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#tes fanfiction
throughtrialbyfire · 4 months
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𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚 ♥
oh man, it's that time of the week again!! i've been busy irl with the semester coming to an end, but i always look forward to wednesday around here!
tagged by the lovely @thequeenofthewinter , thank you so much!! <33
tagging @dirty-bosmer @totally-not-deacon @viss-and-pinegar @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @archangelsunited @rainpebble3 @boethiahspillowbook @gilgamish @umbracirrus and you!! and there's no pressure to participate, no worries!!
this week i'm sharing some long snippets from 2 different wips - "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood", my fic centering Dragonborn!Frothar and taking place 10-ish years after the dragon crisis began, and a snippet from the rough draft of chaper 28 of "Cycle of the Serpent" in which athenath is going into meridia's temple to get rid of the necromancer, malkoran! hope you enjoy <3
Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood
He'd heard of dragon lairs distantly, and in every story, he hoped they were exaggerating. The grass crunched under his feet as he approached the stone outcropping among the mountains. This dragon must breathe fire, he surmised. The ground, once rich with soil and plant life, cracked beneath his boots. The plants, as he'd gotten closer to the beast, appeared so sullen and dead that he'd wondered if this spot in Whiterun got any rain at all. His gaze darted around at the once-thriving soil, the dirt, the clay, all of it splitting and dusty and strange under his feet. Then, he finally allowed his gaze to land on the dragon. Sleeping atop a wall inscribed with strange markings, he could see the scales, the glinting of red, the horrible shape of it. The beast laid atop the stone like a cat on a fence, it's scaley figure breathing in slow noises. Each breath puffed out small embers and trails of smoke, rising to the sky and dissipating into the air above. Frothar tightened his armor, securing himself as well as he could. He unsheathed his blade. What was his plan, exactly?
He wanted to kill it. The thing had been terrorizing locals. This was his duty. As the oldest son of Jarl Balgruuf, he should be keeping his people safe, right? Surely this was how things went. This was his duty. But how to approach, how to take it down? Did he even have a real plan, or was this all folly? Frothar swallowed the ball of anxiety lodged firmly in his throat. He watched as the creature slumbered. He wondered if it would have been smarter to grab a bow and some arrows rather than risk it with a sword, but-
He didn't have time to think. The eyes of the creature, hearing a twig snap from a far-off deer - damned deer - thrilled open. The pupils, like slits, widened at the sight and then shrank into long, black lines. Frothar's own gaze went wide as he dashed behind a large stone, missing his death by mere inches as the beast spat fire in a way that sounded like screaming. He covered his ears, the heat searing through the rock, hotter than any summer's sun he'd ever known. He waited. The moment the dragon rose to the skies, he sprinted to another rock, watching as it flung another breath of fire at him, and ducked down low. Gods, what had he been thinking? He'd really been this stupid to march up the side of a mountain to fight a dragon wholly unprepared! He'd done this all for what? And now he was going to die here, he would die on this hill and it wouldn't be for anything or for anyone, just his own selfish fucking- The dragon landed, the ground shivering with the impact. The whole earth repulsed at the feeling of it's existence, the land quaking as the dragon tread one foot in front of the other, wings lightly rising, then lowering, sending waves of dry-sucking heat out around it. "You seek your death, little one?"
The words thrummed through Frothar's chest. Like hearing the sun speak, like feeling every lick of flames against his face. It burned from the inside out, the sound, the way they rattled through him. The words themselves burrowed into his lungs, and he clutched his sword tighter, his own throat closed in fear. Sweat poured out of him, drenching the back of his tunic, his blood racing in his ears so loud he could hardly hear, but the words… He could understand them. It was in no language he'd ever known, a language he would never be able to fully articulate, but it was not with his ears or mind he understood, but something far older. His heart raced, slamming against his sternum, breaths barely having enough time to lodge in his lungs before being pushed out of him again. "Do you come to die? Perhaps your bones will nourish me, child." Frothar knit his brow. His father. He thought of him. He thought of Jarl Balgruuf and how, no matter how many times Frothar proved himself again and again, his father would not let him out of his grasp. Whiterun needed a leader when Balgruuf was gone. It fell on the eldest's shoulders. It fell on his shoulders. It was his duty. Whiterun needed a capable leader, a good leader, a brave leader. He would not die a coward. At the least, he'd go down and he'd do it swinging.
