#miraak fic

[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

[theribbajack]

"You were born a slave," said Konahrik. "Do you not wish for freedom?" The sightless eyes of the Falmer gazed straight ahead. "My people learned long ago," said she, "that to wish for the impossible would be too much to bear."

Tried a bit of a fancier style for an upcoming scene from my fic Death and the Maiden.

[unrepentant-heliocentrism]

how i hold random babies at the supermarket

[salemelas]

anyway, miraak tits

[drawnecromancy]

I've thought about it some more, and I don't think removing that mask would be that easy.

I think it might hurt, even.

[sulphuricgrin]

My TES fics

for the foreseeable future, all my works are archive locked to prevent data scraping. If you don't have an account, I'll happily send an invite to join AO3

Main fic series: Child of Padomay

Part 1: Fate-Touched (active) [28,360 words] - Miraak/OC | OC & OC

Child of Padomay - Supplemental Materials

Flower Crowns [785 words] - OC/ OC fluff

It Means Nothing (This Means Everything) [2240 words] - Miraak/OC smut

Own My Mind [5094 words] - Miraak/OC smut

updated: 4/25/25

[red-mountain-flower]

jia, @bougainvillea-and-saltwater’s lovely last dragonborn!

[dr-kbr]

Miraak from the marvellous GOL HAH DOV by wonderful @99corentine

[captain-of-silvenar]

Hi there! Can you tell me about 'Do not settle gently' from the WIPS?

Hi hello! Omg, time to talk about what I lovelingly call 'The Worst Possible Ending' fic.

To put it simply, this is a fic where Miraak kills Yera at the end of the Dragonborn DLC. She has already defeated Alduin, stopped the vampire invasion, but dies to Miraak at the Summit of Apocrypha. He takes her soul and escapes into Nirn where he is at full power and takes over Solstheim with a wave of his hand.

At first there are no downsides, he doesn't need a period of recovery, maybe just a bit of a reminder of how to live in a mortal world again. But otherwise he's ready to expand from Solstheim into Skyrim to regain old territory he had during the Merithic Era.

However, I have a headcanon that Dragonborn souls are different than normal dragon souls. They are meant to consume immortal, god-like souls and take on their powers. Black holes meant to consume. So what happens when two of them collide?

Miraak begins to see memories of Yera, starting from childhood all the way to adulthood and beyond and seeing her grow as a person. He starts to get a weird sort of guilt watching her because... he kind of relates to her struggles. Existing in a world that is suddenly taken over the the Thalmor and all freedoms and desires squished under their boots. Her strength in her ability to flee the country to search for somewhere safer and happier, only to be thrusted into the Dragonborn role. And the undeniable kinship of another Dragonborn attracts him and-

He killed her. Whatever possible chance of getting to know this person, Miraak personally destroyed that chance. And he feels guilty have having killed her, but still not regretful because he desired freedom more than anything in the world.

If it were only memories he were seeing, it wouldn't be so bad. But dragon souls are immortal, even when consumed. So when two Dragonborn souls that cannot be destroyed and are made to just consume are next to each other, you get some weird fucked up shit.

Like Miraak developing habits very similar to Yera. Muscle memories of weapons and stances he never used. Taste and sounds he yearns for, but he never experienced personally in the first place. And Yera in his 'dreams' starting to look at him and react to him there.

This fic is an exploration of "What if I put these two into a blender and mixed them together. Would one come out on top? Would their souls destroy each other? Would a whole new person come out when I turn off the blender?"

There is a path where Miraak does revive Yera, and tries to right his wrongs. But I think after going through a blender, and then the guy who killed you revives you and says, "I'm sorry I did that. Can we have a redo?" I don't think she'd give him the time of day.

I want to rewrite it from when I first started it, and I do plan on releasing it but I want to really explore for myself how badly I can twist these two and how far they will go.

