't allow him to make demands, only drawn out moans and sighs of relief make it past his lips in that moment. When she finally takes mercy on this poor man and starts sucking his cock, he doesn't have enough energy to pull her hair to tug her closer, until she grabs his hand that had reached for her, only to entwine their fingers as she takes him down her throat?

Oh, he can't even close his eyes anymore because the view of her cherishing him and swallowing his cock as she holds his hand just pierces through his heart when she gets him to cum. It's such a drawn-out orgasm too because of all of her teasing, paired with being able to watch her take him so well and swallow what he gives her. That orgasm lasted much longer than he'd expected it to, and the man felt like he was floating, only for her to start sucking again and milking that poor Priest until his eyelids were so heavy and his moans were damn near whimpers.

Miraak can go a good while until it's finally too much for him to take more, and gods he loved how she took him, keeping him comfortable and warm and sucking his aching cock until he had barely anything left to give as he held her hand like a lifeline, quietly begging for her to stop HOURS after she'd started.

"My Love, please- Oh~ Oh, My Love- I can't- I can't take more, Beloved. Let me rest. We'll play again another time." It's this gentle plea, quickly interrupted by him cuming again before she'd slowed to a stop and let go of his cock, grinning so widely at him as she tucks him back into bed, pressing gentle kisses across his skin once more before he has pulled her back to his side, turning to use her as a pillow as they cuddle up together- and he sleeps hard. Well on through that day and even into the next morning before he had even attempted to rouse from sleep because she was there, her wings laid over him to keep him warm and comfortable and it felt so good that he hadn't a care in the world. It was the first time he'd missed an entire day of work, even one of the servants coming to check on their Master, only to be relieved at the sight of him sleeping through the night, wrapped in her arms with his face in her breasts- covered by blanket with the fire going? They take it upon themselves to finish what he'd worked on, allowing Miraak an entire day of rest with no outside interruptions. Not a single noise aside from their even breaths as they slept together. No arcane auras, no chatter, nothing but them, and the crackling fire.

[expended-sleeper]

Far From Ourselves is finished!

After almost three years of thinking and writing, I have just posted Chapter 50 of my Miraak/Vilkas longfic. This is the longest story I have ever written at a whopping 230,000 words—a true testament to my ability to carry on for quite a while about honor and werewolves and dragons, if that was ever in doubt.

Below is fanart of my Miraak gifted to me by my friend thana-topsy, and a commission of my aged-up Sofie done by the talented midnightdrizzle. This story has been a true labor of love, and I hope my readers have enjoyed the ride as much as I have. Please feel free to check it out if you are interested in Miraak, Vilkas, or the Companions!

[lathepoquerose]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Thank you @sulphuricgrin and @pocket-vvardvark for tagging me this Wednesday :3 Obvi I tag my dearly beloved @hadvarandralof , @kiir-do-faal-rahhe , and @gavalaa (if you wish, this might have other motivations hehe)

I've been too busy hating myself too really do much other than cry and rot in bed and be numb at work so I haven't got much done on Epistle & Elegy. I managed a meager 1.3k words of utter slop last night, so I gave it an equally meager edit. Anyway! Yeah! Here's my trash!

It’s half past the twentieth hour when exhaustion settles heavily on the boy priest’s shoulders, eyes half-lidded, writing growing woozy on the page. He rubs his weary eyes and tries to make sense of his most recent scribbles: Fire=hot? WEAR GLOVES. 

Profound, really, so much so that he flips the leather backing of his book about the page and makes to change into his nightrobes. No Mika yet; a blessing on this occasion. Lately, Mika has consumed his thoughts so ardently that he’s driven to the point of distraction in his presence. And it isn’t just the matter of Morokei’s book; impossibly, frustratingly, Mika is like…a flower? A bee? A sky on a sunny day?

It’s not quite the eloquent metaphor he hoped for; he had never claimed to be a poet. He has little time to push Mika from his brain before a fluff-and-tumble scurries across his unsocked toes, a distinct, high-pitched coo its gentile manner of excusing itself. He shivers and shakes the feeling from his foot. He thought surely Mika had given up on that awful spider by now. 

Thankfully, the subject of the crime is the adorable matter: a tiny horned owl, eyes wide in a perpetual state of starstruck awe, patters about the floor beside Mika’s bed, wobbling on uncertain feet. Loukas’s heart could melt at the sorry state of the disheveled fluff. He scoops it up, much to its confusion and abject displeasure. 