Cycle of the Serpent, Chapter 28
A foul air pitched low through the corridors, thick in the winding depths of the temple. Moss overpowered the stones, shrouded in its blinding dark. The stench of decay wafted through the Altmer's senses. Athenath pressed their sleeve to his nose, forcing himself not to gag at the odor. Meaty and slithering, sweet like overripe fruit trampled under the foot of a count's horses. He stepped forward, flinching as the noises of battle shredded the once-quiet air above them, using their sword to break apart spiderwebs that threaded through the temple's corners and crevices. The hair on the back of their neck prickled, skin bumping, spine aching with the all-too-familiar dread that sent a shiver down the column. The lit braziers up ahead offered both peace and terror. A presence had been here. The dark, then, seemed safer than the figure they knew lurked deeper in the temple. Still, he pushed one foot ahead of the other along the well-worn stones, creeping low as to not draw the attention of whoever - or whatever - had contaminated the temple of Meridia. A burning ache at the back of his throat caught them as they continued forward, caution in every shallow breath they nearly feared to breathe. Guilt should be for later, he told himself, but it threatened them now in here, the guilt of aiding a Daedric Prince. Was what the Vigilants said true? Was this doing the bidding of something that would merely toss them aside when through? It's not like he had a choice. They hadn't seen the light, the Lady of Infinite Energies, the way she hovered as a bright and shining beacon in the skies above Solitude. And Athenath, unfortunately, had. Still, it did little to stop his hand from clutching the amulet of Mara beneath his clothes.
[....] He lowered himself once again, creeping towards it, and picked the lock with ease. For a moment, they were glad that Emeros and Wyndrelis were above, fighting off the Vigilants. It saved him the embarrassment of the other two pointing out the door to the half-distracted Altmer. Then, shame filled his face with red, as he wrapped a hand around the lever. He shouldn't rejoice their absence right now. They were up there, fighting off the Vigilants so that Athenath had a chance to investigate the temple, as they all wanted to. Who knew how the battle above was going? Who could say if his friends were dead or alive? Athenath stifled the thought, smothered it deep until it choked out. There was nothing saying that his friends weren't alive and waiting for him. They had to have hope.
[....]
The further Athenath went, the more they clung to this idea. Sometimes, a moment of idle collection of breath and thought, they clutched the amulet hanging out of the collar of his shirt. They wondered if Mara had sent them to Skyrim for a reason. Surely, her devotee would find a place to spread her compassion and her love in all its forms, in this land claimed by war and its aftermath? Maybe it was no mistake Athenath would be attending the Bard's College, after all. Training with them, then going off into the world, maybe this was exactly where they were meant to be. Even though pain soared through their body from various injuries, even when hope dimmed when he drank the last of his healing potions, they pushed onward into the temple. Meridia had asked it of them. Mara was commanding them. Mother Mara, lady of compassion, of love, of family, the lady Athenath looked to when the world crumbled and the stars burned out and the sun breathed its last. The lady who forgave him, who gave them a new life, unwasted here. This was an extension of Mara's compassion. It had to be.
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matri4rch · 5 months
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"Conflict of Interest"
How am I going to get these two in the same bed undressed? Idk. But it will happen.
This ✨WIP Wednesday✨ piece but finished
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I love noses. -Doja Cat (I just thought it was funny, I love to draw noses w unconventionally attractive shapes please don't snipe me and throw me in a ditch. uwu)
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tallmatcha · 6 months
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WIP Thursday
I've been tagged in a few weeks' worth of writing games. Thanks for thinking of me, friends! 💗
Let's see WIPs from: @whatsarasaid @gilgamish @thequeenofthewinter @changelingsandothernonsense @mareenavee @saltymaplesyrup @kookaburra1701 @dirty-bosmer @mirrordaltokki @aesadraws @paraparadigm @dei2dei @expended-sleeper @thana-topsy (no pressure, of course)
Rated B for Blood. Here's a bit from Krosis.
As the years passed, I discovered something peculiar: I could not dream. Mine was the deep and untroubled sleep of frozen lakes and slumbering pines. Silas dreamt for me, and when he dreamed he was many things: a soaring bird, a running deer, a prowling wolf. I envied him, for I, too, longed to see in the dark and feel my hackles rise before a storm. When I told him this, he shook his head and said, “It’s more than that. When I dream of being an animal, I’m hungry—so hungry it hurts, Einarth. My heart beats too fast. I can’t get warm. I don’t remember this,” he added, gesturing around us. “Our home, my hands, my feet, my body. I forget what it’s like to be here. To be me.”  He claimed to know the clean, sparkling scent of freshly fallen snow. But he also knew the feel of a living thing writhing between his teeth, the smell of steam rising from torn flesh, and the copper-rich taste of hot blood filling his mouth. As a wolf, he knew the pleasure of eating, and as a deer, the horror of being eaten. I thought I could endure both just to know how it felt to fly.
