Skyrim dragon

They had just passed Kynesgrove when they heard it, a roar that quaked the earth and scattered birds. They ran quickly, and Aetta had to ignore the stitch in her side. She and the Blades woman, some Delphine, had been traveling together to a dragon tomb. Perhaps, she thought, the dragon was already resurrected.

Ugh.

The snowfall was heavy as they raced up the rocky mountain side. Despite being a Nord, light armor wasn't a good idea after all.

Delphine bounded ahead, and it was then that the Dragonborn could see Alduin. He floated above the gravesite, his black scales glittering as he beat his massive, thorny wings. She pulled an arrow from the small quiver on her back and set it against the bow's string. She drew the bow, her eyes following the spine of the arrow to Alduin's neck, when Delphine spoke.

"Steady!" She warned, motioning for Aetta to crouch with her behind the boulder. "Let's just watch and wait."

Aetta huffed but lowered her bow, obliging. She kept the arrow against her thigh.

Alduin spoke then, summoning Sahloknir. The ground burst open when the skeleton emerged, glowing white as his flesh and scales remolded over the bones. She watched, following only Alduin's movements, as the dragons conversed in their ancient language.

She didn't have time for this. A taunt or two later, and Alduin was flying away, having left the old dragon to fight his battles.

Aetta didn't mind. She'd kill this one too.

This dragon was a dull gold and spoke like a grandfather. She ignored him mostly. Delphine was already hacking away at him as Aetta moved back, nocking the arrow. She let it fly from her tense fingers, reveled in the small ding the string made as it slapped against her bracer. Sahloknir cried when the arrowhead buried in his side, and Aetta grinned. Easy enough.

She remained a hundred yards away, sending arrow after arrow into the beast while Delphine rolled to avoid his fire. She could see blood trickling from his wounds as the two mortals attacked, and she hoped it would not be much longer. She was running out of arrows. Only a small dagger hung by her skirts. Her fingers considered its handle.

It was then that she heard the scream as Delphine tumbled from the dragon's maw, her arm singed badly. Sahloknir turned to the Dragonborn and took flight.

Aetta released another arrow, but the dragon banked and it whizzed past into the forest. She stumbled back then, pulling the bow up her arm so it was around her shoulder.

Then she ran.

She was a horrible close-ranged fighter, this was certain, but if she could just distract him long enough for Delphine to get up, they could resume their double attack. She leaped over rocks and skirted the edge of the cliff as Sahloknir gave chase. Maybe she could get him into the open and try to take a few stabs. She wasn't strong, but she was flexible, and could dance around his razor teeth and under his belly.

But then she heard him, just behind her. "Hiding will not save you! Him kopraan kren nol suleyki." [Your body will shatter from my strength.]

"Run, Dragonborn!"

She tried to turn and shout, but it was too late. He crashed into her as he landed, throwing her onto the grass before him. She felt the bow snap beneath her weight, felt her skin burn as the impact tore open her thin armor. She raced to get up, her fingers digging into the hardened earth, but he was behind her. He dragged a single talon along her back, slicing open the skin along her spine. She screamed in agony and was thankful she could move; the nerves had not been splintered. She rolled, her armor and under-bands sliding from her sweat and blood slicked skin, dirt clinging to her wounds.

"Break under me, mortal," Sahloknir roared, snapping at the fallen Dragonborn. Aetta grappled for her dagger and caught his jaw with her blade just as his fangs neared her leg. It was a light slice, only barely grazing the thick hide beneath his scales, but it was enough to buy time. The dragon roared again, rearing up on his haunches as his huge claws swept the dagger away. It flew off the mountain as Aetta rose. She saw Delphine struggling behind her, her arm nearly black from where the skin had cooked. There was no way she could assist with an injury like that.

Sahloknir approached.

At least the snow had let up.

"Dragonborn, MOVE," Delphine shrieked, limping closer to the circular stone slab the dragon had been thrust from. But it was too late to run as the Dragonborn scrambled to crawl back. Her palms scraped against the dirt and stone as she crab-walked blindly to avoid Sahloknir. She only had a single option left before the dragon would devour her, naked and whole.