“Foolish creature, you. How lucky you are to have found a friend,” He lectures as the downy bird trembles in his hands. “Come. We will have to find your mother, then.” 

Lacking the blessed visual rotation of an owl, Loukas makes for the door to find himself face to face with a notably flustered Mika, hands clutching tightly to a rustling basket, a mess of tail feathers poking out rather suspiciously from the side. His suspicions are confirmed as the lid shifts just slightly, revealing a feathery brother to his unfortunate friend in hand.

“Mika,” Loukas starts slowly, not breaking eye contact with the basket of baby owls scrambling to escape their root weave prison. “Good evening,” 

Hands occupied, Mika winces, embarrassed, setting the basket of owls on his bed. Gingerly, he returns Loukas's discovery to the pile, another gladiator for the fluffball arena, burrowing into the comfort of his sibling's wings. 

[No mother. Nest fall.] Mika signs before readjusting the lid to cover the furious hatchlings. [Helping owls]

“Kind as that may be, I'm not entirely convinced at the thought of hiding a basket of owlettes in our quarters,” He says, eyeing the basket warily. “Have we so soon forgotten Spots?”

Spots had been a three-legged fawn Mika became bent on domesticating, a plot Ahzidal put a decisive end to when it hobbled into his laboratory and ate his entire supply of fire salts. Thus, Spots was forcibly relocated to the pine groves, which sent Mika into a mess of teary despair. Loukas had comforted him and promised Spots would fair well; honestly, trolls probably ate her. 

He bites his lip and waves his hands in denial. [No. No hiding. Baby escape.] He explains, gesturing to where Loukas had picked up the owl. [Taking outside.] 

“So you've brought them inside, basketed them as an unpleasant bouquet of rage, and now intend to take them outside once more?” Loukas questions reasonably. His answer comes in the form of a sheepish smile. 

[No. Show you. Come.] He suggests, hoisting the basket of owls into his arms. Mutism has a singular perk: one must only occupy one's hands to indicate the time for talking is past. He nods at the door encouragingly, turning in a flurry of layered royal robes and loose feathers. 

With the season's tide, one would expect warm nights and wet grasses, but there is almost always snow at Labyrinthian. As such, there is nothing Loukas wishes to do less than deliver a basket of owls to the snow-covered wilderness at nearly the twenty-first hour. But it's Mika -- and so he finds himself throwing on his over-robes regardless and tailing along hurriedly behind his owl-encumbered friend. 

Their weavings go long into the corridors; Loukas hurriedly makes an excuse to an attending night watch regarding their late-evening traipse. However, the ordinarily sour-tongued Deacon only offers a friendly wave to Mika in response. It's amusing; he's not sure even Archbishop Hevnoraak, in all his brutality, could resist Mika's good nature and better intention. Ahzidal certainly can't -- he'd procured Mika an elegant set of robes as consolation for the loss of Spots -- and even the solemn-mannered funeral Bishop seems to have a softness for him. It's by Mika's power alone that they find themselves stepping beneath the snowy stars without too much hassle to show for it. 

Their path had not been unlike the one Loukas usually takes to the crest. So it comes as a surprise to him, when Mika thrusts the basket of owlettes into his hand and flicks a ball of mage light in and out at once from his fingers, that he had so many times missed the fairly ample crevice nestled in the side of the mountain barrow. 

“Surely you don’t mean to-,” he begins moments before Mika slides into the rock, gesturing for his roommate to follow. Though Loukas had succeeded in putting some weight on Mika, he’s still obnoxiously thin, a waif, really, this being an advantage Loukas does not possess. He sucks in his belly and stances his shoulders, still finding it to be a tight squeeze. 

Once popped into the corridor, he follows the steady flow of mage light blooms accompanying Mika’s far more familiar pace, hands feeling on either side of the passage for support. What exactly he intends to do with a basket of rowdy owls in a cave the size of a birthing canal evades him entirely. But he’s in no position to communicate with his guide, being bound entirely to the mercy of his hands. 

Yet as they continue to move forward, he feels the walls bearing down a little harder, his chest growing tight, his stomach twisting -- tight spaces have never sat well with him, particularly freezing, damp ones that render him sightless. When he feels the ceiling crouch down further overhead, the cut of the rock requiring him to enter another crawlspace, he seeks to swallow his pride. 

“Mika, I can’t go further,” he chokes, hanging his head below his heart to try and slow its unruly flutters. Thankfully, Mika seems to have heard him, his quiet footsteps echoing between whatever further cavern walls await. A few moments pass before a hand slowly creeps back beneath the crawlspace—Mika, or rather, Mika’s hand, waves. [Open inside] he signs before beckoning him forward and slipping away like a tease. 