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abstractredd · 2 months
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Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lucien Lachance/Martin Septim Characters: Lucien Lachance, Martin Septim, Jauffre (Elder Scrolls), Ocato (Elder Scrolls) Additional Tags: Rare Pairings, where the FUCK are you Marcien nation wake up, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Forbidden Love, Introspection, not beta we die like... well. Summary:
It was hard to describe what it was they had, Martin and Lucien.
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daedrabait · 10 months
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The sun never sets when you turn a blind eye...
Unofficial cover for the next few chapters of my story as it becomes more and more plot-driven <3
Dust and Dim Sunshine can be read here if you’re interested.
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oblivionposting · 5 months
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Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Fandoms: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Relationships: Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Characters: Martin Septim, Baurus (Elder Scrolls), Jena (Elder Scrolls), Caroline (Elder Scrolls), Cyrus (Oblivion), Achille (Oblivion), Arcturus (Oblivion), Captain Steffan (Elder Scrolls), Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Texting, Humor, Fluff, Secret Relationship, Sneaking Around
Summary: where did baurus' gin go???? the groupchat investigates.
for @da3drat <3
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honkinghonkfriendfics · 5 months
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Time Is Fleeting! Chapter 1 (technically) is finally up! I'm proud of this and I'm already working on the next few chapters, hope you all enjoy it!
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Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Elder Scrolls
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sheogorath (Elder Scrolls)/Reader
Characters: Sheogorath (Elder Scrolls), Reader
Additional Tags: Fluff, Prison, Caretaking
─✱*.。:。✱*.:。✧*.。✰*.:。✧*.。:。*.。✱ ─
Next thing you knew is that you were in a completely different place. No longer were you in the dimly lit dungeon, but within a room with large stone walls and a few stained-glass windows.
How did you get there so quickl-
Your savior carefully put you on a wooden table. Out of nowhere, you were in a room with a small crowd.
Sheogorath turned to his servants, "I need water to clean the wound."
A few of them spun around hastily and fetched some water while the Daedric Prince was inspecting your leg.
Yes, one of the guards had slashed your leg... though you do not even know what crimes you have committed.
"Let us hope it is not infected yet.... I should have listened to your prayers sooner, apologies."
Your chest tightened and you spoke, "I did not intend on summoning you, My Lord."
"Well, but you still called for someone. And I answered."
The Madgod smiled at you.
"You have gone through so much, little mortal, but no worries. I am here."
For a second, it felt like time stopped as those golden eyes gazed upon you with softness and pure intention. That was not a thing that you thought would come from a Daedric Prince, yet... there they were.
You could now see them clearly with the light coming through the large windows unlike when you both were in the prison.
The Madgod's face seemed soft, but also very sharp. Their cheekbones were chiseled. Thanks to her beard, their face looked more masculine even though all of his features were the peak of androgyny. They had slightly pointed ears which were shorter than those of a normal mer. Their grey, but close to white hair was slicked back and mostly tucked between their ears.... although a rowdy strand got loose and was hanging in his face. Sheogorath's face and ears were adorned with golden piercings. There was a stud in their right nostril, a golden ring in their bottom lip and a few mismatched piercings on their ears.
While you were distracted by the absurdity of the Daedric Prince's beauty, the servants returned with a bucket of clean water and a rag. Your staring did not stop.
"I will clean their wound," Sheogorath mumbled to his servants after they try to help you.
Any other Daedric Prince would have ordered someone to do this for them, but the Madgod really was unlike his kind, huh?
Sheogorath calmly inspected your exposed wound. The blade had cut through your pants and your flesh. The Daedric Prince frowned at the thought of ripping your pantleg, but it had to be done. Even then they were careful.
"Does not seem infected... and trust me, I know what an infected wound looks like."
After the inspection, you gripped the table as the Madgod cleaned your wound.
The Daedric Prince looked up from your wound and asked, "Do you know any healing spells, darling?"
You nodded and Sheogorath stopped cleaning your wound.
"All right, I will intensify the spell by using my energy. I would love to heal you, but that is sadly out my abilities."
Once you looked down, you saw the claw-like hand enter your view. Their nails were long and black. A gradiant ran up to their elbows were it slowly ended in their natural skin color.
You took their hand carefully. A bright light emerged from the Madgod's veins and travelled towards you until it reached your finger tips.
The energy that hit you nearly electrified you.
The urge to pull away was strong, but you felt safe among the Daedric Prince.
"Try a healing spell!"
Looking down at your trembling hand, you raised slightly before you turned your energy into magic, or in this case a familiar healing spell. A golden light gleamed in your hands and you started to feel the energy of the Daedric Prince as your own energy got weaker. You took a look at your leg to see the gash heal rapidly.