"FUS!" Aetta shouted so suddenly she felt the Thu'um tear from her throat, but she held her elbows stiff and dug in with her heels. It caught her enemy off-guard, hurling him back several feet though he fought the force.

"Your voice is strong, Dovahkiin, but it is no match for mine! Dreh ni fonaar aan mul paal!" [Do not test a strong enemy!] She caught the warning, the taunting in his voice, deep and guttural and laced with revenge. She fell on her ass, threw her arms up to shield her face…

"FUS RO!"

…but the shout had pummeled her back towards the burial mound. It was as if the whole world was just moving beneath her, the way she was frozen in the moment. The wind whipped wildly her hair, lashing it against her shoulders and back. It was the only way she knew it was in fact her moving, a projectile in midflight.

Aetta landed flat on her back, the air knocked from her lungs, leaving her immobile and gasping. Delphine was beside her in an instant as Sahloknir took to the skies again, intent to cross the yards he had just placed between them. She didn't want to wind up some charred slab of meat for this dragon to munch on, but she was so wounded. The slash he had made along her backbone burned.

The Grandmaster pulled Aetta's head up, trying to avoid gazing at the younger woman's naked, bruised body. The Dragonborn wasn't shivering, Nord blood and all, but Delphine wanted to wrap her up, and would had she worn anything more than a layer of leather. Aetta winced suddenly from a harsh cough that arched her torn back. She had just flown hundreds of feet at a ridiculous speed only to smash onto some hard rock.

"Here, drink this," Delphine mumbled, pushing a potion towards the fallen woman. Though pain racked her chest with every breath, Aetta refused. It would fade if she could just lie a while.

"You need this more than I. I can't do this alone, armless," she coughed. Maybe, in another time, gods pray she lived to find one, she would have laughed at the irony, her head gathered in the Blade's wounded limb. Her sarcasm was dripping away slowly when she caught the fear in her companion's eyes.

"Just take it. I'll, I'll run to Kynesgrove… find some help," Delphine insisted, pouring some of the drink into her mouth. Aetta licked greedily at the potion, swallowing excessively as the tingles of strength trickled back into her. She nodded, was lowered gingerly onto the stone mound, and felt Delphine fall back.

"Geh, bovul!" [Yes, flee!]

Ah, something she actually understood. "She is, you overgrown lizard! Face me!"

Aetta heard the rage in his next roar as he landed before her, his massive wings shrouding her in darkness, the crash of his heavy tail sending bits of stone into the air around her. She struggled to push herself up on one arm. Why couldn't she hold back petty insults until after her back was more than a rigid line of intense pain?

"You dare mock one of the Dov? You mortals have grown arrogant while I slept," he growled, stepping forward. Before she could move to regain her footing, still dizzy as the potion began to work its magic, he brought his wing down on her, the place where his bones fanned out and grew spikes settling on her calf. He pressed down gently, just enough to hint how incredibly easy it would be for him to crush her there and then.

"I think you might have forgotten, Sahloknir, but I'm just as much a dragon as you," Aetta ground out. She could feel herself regaining her strength, maybe another FUS could free her. With a turn of her head, she was scanning the battlefield desperately, and saw Delphine still at the path's mouth, frozen in some sort of shock. She mouthed Go! but the woman only shook her head, made some sort of motion with her arms like a sling, and tore furiously at her own skirt. Aetta shook her hand, as if it would force the Breton to leave, but Delphine was already refusing. I can't! You're trapped!

The Nord's attention is quickly stolen. "Yes, a frail mortal claiming the strength of a dragon. A mockery." Sahloknir's voice is now just a low whisper, so close to her. She screeches suddenly when she feels him dip his head, the side of his jaw resting heavily on her shoulder. She catches his gaze with her own, sees the one grey eye off to her side, so dark and glazed with something… something she can't quite place, but it sends shivers up and down her caged body. His maw is wide open, the fangs brushing against her throat. Her heart thuds wildly and she clenches her fists, fighting not to react less she hasten the closing of that terrible snare.

If it never catches her, she swears she will destroy this dragon with a mirth she won't find again until Alduin also falls before her.

"Going to take a bite?" She challenges when he does nothing more than peer at her. It's enough for him to turn his head, at least get her head out of his open jaw. If he wants to end her, he can go ahead and do it, but she won't sit here staring into his gullet like some sheep chained for the slaughter.

