* * WARNING: ADULT CONTENT * *

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Tamriel and its inhabitants belong to Bethesda and the creators of TESV. Zephyr Silvertongue is an original character.

Do not read if you are easily offended by fanfiction, erotica, humor, double entendre, battle tank Nords sporting a “horker tusk” or an Imperial Dragonborn with a hot set of sweet rolls.

1,800 words.

– J.L. Hilton

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“COME WITH ME TO SOVNGARDE”

My housecarl Jordis prepared a bath in the master bedroom so I could wash the dust of draugr crypts and long roads from my weary limbs. Steam rose from the tub, fogging the bottles of spiced wine and making the sweet rolls glisten. As I unbuckled my armor, Stenvar cleared his throat.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

He offered me a privacy I did not desire. He’d proven himself a follower worthy of adventuring with the Dragonborn, slaying bandits, Falmer, Hagravens and Forsworn with ease. His stealth and archery skills nearly matched my own. But now I wanted him for more than a sellsword and a pack mule. Much more.

I closed the door before he could leave. “You don’t need to sleep on a bed roll tonight.”

“Is that so?” His steel helmet tucked under his arm, I could see his stoic features. For a moment, I thought he would refuse. 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 those long roads of Skyrim contained as much loneliness as dust.

I raised myself on tiptoe in my steel boots and leaned against his ebony chestplate, wrapping my arms around his muscular neck. 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, did he want me beg? He was too much a man of Tamriel to be coy. The grindstone of experience had honed him to a fine edge, and that was what I wanted, what made my blood burn like fire salts. I didn’t want to lead him by the hand, as if he was some Rorikstead innkeeper’s son. In this, as in our quests together, I relied on Stenvar to know what I needed and to do it without being told.

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 his grizzled beard and the faint taste of mead. With his shield hand he gripped the back of my head. His fingers in their Orcish gauntlet tangled in my hair and held tight, pulling my head back and separating our lips.

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

He dropped his helm, which hit the floor with a heavy thud, and his sword arm grasped my waist. I might have been held by a standing stone, solid and just as impossible to move. 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.”

Humor danced in his eyes like torchbugs. He knew full well that bedding was part of the mercenary package, a perk in the grim grind of dungeoning and dragonslaying. With as harsh a land as Skyrim, any joys or comforts were seized without question. Perhaps he had 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. So be it.

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, locating buckles and straps and unbinding them. We removed our gear, but he remained in boots and trousers by the time I’d stripped down to my amulet of disease immunity. He waited, watching me climb 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 back into the water, I rinsed vampire blood and the Divines knew what from my dark braids. I resurfaced and opened my eyes to the sight of thick, naked manhood. 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 sit behind 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 powerful chest, 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 into a savage groan when he put his lips to mine again 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. His close-cropped hair felt like the fur 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 on the floor. 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, then licked my skin. Seeking every drop, his mouth moved from my ear to 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 and sloshing water over the sides, 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.”

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 pebbles 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 discarded the bottle and covered my body with his.

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

“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.”

“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 up and down, 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, my inner sanctum reached, and I felt 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 lovely rogue. 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 practice alchemy. 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 a tale for another time.

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Read more Skyrim…

How I left my husband for a man with pointy ears

Skyrim smut 1: “Come with me to Sovngarde”
Skyrim smut 2: “I need another stamina potion”
Skyrim smut 3: “Tickling the angry troll”
Skyrim smut 4: “The Dunmer of Debauchery”
Skyrim smut 5: “A Tsunny Day in Shor’s Realm”
Skyrim smut 6: “Return to Solitude”

~ J.L. Hilton

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