"Incredible. Well done, darling. Now... onto more pressing matters..."
The Madgod grabbed you quickly and without any remorse of scaring you. They were now inches away from your face.
"I cannot let you leave until I know that you are safe and well. I want to make sure that you are safe after leaving the isles and that you can live freely on Nirn. This is... a standard procedure."
You look past Sheogorath. The servants were nodding eagerly.
The Madgod's voice had a cynical kick to it as he spoke, "Oh and... I will also bring you new clothes to wear... your poor pants payed the price of being worn. Apologies."
You did have to say that for servants of Sheogorath... they were incredibly well-dressed.
The grip around your arm loosened and the Daedric Prince stood up straight before brushing some dust off their fancy suit.
"All right. My servants will do the rest."
Sheogorath tried to remain serious, mysterious and well... Daedric, but they smiled at you. It was a kind smile.
After the master left, the servants basically ambushed you with kindness and assistance of any kind. They helped you get dressed and you looked at yourself in the mirror.
The colorful spectrum of fabric fit you well and the golden adornments only lightened up the entire outfit. The jacket you liked especially, with its embroidery of fantastical flowers that you had never seen before.
You noticed how the lighting got dimmer and you made your way to a little balcony.
Of course, it was natural to be shocked and amazed at such a landscape. You had read of the Shivering isles, but you never would have imagined it to see it with your own eyes.
"So the bright side is Mania and the gloomy side is Dementia.... interesting," you thought out loud.
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lockewrites · 1 year
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Twilight Thorns
@blossom-adventures​ sent: “Hidden Tavern, Twilight, Red Berries” & “Entering a Daedric Realm” for @nirnwrote​
F!Dragonborn & Sanguine || Semi-NSFW || 1514 words AO3
Rhea attends one of Sanguine's lavish parties. Spicy content mentioned, but nothing in graphic detail.
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The sweet, musky scent of roses greeted her as she found her footing. It wasn’t the first portal Rhea had stepped through, but it was certainly the least taxing physically; normally, she was left with nausea and dizziness, but this one merely filled her body with a strange buzz, an excited tingling in her limbs.
An ogrim stood in front of her, its arms barely crossed over its chest as it glared down at her. Behind it was an imposing metal gate, taller than the daedra and lined with just as tall shrubbery, making it difficult to tell just what it was blocking.
“Need a name,” it grunted, though the “voice” was more like gravel beneath a boot.
“Rheanon Blaire,” she replied. “What’s yours?”
The ogrim gave her a confused look before answering, “Allit.”
It unfolded its arms, revealing a scroll in its hand; the beast began scanning what she assumed to be the guest list, rolling it an impossible number of times given its apparent size.
As it continued searching, Rhea pulled a parchment from her pocket and held it out to the daedra. “I was given this invite.”
“Should’a said so sooner,” it huffed. With an unsettlingly large hand, it pushed open the gate and allowed her to pass.
Rhea stepped through and gaped at the scene before her. A castle, far larger and more lavish than any jarl or even emperor could boast stretched far into the twilight sky; the grounds were decorated with a dizzying array of colored lanterns and candles, and music that wasn’t heard until passing through the gate spilled from somewhere beyond the castle walls. The lawn itself was laced with rose bushes, statues and fountains, many of which expressed a variety of different coital positions, and the different-colored liquids, which wafted a strong and bitter smell, were no doubt the strongest alcohols to be found in Oblivion.
“Milady.”
A deep voice startled Rhea. She looked down to find a horned, crimson-skinned being standing in front of her; he barely reached her mid-thigh and was adorned in his weight in jewelry. She suddenly felt very underdressed.
With a nod of his head and a jingle of his embellishments, he spoke again. “If you would kindly follow me,” he said, “I will guide you to our dear Lord Sanguine’s party.”
Rhea followed him along the twisting path, which seemed strategically placed to pass by the most vulgar of the lawn decor, until they reached the ornate castle doors. Two more daedric beings stood guard; they were far quieter in terms of appearance (and quite literally, as they spoke no words at their approach); their skin and armor were stone-like, as though Sanguine carved them out of granite and granted them mobility.
This close, she could feel the music pulsing in her chest, her heartbeat seeming to match the pace; her stomach tightened and the corners of her lips twitched upward.
The pair of guards opened the doors, revealing ostentation on a scale the vainest of mortals could never dream. Somehow both bright and ambient; flames glinting off the numerous gold surfaces scattered around the grand hall, showing every curve of the piles of bodies writhing in time with the band’s deep, vibrating music.
