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Miraak had crossed the line. The Dragonborn had already known that she would eventually need to confront him, and put an end to his plan to return to Nirn and do divines-only-know-what terrible things. She’d hoped to gather her strength first, learning as many of Miraak’s own tricks as possible to use against him.
But stealing a dragon’s soul from her was just a step too far. She was furious, and even if she wasn’t quite strong enough to fight him yet, she was going to give him a piece of her mind.
As soon as she stepped foot in her room at The Retching Netch she slammed the door and yanked the black book from her pack. The bed sagged under her weight as she plopped down, nearly ripping the book’s cover off as she flipped to the section that had taken her to Apocrypha the first time she met Miraak. As her vision shifted to a sickly green and the sensation of cold, wet tentacles tugging at her very consciousness enveloped her, she tried her hardest to calm her temper and prepare a scathing insult for that smug, arrogant bastard.
The air in Apocrypha was stale, and stank of moldy books and rich ink. The Dragonborn shuddered as she came to, fingers bunching the papers underneath her in an attempt to ground herself. She hated everything about this place. She pulled herself to her feet as quickly as the lingering nausea would allow, just in case something dangerous was nearby. A quick survey of the room confirmed that she was alone; no Lurkers or Seekers were in sight and she could hear nothing but the constant flapping of loose pages.
“Miraak! Show yourself, you thieving son of a bitch!” she bellowed. She waited a few moments, all senses on alert. Nothing happened. “I know you’re here. It’s not like you could be anywhere else.” She smirked. If anything would draw him out, it’d probably be a jab about his predicament.
Sure enough, within seconds she heard footsteps behind her, closer than she had expected. When she turned, he was already in the doorway, no more than 10 feet from her, with his arms crossed and his mask as impassive as always.
“How kind of you to visit, Dragonborn. What can I do for you?” His voice betrayed no emotion, and that only made her angrier.
“You can start with giving me back the soul you stole,” she said, trying very hard to sound intimidating rather than shrill. He still chuckled, and shifted his weight to his other foot.
“Oh, is that all?” He took a few long, graceful strides towards her. “Why? You’ve already had so many. I don’t believe that you need dragons’ souls that desperately.” He stopped within arm’s reach, but made no move for his weapon, content to only stare from behind the mask’s slits.
She took a breath to speak, and then reconsidered. He was right. She didn’t have a desperate need for souls. In just the last month, she’d already devoured two others.
“Well,” she stammered, “...It’s just not right. I killed that dragon and its soul was mine to take!” He only continued to stare. “And how dare you just appear, indulge yourself, and disappear!” Her cheeks were burning, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the anger or how uncomfortable his predatory stare made her feel. He tilted his head slightly, as though considering something, then slowly and deliberately looked her up and down. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, unable to look him directly in the eye, even with that damned mask in the way. Finally, he laughed softly.
“Ah, I see. You are angry that I denied you the ecstasy of taking that soul.” He stepped forward, forcing her to take a quick step back, but he was faster and his hand was on the back of her neck before she could even register that he’d moved his arm. “You see, Dragonborn, I understand. The way your skin sings when the sil flows past it. The heat that coils in your core, then releases in a surge of color and sound and animalistic bliss...” His gloved fingers stroked down the nape of her neck, bringing his hand to rest on her shoulder. She should have shaken him off, she thought, and put as much distance between them as possible, but his voice was hypnotic and the sudden warm wetness between her thighs compelled her to see where his hand would move next.
Sadly, it stayed on her shoulder, but the other moved to her hip, pulling her close. She gasped, then swallowed hard as she peered up into the dark slits of his mask. She could see nothing but blackness.
“Well, Dragonborn, I can make it up to you, if you’d like,” he said, voice as even and calm as ever. She didn’t understand how he could sound so impartial—detached even—but smoldering at the same time. A voice in the back of her mind kept telling her to break out of his grip, to run or fight, but... Miraak was right. She missed the ecstatic surge of pleasure that came with absorbing a dragon’s soul, and the promise that he might make up for it, despite everything, piqued her curiosity.
“You’re insane. We’re completely at odds with each other.” Her voice was small, and even she was unconvinced that this was a bad idea.
“And why does that matter? You made a valid argument, that dragon’s soul was yours. So I owe you a debt, which I will gladly repay,” he purred, letting the hand on her hip dip lower to cup her ass. She bit her lip.
“Why should I trust you to not hurt me when I’m vulnerable?”
