Artist unknown

WARNING: ADULT CONTENT

This is a VERY tongue-in-cheek homage to the game Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Do not read if you are easily offended by erotica, humor, double entendre, battle tank Nords sporting a “horker tusk” or an Imperial rogue Dragonborn with a hot set of sweet rolls.

- J.L. Hilton

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“COME WITH ME TO SOVNGARDE”

My housecarl Jordis had a bath waiting for me in my bedroom, so I could wash the dust of draugrs and long Skyrim roads from my weary limbs. Steam rose from the tub, fogging nearby bottles of spiced wine and making the sweet rolls glisten. As I began unbuckling my scaled armor, Stenvar cleared his throat.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

His steel helmet tucked under one arm, he turned to go, offering me a privacy I did not desire. He’d proven himself a worthy follower, slaying bandit leaders, Falmer, Hagravens and Forsworn Briar Hearts with ease. His stealth and archery skills matched my own, making him a true partner worthy of adventuring with a Dragonborn rogue. Now I wanted him for more than a sellsword and a pack mule. Much more. I closed the door.

“You don’t need to sleep in a bed roll tonight.”

Amusement warmed his stoic features, lifting an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth in a slight smile. “Is that so?”

For a moment, I wondered if he would refuse me. I might be Dovahkiin, but Stenvar was not the loyal, protective Faendal, nor the sweet, guileless Vorstag. This man had deep battle scars and eyes that had seen too much. He was a Nord. I was an Imperial. Still, he was a man, and the long roads of Skyrim contained as much loneliness as dust.

Placing my arms around his muscular neck, I raised myself on tiptoe in my steel boots of hauling and leaned against the magickal ebony chestplate of regeneration that we’d recently looted from some ruins. I loved seeing him in the black armor, almost as much as I wanted to see him out of it. The sleek surface crushed my bosom as I asked, “Wouldn’t you like a bath?”

“I would. I can take one downstairs, when you’re done.”

“But then I won’t be in it.”

He said nothing. Damn the Nord, was he going to make me beg? He was too much a man of Tamriel to be coy, with gray strands in his beard and dark lines etched into his face. The grindstone of experience had honed him to a fine edge, and that’s what I wanted, what set my blood to burning like fire salts. I didn’t want to lead him by the hand, as if he were a Rorikstead innkeeper’s son. As in our quests together, I relied on Stenvar to know what I needed. And to do it.

He smelled of sweat and leather, and a hint of blue mountain flowers as I pressed my lips to his, relishing the rough scrape of facial hair and the faint taste of mead. With his left hand, he gripped the back of my head, and returned my kiss with a force that took my breath away. His fingers in their Orcish gauntlets tangled in my hair and held me fast when he broke off. His green eyes looked into me, and he seemed pleased with himself.

I didn’t beg, I demanded. “Stay with me. Bathe with me. Spend the night in my bed.”

He dropped his helm upon the wooden chest at the foot of that bed, where it landed with a heavy thud, and his right arm went round my waist. I felt as if I was being held by a standing stone, large and immobile. His cheek grazed mine as he nosed against me, breathing me in. His lips brushed mine, but didn’t linger. I wanted to scream, but there was no shout, no word of power for passion. I kissed him again, tongue and mouth opening hot and wet. And again he broke off. With a smile.

“You hired me to kill things. Other services cost extra.”

Merriment danced in his eyes like torchbugs. He jested with me. Companionship was part of the package, a perk in the grim grind of dungeoning and dragonslaying. In as harsh a land as Skyrim, any joys, any reliefs, were seized without question. Did he have a spouse or a lover waiting for him somewhere in Eastmarch? I didn’t know. But I knew he loved gold. Gold and the lethal crunch of bone under his hammer.

My voice felt thick in my throat as I replied. “If you fuck as well as you fight, it will be worth every septim.”

He kissed me again, while my hands explored his armor, finding buckles and straps and unbinding them. We removed our gear and stored it in the chest, but he was still in boots and trousers by the time I’d removed everything but my amulet of disease immunity. He waited, watching me as I climbed into the warm water. In this, as in battle, he wasn’t one to rush in until he assessed the situation, planned his attack.

I burnished my skin with tallow soap, worked elixirs of honeycomb and rock warbler egg into my hair. Sinking, I rinsed vampire blood and the Divines knew what from my dark braids. When I resurfaced, I beheld an eyeful of thick, naked manhood beside the tub. It was no wonder he’d mastered two-handed swordplay. The weight of him hung half-hard and enticing, inches from my lips. I choked back an appreciative growl even as I eyed the part of him I’d prefer to choke on—after he bathed.