Inebriation hung in the very air itself, smell and effect, and in simply standing there, Rhea felt that excited tingle shift within her muscles to relaxation and a desire for gaiety.
A servant approached her, holding a tray of gold goblets, each filled to the brim with a shimmering liquid that shifted colors in the light. She took one and sniffed it: cinnamon, vanilla, and various herbs she couldn’t place. With a shrug, she took an exploratory sip; the drink burned all the way down her throat and into her stomach, but pleasantly so, like the heat from a sauna but under her skin.
As she continued on her drink, Rhea looked toward the heart of the hall; a throne as tall as a building, lined with golden thorns and jewels of the bloodiest red, and sitting with as pleased a grin as any was the host himself: Sanguine. An androgynous figure stood beside him, animatedly speaking to him, their arms flailing as they shared their story. Sensing her gaze, Sanguine’s crimson eyes met hers, and his smile widened as he gave her a wink.
Rhea returned the smile and raised her goblet to him before downing the rest of it. After grabbing another, she wandered around the grandiose room, stepping over people enjoying carnal pleasures and skirting between those twisting around the band’s melodies.
“I had wondered when you’d be making an appearance, Rheanon,” a silky voice spoke behind her.
She turned, finding Sanguine standing close enough for her to have to crane her neck to properly meet his gaze. The embellished robes he wore were left open, exposing his chest and the scarlet etchings along his skin; matching black fabric hung low on his hips, graced with gold chains and beads that shimmered perfectly with his movements. He took her hand and brought it to his dark lips.
“I didn’t want to show up prior to the mass orgy,” she replied. The skin beneath his kiss prickled. “This is a bit more lavish than your last party,” Rhea added.
Sanguine chuckled. “Oh, my dear, that was a mere gathering catered to your needs,” he explained. “With you off galavanting and saving the world, a party such as this would be far too overwhelming. But you certainly needed something, and I’m always one to oblige.”
“Oh?” Rhea took a long drink before continuing. “Well, I’m flattered someone would go to the trouble for a stranger like myself.”
“Ah, but you’re no stranger,” he corrected. “Not to me, and not to my siblings. We’ve all had our eyes on you for quite some time.” Sanguine reached out and ran his clawed finger along her jaw, stopping beneath her chin. “It’s not every era the divines grace Nirn with a piece of themselves within a mortal’s skin.”
Her smile fell, and Sanguine’s hand dropped in response.
“Is that why I’m here?” she asked, her tone indignant.
He quirked his eyebrow.
“That’s why all the others have sent for me,” Rhea said. “‘I’ve chosen you as my champion,’ ‘Do this menial task for me,’ ‘You’re power incarnate, and I want it for myself.’”
Sanguine clicked his tongue. “You misunderstand my intentions.” His hand hovered over her chalice a moment before the liquid topped itself off. “I seek your company simply because you are intriguing. And I know you’re capable of indulging in the pleasures of your world, and I’m curious if you can continue to do so in mine.”
After taking a sip of his own, he continued, “So, perhaps, that is part of it–your very nature being a point of interest. But, I’m not about to request you return to Nirn to do my bidding, as I’ve no doubt my siblings have done on many occasions.”
Rhea furrowed her brow. “So, you… what? Just want me to enjoy myself?”
He grinned, showing off his sharp fangs. “Precisely.” He tilted his head, some of his dark locks falling around his horns. “Was that not obvious from our first meeting?”
With a shrug, she replied, “I figured you were trying to butter me up. Get on my good side before asking me to run off and cause hell.”
Sanguine chuckled as he dipped his finger into his drink, pulling out a strange, red berry.
“My Rheanon,” he purred, leaning in close, his breath smelling heavily of his drink. He brought the berry to her lips, which she involuntarily parted and accepted. “I only seek to be on your worst side.”
A deep flush settled in her cheeks and her lower abdomen fluttered. She swallowed hard, too deep in his trance to even taste the fruit, and said, “Well then, you’re, uh, a nice change of pace.” In an attempt to swallow her stuttered words, Rhea took another drink, moving too quickly and spilling a bit from the corner of her mouth.
When she pulled the glass away, Sanguine gathered the excess from her mouth with his thumb and dragged his tongue along the length. It only served to darken her blush.
“I don’t think you’ve freed yourself from the shackles and worries of your world just yet,” he remarked. “I know your divine soul is not so easily taken by daedric influence, but even so, alcohol and the like can still offer some respite.”
He shifted to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She glanced at the point of contact.
“Why don’t I show you how a Daedric Prince properly indulges?” His nails grazed along her skin as he guided her to the front of the hall. “I do so enjoy having a deserving guest of honor. It’s like its own form of voyeurism.”