“Because I won’t. Unless you ask me to,” he simply said, as he pulled away and began to remove the armor on his shoulders. She watched him intently, suddenly acutely aware that she’d never seen even an inch of his skin. Once the armor was removed, he took one glove off, then the other, neatly placing his discarded pieces on a nearby table. He turned back to her and gestured to her armor. She stared dumbly at him.
“Um... What about the rest of your clothing?” she asked, more than a little disappointed that the only flesh she could see was from mid-forearm down.
“This is not about me, Dragonborn. Now, please remove your armor.” Again, he gestured. She chewed her lip for a moment in frustration, glaring at him, but then sighed and did as he asked. She was torn between being incredibly turned on by his unusual proposal and the perpetual sexiness of his voice, and being turned off by his dispassionate attitude.
“What was the point of removing your armor, then?” she grumbled as she kicked her boots off. Now that she was down to her underclothes, she became very aware of how chilly the air of Apocrypha was.
“Because when you are desperately clutching at me in delirious pleasure, I’d rather you not hurt yourself on my spaulders,” he replied smugly. She could practically hear the smirk in his voice. Before she could come up with a witty retort, he was upon her again, encircling her waist with his hands. She could feel the heat of his skin through her thin tunic, and shivered. The same thought kept running through her mind — this is insane; run away, idiot. But his hands were slowly sliding underneath her tunic, and up to her chest, so instead she gazed up at his mask, wondering what exactly he was going to do. When his thumb just barely grazed her nipple, she sighed, absentmindedly arching into his touch. He seemed pleased, because the other hand did the same, and then both gently kneaded her breasts. The wetness between her thighs was becoming unbearable.
“Can I at least take your mask off?” she inquired, but she did not wait for a response before reaching up to remove it herself. He recoiled, removing his hands from her chest to grab her wrists firmly.
“I said that this is not about me. The mask stays on,” he growled. With that, he roughly shoved her to the floor. She landed hard and opened her mouth to protest, but he was already straddling her thighs and quickly slipped his index finger into her mouth. She instinctively closed her lips around it and sucked, earning a low moan from him that took her by surprise. So he can actually be responsive after all, she thought. A wicked look danced in her eyes and she proceeded to swirl her tongue around his finger, working it as she would his cock. He didn’t seem to expect that, because he simply stared, dumbfounded, before snapping out of it and pulling his hand away. Without warning he roughly shoved his hand down her smallclothes and slipped the finger wet with her saliva inside her. She had not expected him to move so quickly, and a loud groan escaped her lips.
He thrust once, twice, then withdrew and lazily slid his fingers along her slit, ensuring that every inch was soaked before slowly circling her clit. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch, though she was otherwise unsure what to do. She’d been with a man before, but not like this; not purely for sex. The question of how he actually knew what he was doing after thousands of years in solitary confinement also briefly crossed her mind, before she decided it was better not to even ask. Instead, she settled for pulling her tunic over her head and tossing it aside, giving herself a better view.
Her smallclothes were still annoyingly in the way. “Um... Wait,” she mumbled. He paused mid-stroke and looked up at her, and she felt her cheeks flush. The absurdity of the situation – laying on the floor of Apocrypha, her worst enemy’s hand down her pants, and her biggest concern at the moment was the fact that she didn’t have an unobstructed view of his handiwork – was not lost on her. She gulped, swatted his hand away, and gingerly pushed him back on his heels so that she could shimmy out of that final bit of clothing before settling back down. “Okay. So... Continue, I guess?”
He chuckled. “You’re stunning when you blush, Dragonborn,” he whispered, reaching down to caress her warm cheek before trailing his hand down her throat and to her cleavage. If it was even possible, that only made her blush more.
He didn’t dive right back in to touching her most sensitive spots. Instead, his hands wandered, ghosting over her curves agonizingly slowly. After the intensity of his first intimate touches, this was torture. She stared into the slits of his mask as she arched into his touch, silently imploring him to do more, but he only barely increased the pressure as he grazed both palms past her hips, along her thighs, and down her calves. She groaned in frustration, parting her legs for him in the hopes that he would take the hint.
She believed he would show mercy when he gripped her hips and pulled her closer to his lap, but instead he dipped down, mask within an inch of her ear, and whispered, “What do you want, Dragonborn?” At her sharp intake of breath, he slid one hand to her ass, squeezing gently as the other hand stroked her hip. “Tell me.”
The Dragonborn bit her lip, unsure how to articulate what she wanted. Worse, even if she knew how, the very thought horrified her. She was the daughter of Daggerfall’s noble elite; saying such things out loud just wasn’t done. Then Miraak let his hand glide from her hip, up her side, to the underside of her breast, and the nagging ache in her core throbbed.