“Is there room for me?”

Whether he meant room in the bath or room between my lips or legs, I swore to find a way, Dibella willing. I moved so he could join me. His bulging arms drew me closer, so my stomach covered his, and I felt his arousal throbbing between us. A long scar made a furrow through the hair that carpeted his massive pectorals, and I traced this with one finger.

“The Thalmor who gave me that was aiming for my head, but Arkay didn’t want me that day.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.” He chuckled, but his laughter transmuted to a savage groan when he put his lips to mine and his rough hands to the curves of my body. No metal nor leather separated us, and skin on skin I pressed myself into his hard thighs and harder chest. Between kisses, I washed the dirt from his neck and wiped a smear of wolf’s blood from his cheek with my own wet hands. His close-cropped hair felt like the velvet trim of a jarl’s tunic, his now rock-hard cock fit like the familiar comfort of Dawnbreaker’s hilt in my hand.

Stenvar reached for a bottle of Evette San’s finest, uncorked it with his teeth, and spit the cork over the side of the tub. He offered it first to me, then took a drink after, careless of the liquid running over his chin. He tipped the bottle and poured the spiced wine down my neck and over my breasts, where he licked the liquid from my skin. Seeking every drop, his mouth moved from my ear, along the taut ridge of my trapezius muscle, and over my shoulder, while his hand fast-traveled from my breasts to the rift between my legs. As nimbly as I could pick any lock, his fingers sent shocks of pleasure sizzling through me. He didn’t use magic, but he had me in his spell, all the same. The more the water cooled, the more I burned. I expected any moment he would bend me over and take me there, on my knees. Squirming, I tried to impale myself on his horker tusk, but his arms held me firm. His deep, gravelly voice filled my ear.

“You won’t be stealing that, my seductive sneak-thief. You’ll get it when I give it to you.”

A bard, archer and alchemist, I hadn’t actually joined the Thieves’ Guild, yet, but before I could argue, he lifted me out of the tub and carried me to bed, where he placed me upon the snowy sabre cat pelts. Standing over me, he drank the last of the spiced wine, while I enjoyed the magnificent view that made me want to explore him like a Dwemer ruin. His wet skin glistened in the candlelight, his nipples two small, tight nubs on the crests of his hulking torso, but the cool night air had no effect on his manhood. I was not a Nord, however, and I shivered.

“Cold? Then I’ll warm you.” He set the bottle on the nightstand and covered my body with his.

“You’re the one always complaining about the cold,” I teased, snuggling close.

“Ice caves make my fingers numb. I think my ma had some Imperial blood, though she wouldn’t admit it outside the walls of our home. Nords aren’t known for being tolerant of other races.”

“And how do you feel about Imperials?”

“With my hands.”

He grinned, cupping one ample breast and kissing me deeply while his thumb flicked over my nipple, gently pinching, tugging and massaging in circles. Pushing his hips against me, he slid the full length of his shaft back and forth, polishing the sensitive pearl in my hot, damp cleft until I arched my spine and writhed beneath him, digging my fingernails into his broad back and grasping handfuls of hard backside. If I were a lute, Inge Six-Fingers could not have played me better. And so I gave myself over completely to him and to my own berserker frenzy of lust.

When he finally entered me with a single, deft thrust, burying himself to the hilt, I cried out. The ache of emptiness soothed, deep recesses reached, a fullness more powerful than a potion of ultimate stamina, I wrapped my legs around him and my moans shook the rafters of Proudspire Manor. He impaled me again and again, each withdrawal leaving a desperate desire for more, each stab pushing me closer to the edge of oblivion. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they could hear me all the way to the Blue Palace.

The rumble of his voice insisted, “Now, Zephyr, my beautiful, my lovely. Do it now… Come with me to Sovngarde…”

Climax vibrated through me like a thu’um. Stenvar slowed but would not relent, drawing out the length of each stroke with expert timing, driving me to convulse again. Pleasure became perfectly painful, and I gasped his name when I couldn’t stand it any more, clawed his shoulders in exquisite agony. He grunted my name, and something about the Divines, and I felt his hot release.

I fell asleep in his arms. In the morning, I awoke before him, tucked a coin purse with 500 septims under his arm and went downstairs to make potions. He never mentioned the gold, never returned it, but never again suggested I pay for any of his services, in battle nor in bed. A month later, we were married in the Temple of Mara, but that’s another story…

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