Rhea let out a nervous chuckle and motioned to the fornicating bodies. “This isn’t voyeuristic enough for you?”
“Oh, darling Rheanon,” he said, shaking his head. “This is simply white noise.”
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varlaisvea · 4 months
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Journal entry from a Riften bunkhouse
~850 words Rated G
Here’s a little snippet from a BIG WIP— i’ve been working on it for almost a year, and this is the FIRST thing I’ve published! 😬 Some of it (like this part) is in the form of journal entries. The whole story spans both Second Era and Fourth Era timelines, and features both the Dragonborn and the Vestige of Coldharbour.
This, though, is neither of them—it’s one of the main characters (OC), a Khajiit from the Second Era (less than a decade after the epic year of 2E 582). He’s in his 30s and from Riverhold, which means he’s lived through the Knahaten flu and two Imperial occupations of his home city. He will someday become the first Khajiiti Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, and this is an excerpt from his journal as he makes his way to Winterhold for the first time, to enroll in the College.
Please enjoy, feedback welcome! I could use the encouragement!
——-
Tonight, we are staying at a dingy bunkhouse in Riften. I was, quite unexpectedly, unsuccessful in my attempt at seduction a few days ago, but Vihk was still kind enough to invite me to the tavern with him and some of the others from the caravan. I think he was only being polite, and anyway I was feeling quite restless, so I spent the evening wandering the docks and streets in thought. I had heard the guard here harasses wanderers, especially at night, but correctly guessed that account was from someone who is not of my stature or impressively sleek clawfulness. The worst I got was one “keep moving, cat.”
I do not know how long it has been since I have felt motivated, curious, and excited to learn, but today, when I talked to those mages in the caravan, I remembered: this one is also a mage, and has been ever since he asked his mother if he could learn the clan-magic along with his little sisters. Is this not something Araszha once loved about himself—his intellectual curiosity? To feel it again only made me despair for how long it had been gone, and how little I had even noticed its absence. But to catch a glimmer of it… I wanted to cling to it and chase after it. Not in the joyful way, though, in the urgent and desperate way; clawing at strings. A motivation so flimsy it almost feels shameful.
Still… perhaps it is preferable to my prior plans.
A few days ago in Ska’vyn, I noticed a very handsome, very snobbish-looking Dunmer who was traveling with a caravan to Winterhold, and I saw that Riften was one of the stops the caravan would make. Although I had been idly considering traveling to Riften for a while, I only knew two things about the city: it has a reputation for looking the other way on many unsavory activities, and it is very far away from Riverhold in Ne Quin-al. An ideal destination, yes? I told the caravan driver I was going to Winterhold, and paid for passage, planning to charm my way into a lovely evening (or a few) with a deliciously condescending Dunmeri dandy. 
Perhaps in Riften Araszha-dar would be too drunk to wake up in time for the departure to Winterhold, and be left behind—the caravan driver would already have been paid; no skin off his frozen nose. The only people who might notice a missing cat would be aforementioned Dunmer snob (who would doubtless be glad not to have to avoid eye contact with his most recent less-than-wise decision), and other members of the caravan. All of whom would be unsurprised that the slick and shifty Liar-dar they had met was as unreliable as he was insufferable, and perhaps be mildly relieved to be free of such a cat, if they felt anything at all.
Riften’s seedy reputation seems well-earned—one could easily get oneself into misfortune here. It would be easy for someone—perhaps even someone taller and more furry than most Nords—to go missing, especially at night. In fact, I feel one could easily go missing in such a way that, for example, anyone who might be trailing or threatening them would be delayed for days or weeks, trying to get any sort of definitive answer as to their whereabouts or condition. Otherwise, no one would notice or care, especially if one’s very appearance suggested a lecherous thief to most of the city’s inhabitants—a dozen other identical criminal pests come through here every week, probably. I imagine Riften is more accustomed than most cities to seeing occasional bodies fished out of the water, or removed from a dimly-lit alley, or a cheap inn bed. Likewise, the people of Riften are probably more accustomed than most to avoiding the everyday undead—hollow-eyed skooma eaters, beggars, gamblers, drunks. Which is to say: it seems easy to become a ghost here, and whether one becomes a literal or figurative ghost matters to no one, ghost included. 
Even if, say, one’s family worried for them, even if one’s lovingly tenacious family tracked down their last known location, Riften would shrug with bleak disinterest—why would it matter if a given degenerate ends up face-down in a grimy skooma den, in chains en route to a Morrowind plantation, or at the bottom of the lake? In any case, they are gone. And for the sort of people whose lives end here, one way or another, that is a blessing to them and everyone else—even the people who fish bodies out of lakes and skooma dens get some work out of the deal. My wandering tonight confirmed: Riften seems to be exactly what I was looking for, when I decided a few days ago that it was finally time to make my way here.