“I await your command...” A sharp pinch of her nipple drew another gasp from her.
Her hands flew to his shoulders and she pushed him up, locking him in place just above her face with an intense glare. “Please,” she whimpered.
“Please what?”
“Touch me.” It was barely a whisper.
He gently kneaded her backside. “But I am touching you.” By the eight, he’s going to make me say it, she thought.
“You know damn well that’s not what I mean!”
He lowered his forehead to hers, and the metal was cold against her sweaty skin. “Say it, or we’re done here,” he growled. She narrowed her eyes up at him, but when he didn’t move, she sighed, resigned.
“...Please, touch my...” The hand on her breast started to travel south in anticipation, urging her to continue. “...Touch my cunt.” A little hum of appreciation escaped him, and he finally complied, dipping his fingers between her soaked nether lips again and slowly dragging them up to the focus of her need. Still, his touch was tortuously languid, and she knew he was silently demanding more detailed orders. “Faster,” she gritted out, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back to the crook of her neck. It felt so wrong to talk like that, but it also sent a thrill through her that nearly rivaled the intense pressure building beneath his fingers.
“As you wish,” he drawled, fingers dancing over her slippery folds with increasing speed. The tinge of arousal in his voice was obvious, and made her grin despite herself, before another loud, wanton moan was torn from her. Even her own touch had never been this good.
Every noise she made, every involuntary jerk of her hips, seemed to spur him on faster, and just as she was sure that her climax was near, he abruptly slowed, back to that same unbearable pace that he started with.
“What...?” she nearly sobbed. The cold metal of his mask nuzzled against her neck, and the hand that had rested on her behind moved to her cheek.
“You will come when I allow it, dii mal dovahkiin, and not a moment before.” It felt like her heart skipped a beat. She wanted to berate him for being so cruel, but he was still stroking her gently, keeping her just on the verge of completion, and the fear that he would stop entirely stilled her tongue.
Instead, she clutched him tighter, thankful that he had taken his armor off after all, and decided to just submit. He clearly knew what he was doing, and being in control all of the time was so exhausting for her. So she focused on the sensations. His heavy weight on her, keeping her warm even in the chill of Apocrypha, and making her feel strangely secure. The cold of his mask against her jugular. The texture of his muscles beneath the many layers of his robes. The sound of his heavy breathing just an inch from her ear. The incredible, blissful pressure between her legs. The surprisingly tender way he caressed her jaw. It was a heady mix, almost too much to endure.
“Please...” she whined, “I need...”
The hand on her jaw drifted lower, and his fingers briefly stroked her scalp before wrapping around her hair and jerking her head back. “What do you need?” It was a raspy moan, even lower than his usual baritone, and thick with desire. “You have but to ask...”
Without even thinking, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You. I need you. Please.”
The hand below stilled. The Dragonborn was suddenly very aware of her own heartbeat. After what felt like an eternity, he tightened his grip on her hair to the point of pain, and shifted his fingers lower, roughly forcing one inside her. She yelped in surprise, earning a second finger, stretching her to the point of discomfort.
“Little Breton, I would be too much for you,” he murmured against her throat, thrusting fast and hard. She opened her mouth to protest, but found herself unable to form words anymore. With every inward stroke he curled his fingers, dragging their tips along the rough spot just inches inside. After so much delicious torture, lingering right at the precipice of relief, it only took a few more harsh thrusts before her world shattered. He continued to pump his fingers in and out, gently, willing her climax to last longer, and all she could do was whimper as her walls clamped around him.
Gradually Miraak slowed, then withdrew, sitting up to give her room to catch her breath. Her lungs were burning and her heart pounded harder than ever, but she was satisfied beyond her wildest imaginings. Slowly, she forced herself to sit up as well, and flashed him a weak smile. He chuckled. “Does that make up for a single dragon’s soul?”
“That more than makes up for it, I’d say.” Her breath was only now starting to return to normal.
“Is that so?” he asked, reaching out to wrap his hands around her waist. “But I’m not even done with you.” He lifted her on to his lap, and his thick erection was immediately obvious against her bottom. Instinctively, she ground her hips downwards, forcing a strangled groan from him deep in his chest. One hand went to her waist, holding her still, as the other tipped her chin up so that he could look directly into her eyes. “Volzah dovah. Not that way.”
She looked up at him expectantly, lust that she thought was sated quickly rising in her again. “Can I at least...?” Before she could finish the thought, he pressed a finger to her lips.
“I told you, Dragonborn. This is not about me,” he said softly, letting his finger drift down her throat and linger along her collarbone.
She scowled. “I have a name, you know...”
