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Skyrim harem fanfiction

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lonely milf Nathalia

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Start Today. She then gets adopted by Erza Scarlet and Mirajane Strauss, and this is where her story starts! This particular piece does beg an obvious question, though.

Nara
Years old: 47
Sex: I'm fem
What is my hair: White
Favourite drink: Champagne
Favourite music: I like to listen rap
Other hobbies: Hunting

Views: 3681

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Zephyr Silvertongue is an original character. My housecarl Jordis prepared a bath in the master bedroom so I could wash the dust of draugr crypts and long ro 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. He offered me a privacy I did not desire.

Thank you.

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. For a moment, I thought he would refuse.

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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 ro 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. 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.

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. 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. 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. 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. 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. He kissed me again, while my hands explored his armor, locating buckles and straps and unbinding them.

He waited, watching me climb into the warm water.

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.

The weight of him hung half-hard and enticing, inches from my lips.

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. No metal nor leather separated us, and skin on skin I pressed myself into his hard thighs and harder chest.

He offered it first to me, then took a drink after, careless of the liquid running over his chin.

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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.

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. 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. 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.

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When Skyrim 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.

Do it now… Come with me to Sovngarde. Stenvar slowed but would not relent, drawing out the length of each stroke with expert timing, driving me to convulse again. He grunted my name, and harem 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 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. How I left my husband for a man with pointy ears.

Connect, support, comment or contact the author here. Skyrim smut for a horny Dovahkiin Posted on Fanfiction 2, by J. I closed the door before he could leave. Bathe with me. Spend the night in my bed. Hilton Connect, support, comment or contact the author here.

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