I am back in my bunk, but of course I cannot sleep. Isn’t it strange, to think that Mother first told me about the College of Winterhold over twenty years ago? It is stranger still to know that tomorrow, I will be able tell her I have finally arrived! 
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unironicallycringe · 1 year
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WIP Word Search Tag Game
Tagged by @juruna-yudja
Rules: search for the words given by whomever tagged you within your wip(s) and post them for us to see! Then tag as many people as you want and give them five words to find in their works.
I received: tendency, match, mask, confine, silver
Only 1/5 of those appear in unposted TMM wip content (can you guess which, lol), but then I realized my old TES:IV fic was fair game! Welcome to some exciting, exclusive content from Dear Brother, which only one other person has read 😉
Tendency ("Dear Brother")
An extended sentence with the disgusting creature for me, then. More months - possibly years - of finding dusty fur clogging my airway and irritating my eyes. Longer still with the cat’s putrid breath and his unconscious tendency to scratch up the table legs.
Match, changed to "similar" because apparently I just don't use this word ever - ("Dear Brother")
Our pace was pathetic thanks to her, since she had no muscle and fatigued quickly. I finally gave up for the night when she nearly blacked out and vomited after running a long stretch. We camped at the entrance to the exhausted mine near Harm’s Folly, both feeling quite similar to its status.
Mask ("The Mask-Maker")
He hurriedly wraps his sailcloth over his head and brings the mask to his face, but he realizes too late that something is off. The wood feels different. The grain is wrong and there's no muzzle or long ears. In the dark, he recognizes his unfinished Gerudo Mask instead of his Mogma.
"Shit...I grabbed the wrong one," Link grumbles. He puts it on anyway. "Sorry, tonight's been kind of weird for me."
Confine ("Dear Brother")
Tendrils of hair had escaped the confinement of his ribbon and were plastered to his face with sweat. Flustered, he plucked his gloves off to sweep the offending hairs out of his way. By the looks of his face, which was about a day past the need for shaving, Lucien’s temper was brittle. He needed no provoking at present.
Silver ("Dear Brother")
“Lookit ye, ye’ve plated yer tongue with silver.” I stretched and relaxed against the thick trunk of an oak. “’Tis a long yarn, and I don’t much like talkin’ at length, but alright.”
I'm tagging: @maskedsthings @starconsequence @captain-castaway @maulslittlemeowmeow @ghirahimbo
Your words are:
Brush, silent, color, grow, report
(use a synonym/tense change if a word doesn't work, or just generate a replacement!)
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throughtrialbyfire · 11 hours
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𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥
on time this week! lets goooooo!! thank you to the amazing @thequeenofthewinter and @skyrim-forever for tagging me!! tagging @umbracirrus @your-talos-is-problematic @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @changelingsandothernonsense @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @wispstalk @gilgamish @viss-and-pinegar and anyone who feels like joining! no pressure as always <3
since i just finished my rewrite of the early chapters of Cycle of the Serpent and posted a new chapter, i'm bringing an excerpt from another wip. i have no idea when this one will even remotely get finished, as it's one that i come back to and then leave alone for months on end, but i love the slow working of it. so, here's a tiny bit of my dragonborn frothar fic, "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood"! this is an extremely rough draft, but i hope you enjoy!
The dragon didn't entirely sell Dagny on not telling their father, but it sure was interesting. Plus, if it got her moping brother out of Dragonsreach for a night, then maybe it'd be fun to send him on his merry way. The two crept through the halls, down past a locked door, through strange and unused corridors. How many basements and cellars did one castle need? Frothar cursed silently as he followed his sister through the dark, her own cloak concealing her form. He'd donned one for his travels, and was glad he'd done so. The chill under these stones sunk into his blood. He couldn't stop the shivers that raced up his spine at every cobweb, and wondered how many frost spiders he may have been standing above his entire life. Maybe this was where Farengar got some of his ingredients, but he wouldn't pry. That'd give away where he'd been. And he couldn't be sure, he didn't see anything larger than a typical house spider, but… "Stop." Dagny pushed a hand out in front of her. Frothar, lost in his thoughts, stumbled backwards, boots making a loud, metallic sound against his armor. "What? Why?" She turned back, brow scrunched. "Because you're stepping on my cloak, what else?" He hadn't realized how close he'd been walking behind her. Trusting her sense of direction, and losing himself in the examinations of his surroundings, he'd found that he'd been a mere hairs width away from her. He swallowed uncomfortably, scrunching his nose. "Ah." "Come on," she hurried him along, rolling her eyes. She gestured forward, her feet again finding graceful step along the stone, his shambling awkwardly behind her. For his younger sister, she sure was bossy. But, that had always been Dagny, since the moment she was born. The minute the girl learned how to talk, he'd watched her demand things, from her toys to attention to outings. She'd demanded horses to ride and blades to spar with and dresses upon dresses. He snickered every now and again thinking back on the first year of the Dragon Crisis, how one of the ones she'd had tailored had never arrived, and she sulked for weeks after. Last he heard, it wound up in the closet of some Thalmor general's daughter, but that was just gossip.