“I don’t care.” The finger drifted further downward, tracing her cleavage to the underside of a breast. A brief pang of insulted disappointment struck her, but then he began kneading her breast in earnest, as his other hand gently massaged her lower back, and it was all but forgotten, except for the nagging question of how he could be so cruel and so tender at the same time.
“Won’t you at least kiss me?” She fully expected him to say no. Instead, he seemed thoughtful for a moment, and then the hand on her back moved away to unclasp his mask from his hood. He lifted it just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. She caught only a glimpse of a dark, neatly trimmed beard before he ducked down, leaving quick, hot kisses along her jaw and neck. She wanted so badly to see more, but the assault on her throat was a fine compromise. He returned his hand to her lower back, slowly working it up to rest in her hair again so that he could force her head back and reveal more skin to his lips and teeth. “Yes, like that...” she breathed. He rewarded her with a firm bite, and she groaned.
The hand at her breast slid down her belly, again finding her aching core, wetter even than before.
“Waan nunon...” he sighed against her throat. “Zu'u fund dreh zomaar truk wah hi...” A single digit slipped inside her easily, and then another, pumping in and out quickly.
“I don’t...” A sharp gasp interrupted her. It was becoming very difficult to focus. “...Understand Dragon.”
Miraak lapped at her collarbone. “Good.” A particularly hard thrust made her shudder and grip his hood tightly. Encouraged, he curled his fingers inside her, like before, rubbing her most sensitive spot harder with each push. Combined with his scorching kisses and the lingering sensitivity from her first orgasm, it was almost too much. Her eyes fluttered closed to try to fight back tears.
“Dii lokalus dovahdin, come for me,” he growled, twisting his fingers inside her with one last plunge, and she did. A loud sob escaped her lips, dry from so much panting, and she could feel a gush of fluid squirt past his fingers and down her thighs. Under any other circumstances, she probably would have felt shame, but all she could feel was a bliss unlike any she’d known before. It seemed to last an eternity, and he continued to gently coax more spasms and fluids from her with the tiniest of movements inside until she could truly take no more and forced his hand away.
When she finally began to regain her senses and looked down, a dark blush crossed her cheeks. “I’ve ruined your robes,” she whispered.
He only laughed. “A small price to pay.”
His voice sounded different, less metallic. She looked up at him only to realize that in her passion, she’d yanked his hood and mask completely off. Instead of the much older man she’d expected to find, Miraak was likely no older than 40, and aside from several long-healed scars across his cheeks and nose, and disturbingly pitch black eyes, he was quite handsome.
“Oh. Sorry about that, too.”
“I suppose it was inevitable,” he sighed. She thought about kissing him then, even going so far as to lean forward to, but as if on cue he shifted backwards, pushing her off his lap before helping her to her feet. He quickly turned and headed back to the table where he’d left his armor and gloves, and began to put everything back in place. A mixture of disorientation and frustration filled her as she watched him. Eventually, she began to look for her own clothing and armor.
She noticed him watching her as she laced up her boots. “So, um... Thanks, I guess.” She fumbled with the dagger strapped to her right boot. “But... I have to know. You could have done anything to me, anything at all. I was ready to beg you to fuck me. Why resist?”
Without hesitation, he answered, “Because when the time comes, I need to be able to kill you without so much as a second thought.”
She visibly blanched, and for a moment she noticed that he looked vaguely guilty. It wasn’t an emotion she’d even thought he was capable of. He hastily ran his gloved fingers through his hair and exhaled.
“You just spent the last week destroying my stones and freeing the people of Solstheim. I have no other recourse.”
“That can’t be true,” she blurted out. “There has to be some other way.”
“Yes, you can kill me and take my soul instead, but as you might imagine, that’s not an option I’m particularly fond of.” He leaned back against the table with his arms crossed across his chest. “I’ve spent the last four thousand plus years trying to find a way out of this nightmare. I may not want to kill you, and I swear to you I will grieve, but necessity demands it.”
She broke eye contact, looking back down at her boots. She wanted to say something clever, to offer some idea he’d never come up with in his wildest dreams, but she was terribly out of her depth. Worse, her heart ached in a way that she knew wasn’t just anxiety over her possible forthcoming execution.
After several long moments of silence, the Dragonborn turned away, and walked to the other end of the room to the Black Book on its pedestal. As she reached for the cover, he called to her.
“Dragonborn. What is your name?” He sounded genuinely curious, and an unbidden smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.
“Arya,” she called back, without turning around.
“Arya,” he repeated, quietly. “I hope you kill another dragon soon, Arya.”
“Me too,” she whispered, and opened the Black Book.