[umbracirrus]

Weekend WIP <3

Lots of writing done this week, so thought I'd share a WIP of something I've worked on before Wednesday - the beginning of the fic with my dragonborn Margrethe and Miraak! It's mostly just Margie's arrival at Raven Rock for the first time, but of course that's going to be a downward spiral into feels for the first dragonborn >:3

---------

“Hm…”

Margrethe had to bring her hand up in order to shield her eyes from the ash which was being picked up by the wind as the Northern Maiden approached the docks of Raven Rock. She knew that Solstheim had been affected by the eruption of the Red Mountain many years ago, she just wasn’t expecting to see little more than a dull, barren grey landscape lit up only by the lanterns which adorned the town’s streets. It was too dark to tell if there were any standout landscape features beyond Raven Rock, but she decided that such a feat would be best saved until the daylight hours.

She was all too glad to step off the boat as soon as Gjalund called out that the ship was moored, and made some sort of remark about not being happy to be back. The feeling of solid ground beneath her feet… she wanted to pray to the Divines for that blessing.

As she allowed herself a few moment to ensure that her footing was stable, an elf had been quick to approach Gjalund, and a snappy conversation about goods and costs which she was only really half paying attention to ensued.

A shadow loomed over her in the brief moment in which she had leaned down and held her hands against her knees, so she straightened herself and stared up at the elf. If she had overheard Gjalund properly, she believed that his name was Adril. “And you, outlander. I don’t recognise you…” The Dunmer looked down at her, his brow creasing as he frowned. “This must be your first time to Raven Rock. State your intentions.”

A blunt attitude. Fine, she would be just as blunt back.

“Miraak. Where is he?”

Adril’s eyes narrowed at her, though that was quick to give way to confusion. “I… don’t know who that is.” He was quick to shake off his puzzlement, and start lecturing her about how Solstheim wasn’t Skyrim and that the laws between both lands differed. As he droned on, she folded her arms over and started to scowl. And eventually- “Any questions?”

“Are you certain that you don’t know where Miraak is?”

Adril looked irritated at her repeated question, and she received little more than a prickly “No. I do not,” in response. He was quick to dismiss her presence when he realised that she likely wouldn’t ask anything different, and turned around and made some sort of snappy remark to Gjalund and his men about being careful where they stored the goods that they were offloading.

“Wonderful start… A dead end. Just great.” She pinched at the bridge of her nose as she exhaled through gritted teeth. Afterwards though, she did her best to steady her breathing to calm herself down, brushing away some ash which had landed on her nose. Miraak could be a problem for tomorrow. For now… she needed somewhere to put her feet up. She had spent much of the journey to Raven Rock leaning over the side of the boat and lurching, and even now, her legs still felt uneven.

She quickly went to catch up to Adril, and cleared her throat from behind him. “Actually, another question.” She waited for him to stop and turn to face her. “Is there an inn or anything akin to one in Raven Rock?”

Adril gave her an irritated look. “You would be looking for the Retching Netch Cornerclub, outlander. Can’t miss it. Opposite Glover’s forge and has a guard posted outside.”

Before she could so much as respond to his comment, to ask anything further, he had turned around once more and entered the building he had been stood beside. The sound of a lock turning was the confirmation that she wouldn’t get to know anything more. She let out an irritated huff, and continued along the road. It was one thing giving her directions… but where in Oblivion was this forge? A pointless answer indeed.

“What a warm bloody welcome…”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Five

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

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

Word Count: 5.5k

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

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

Part Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shall replace it with my own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re delusional.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t touch me,” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it is short-lived. Fleeting.

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

“You can’t run from me,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I doubt that,” you growl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave him hanging. Leaving him swinging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both groan when he bottoms out.

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

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

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

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

This isn’t fair. It makes no sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miraak!”

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

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

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

The possessiveness of his words twists your stomach.

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

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

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

He draws back enough for you to turn to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, Miraak says nothing.

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

“I do not seek to usurp you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

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

Part Four

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[cryinngcat]

Next chapter out!!! It’s a kinda short one. I’m reeealllyyy looking forward to getting into the fun stuff, but for now we gotta work on getting there.

[whatyouredyingtosee]

I miss my old Skyrim moots... But idk if they'd be fine with me following them so I just err on the side of caution and don't :P

[lathez]

NEW CHAPTER!! Lots of cute baby animals to enjoy. Morokei also. For the Morokei baddies 😌 ( @pinessydr mostly lmao are there any other Morokei stannies? )

Who up torturing they Vahlok the Jailor? (Lathe)

[zozilly]

GHD|| Sailor Song by Gigi Perez is very Chrysanthe and Miraak...