Frothar did his best to keep a subtle distance between the pair, but not too far as to get lost in the dark. Lanterns were a risk, so Dagny lead by a tiny candle and her hand cupped around the flame. The flickering illuminated the dust, the piles of hay, the musty stench that surrounded them filling his nose. "So, how come you knew of these tunnels, and I didn't?" He finally asked, Dagny stopping momentarily. Before he could ask why, she swayed the candle, dropping the hand that shielded the flame, metal on a small bench catching the gleam. A shrine to Talos, as solemn as the grave, buried deep beneath Dragonsreach. "These tunnels were built for times of war, didn't you pay attention? Farengar taught us all about them, but you just kept dozing off in his lessons." "Not my fault that he taught them on the Great Balcony," Frothar replied, thinking back on the early summer afternoons where the wizard taught them the history of their Hold - much to the dismay of both the children and the wizard himself - and the warmth of creeping sleep that Frothar did his best to resist, and failed fantastically on some days. He figured this must have been one of those days, and instead turned his attention to the shrine. The offerings were simple; coins, snowberries, and tundra cotton. Still, it sent a pang of familiarity through him, of the conversations his father and uncle had in secret, of Nelkir's idle gossip, the youngest being fully aware of their father's worship. Perhaps Frothar was the last of the siblings to become aware of this fact, and in a way, it sent another pang of worry into his heart. Did he miss even more important information? Was he truly sleeping through some of the lessons Farengar departed, the important ones? He didn't have any time to think this over, as Dagny trudged forward through the dark, winding her way through familiar pathways. Frothar fell in step behind her, not wanting to be left behind. He didn't want to know if he was right on the frost spiders being beneath the castle, or whether that was just his paranoia.
The door slid open with a loud, thunderous creak, the kind that made him wince and worry if anyone heard it. Dagny, unfazed, pushed through, blowing the candle out. Frothar looked at her with a knit brow, but Dagny waved it away. "I know my way through the tunnels," she explained. Apparently, she'd been doing this for a while. He looked out on the horizon. Whiterun sat in a basin of wide plains, between the rising mountains, much like the center of a delicate bowl. The wind brushed through his dark hair, and he stepped forward, grass crunching beneath his feet. He'd packed his things for this trek, but he had no idea just how much of his adventure was going to be him tracking down the dragon, or him trying to survive it. "Good luck. Oh, and Frothar? Next time Nelkir offers first, take it up, or I'm gonna have to drag you through the dusty basements again." He watched as Dagny turned and shut the door behind her, barring it. He was truly, completely on his own out here.
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matri4rch · 2 months
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"I did what I had to do. For them, for us."
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❤️ AO3 LINK ❤️
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anotherclassicpretence · 11 months
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WIP Excerpt
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abstractredd · 1 month
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Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Elder Scrolls Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Hadvar/Ralof (Elder Scrolls), Aela the Huntress/Frea Characters: Hadvar (Elder Scrolls), Ralof (Elder Scrolls), Aela the Huntress, Frea (Elder Scrolls), Minor Characters Additional Tags: Everyone Is Gay, Fraela was supposed to be background but its definitely in there like. a lot lol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, college shenanigans, Enemies to Lovers, Childhood Friends, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Homoeroticism, Gay Panic, this is set in the early 2000s btw, it doesnt super duper matter but, if some stuff seems like outdated or whatever thats why lol, Valentines 2024 Summary:
“Everything was so simple back then,” Ralof said, his voice quiet, eyes staring at the chessboard. “Sometimes I wish I could go back.”
“Me too,” Hadvar said softly, studying the planes of Ralof’s face, piecing it together with his childhood memories of one of the boys on his street.
Ralof nodded to himself, and then, finally, moved. “Checkmate,” he said.
“Huh?” Hadvar looked down at the board. There was no way.
He had lost.
or: the obligatory college au meetcute fic, hadlof edition
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daedrabait · 9 months
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I just think you guys would really appreciate this part of the summary I wrote for my Balimund fic
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I'm sure we can all relate.
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