The silliness alleviates some initial terror, and he begrudgingly slides onto his belly. From this angle, he can see a strange glow coming from the side of the crawlspace and the just-there shadow of Mika waiting at the entrance. He sucks in hard, suddenly regretting having three servings of grits, and hoists himself up through the hole. 

“Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” 

Loukas doesn’t think any of the three would blame him for cursing, not now. Illuminated by dancing towers of candlelight cast upon salvaged baskets and urns, pulsing with the glow of fireflies and luminescent faunas, tens of animals chirp and chatter amongst their tiny stony home, blanketed soft with brush and leaves. He catches the gaze of a one-eyed wolf, a cracked-beak hawk, many bent-leg spiders; this is a proper sanctuary, each animal cast in an unfamiliar purple gloam. 

At the center, on a mossy stone bench, Mika sits with basket beside him in favor of nuzzling a little deer. Upon closer inspection, a three-legged deer. 

“Dragon’s fire,” He breathes in something akin to disbelief. “Spots?”

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

WIP definitely not Wednesday!

Hi, hi, hello, it's been a long time since I last did a WIP Whenever, but I wrote a lot today and I'm quite happy with myself! Things have been quite hectic currently, but words are finally word-ing so I'm grasping the chance to share a lil' something about ch22 of TPATD...👀

They lie there in silence, as still as a held breath, for what feels like forever. Miraak could stay beside her this way as long as she wanted him, till the rain ceased, till the sun came out again, or not at all. Or—or he could tell her stories from his childhood, those long nights in Atmora before the frost set in. He could tell her about roaming through Frostwood Forest, guided only by the moonlight that carved a ghostly path ahead of him; with shadows, both eerie and fantastic, lurking behind the dense cypresses and spruces that inspired him to spin epic sagas in his head and sing the fear away. He could recount how he found his shelter upon the snow, just as he does now with her, gazing up at the sky and counting the stars, always searching for the Lodestar that’d guide him home. He could describe how his own father sent him to hunt for the family in that unforgiving wilderness, ignoring—or perhaps choosing to ignore—that a boy greener than summer’s grass would likely fall prey to nature’s violence and never find his way back to Jylkurfyk. Tonight, he’d tell her anything. For her, he would at least try; no matter how it hurts—how it hurts to remember. But Jia rises to her feet, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. The rain and snow have soaked her through her garments, and wet strands of red hair cling to her forehead and cheeks like open wounds. After a little while, Miraak stands up with her. The relentless thunderstorm doesn’t spare him either, but it does little to physically affect him, as the First Dragonborn’s skin is more than resilient to it—it’s made by it. He’s unsure, when he unfastens his cloak and approaches her from behind until he stands tall above her shoulders, for the way she shrinks, jostling her head to the side to check the soft crunch of the sleet underfoot, is the blatant tell of her lingering turmoil. One small step more, and he freezes—her cold body trembles against his chest, yet she doesn’t otherwise pull away. Instead, she remains there, quietly seeking any warmth she can find and shivering helplessly. The little fool is too proud to ask for it aloud. As if a confirmation to his doubts, his arms instantly enfold around her, pulling her close as his cloak cascades over her, and he holds her there, his hands balled into fists upon her bosom. A shaky sigh escapes her when she senses his faint silvery stubble grazing her damp cheekbone, his voice murmuring in her ear—deep and rhythmic as always, like the chime of ancient church bells, so much so that when they sound, it feels like she converses with a God. “This... is no mere storm,” he tells her like he could divine the scrolls of the heavens right this very minute. “This is a growing rage that has been building up for a long, long time, and it had to be unleashed all within an hour. These clouds—racing wild across the sky and pouring out of their bellies all this rainstorm—are but rags torn by the hand of a wrathful god.” Her resolve begins to falter, the cracks in her armor showing. His gaze shifts to her, and he speaks in the language of their souls: “You have been brave tonight, soul of my soul. But you need to pretend no more... Not with me.”

Poor Jiraak... They truly live up to their "Soggy Kittens™" name with all this thunderstorm drenching them both... It's okay though, it's hot.

Okay, so, I'm tagging: @kiir-do-faal-rahhe, @thequeenofthewinter,

@miraakulous-cloud-district, @oblivions-dawn,

@blossom-adventures, @hircines-hunter and everyone who wishes to share something—don't forget to tag me back so I can see it! 💖 No pressure of course!