[Edit: I wanted to @99corentine because this is their lovely fic that's consumed my life and also opinions]

So I was thinking about this fic, because I found it, read it on my flip phone, chewed it up and swallowed it in 12 hours over the span of three days, and I realized it is a very fitting song for these two at the beginning of their lil freakyship right after Miraak leaves Apocrypha. Now because I'm autistic and Skyrim is like the only thing I've consumed for two months now, I will be copy-pasting the lyrics and explaining.

[I saw her in the rightest way Looking like Anne Hathaway]

okay so this is to me, Chry seeing Miraak's face for the first time. I mean he was whipped, absolutely head over heels when he first met the guy, but like..... yknow?

Laughing while she hit her pen and coughed, and coughed[unrelated they didnt have pens.]

[And then she came up to my knees Begging, "Baby, would you please Do the things you said you'd do to me, to me?"]

THIS. this is my part. my lil bit. my absolutely pathetic mommy issues emotional neglect having ass itches amazingly for this bit. ABSOLUTELY this is both of them. Chry to Miraak in the "Hey I'm the most wet-cat man you'll get, and I am a tradgedy for you, please love me in a way that makes me forget those moments after thralldom." Miraak in his fucking "Silgron I have been trapped as no more than a pet for 4000 years, you are *mine* and you promised me so much, in exchange for small favors and such. I *need* you. Like I need no other."(because he is dramatic and a queer. and also has chewy amazing sour patch kids flavored character development that I enjoy normally.)

[Oh, won't you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor? And when you get a taste, can you tell me what's my flavor?]

theyre both patheti and love starved with extreme guilt.... like pooka what do you want from them?

[I don't believe in God, but I believe that you're my savior]

THISTHISTHIS... Chry literally was saved from thralldom by Miraak and Miraak from Apocrypha!!! Chry is wholly hesitant to really belive in the divines, clearly stating he steps outside those boxes, and Miraak literally says he doesn't give a crap because his gods were the dov, whom he rejected. but he owes his freedom to Chry, and vice versa.

[My mom says that she's worried, but I'm covered in this favor

theyre both without parents.

[And when we're getting dirty, I forget all that is wrong]

gay fucks get emotional when they say gex

[I sleep so I can see you, 'cause I hate to wait so long I sleep so I can see you, and I hate to wait so long]

telepathy, must I say more? No? ok I will<3 Chry has said he's gonna go beddy bye so he can talk to Miraak.

[She took my fingers to her mouth The kind of thing that makes you proud That nothing else had ever worked out, worked out]

Miraak and his oral fixation<3 and his past with that one priest or wghatever.... I read that bit at like midnight....

[And lately, I've tried other things But nothing can capture the sting Of the venom she's gonna spit out right now]

oh? Chry thriving off of Miraak being possesive??? oh????

[Oh, won't you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor? And when you get a taste, can you tell me what's my flavor? I don't believe in God, but I believe that you're my savior I know that you've been worried, but you're dripping in my favor And when we're getting dirty, I forget all that is wrong I sleep so I can see you, 'cause I hate to wait so long I sleep so I can see you, and I hate to wait so long]

we done this b4

[And we can run away to the walls inside your house I can be the cat, baby, you can be the mouse And we can laugh off things that we know nothing about We can go forever, until you wanna sit it out]

when they when they in lakeview... when they they when...

[illumiera]

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak Characters: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Miraak (Elder Scrolls), Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreamsharing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fairy Tale Elements, Redemption, Romance, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Time Travel Summary:

“What a shame that your fate is to die so that I may have my freedom.”

Laat Dovahkiin tilts up her chin. “I have slain the World-Eater, crossed into Sovngarde a living woman, and returned alive. Surely I am beyond fate by now.”

“But you are not beyond mine, mal dovahdin,” Miraak tells her.

* * *

Once a runaway noblewoman from High Rock, now the famed saviour of Skyrim, Elentari vows to do her duty when a new threat rises on the island of Solstheim. What she expects is an enemy like all the rest. Instead, she meets Miraak, a man whose very soul calls out to her own, and she begins to wonder just how closely their fates are intertwined—and if the First and the Last Dragonborn can defy the destiny set aside for them both.