"I could end you here, but not without first testing your claim, Dovahkiin." His talon runs up her leg, the wing forming a dark wall by her side. He again buries her into the ground beneath him, her thigh now bruising at the pressure. He purrs as he pulls back, his hot breath fanning over her naked, goose-bumped skin. His claw brushes her inner thigh, dangerously close to her sex.

That is definitely a threat. Aetta rises her shoulders from the ground, content to pummel Alduin's arrogant slave, when she feels it.

His tongue running down her body.

It catches her throat, strokes the delicate flesh until her heart thrums in a frenzy beneath it. She screams. He trails it down her chest, flicking over her nipples, wrapping around her breasts and squeezing them tender. Sahloknir runs the tip down her navel, dipping it between her thighs like some venomous serpent.

She cries out and slams her head down from the sudden feeling of the hot tongue on her dry, cold skin. It is thick and strong, likely the length of her forearm.

"What perversion is this, monster!" But Sahloknir does not reply, only continues to lap at her skin. She bends at the waist desperately, cuffs him hard in the cheek, unable to reach his giant eyes, but he is unaffected. She scratches and claws, pulls at his snout, rips off scales and beats against his hide but he does not stop his ministrations; he only presses harder into her thigh until she is sure it is but a hair's breadth from snapping.

She falls back then, shuddering and crying at the slickness of the dragon's tongue. It runs between her folds suddenly, dampens her though she should be bone-dry, intent to fight this blasphemous intrusion.

He swirls it against her clit, and she cries- how does he know? But then she realizes he is unskilled, learning in the moment, picking up on the way her body bends and tremors with every movement. She is not pleasured, oh no she will fight this torment, but her body shakes violently at ever flick, every gentle press, every puff of his hot breath on her. The electricity and heat and wetness is just too much, too sudden, too surreal and her body jumps from the pure shock of it.

He continues playing with the trapped Dovahkiin, eliciting noises of hatred, tears of shame, but still her body dances for him all the same. It is the first time he has ever dared to touch a joor[mortal] so intimately, but he has been dead for far too long, and her soul is still that of Dov. It still calls to him, warms his own every time they touch. And her taste, so musky and sweet, is far above the coppery pleasure he normally thirsts for. Her body is an atrocity and a torment, a vile wrong and a beautiful right. And for this moment, it is his.

He'll dominate her, tear her apart just as she deserves, this false-dragon. Her weak bones and soft skin will break beneath him, and the Dov will be sovereign once more. He will please Alduin once more, and he will feel ecstasy once more. From mating her or destroying her, he can't tell.

He feels the lust swell, feels the slit before his tail part, feels his erection emerge. He wonders how it will even fit within her, but then again, he does not really care.

She stops writhing so, the shock dying down, leading only to disgust and hatred. She tenses beneath him, clutching her hands in tight fists, her eyes set firmly skyward. Just breathe, she tells herself. Stop crying, stop moving; just breathe. Please stop, stop.

Sahloknir nuzzles his snout against her thigh, presses it against the apex of her legs with enough force to slide her across the stone. He breathes out a puff of hot air, and she realizes he's been smelling her. She feels sick.

His warm tongue lashes out again, licking up any juices. She knows the slickness is only there for protection, even her body painfully aware of what is going to happen here. Of the depravity- the impossibility – of it. He flexes his legs and feels his member's tender head scrape against the stone. The pain is intense but exciting, and he groans.

He thrusts his tongue within her, and she cries at the penetration. It's as thick as a man's fingers, his whole hand, but so much longer, hotter, wetter, and she is still so unprepared. She is no virgin but still it burns and stings and aches.

He buries his tongue within her, swirls it against her walls, stretching her. It is almost a wonder she does not tear, but his tongue is flexible and lenient. Besides, the time for that will come.

He licks her deeply, and oh how she roars. The tip of his tongue brushes against her cervix, teasing.

"No! You will not!" She screams and tries to clench her legs together. Not there, anywhere else, but he cannot go so deep. He cannot enter her womb or she will grow barren. He cannot taint her, or he will darken her very soul.

The dragon only purrs deeply, the rumble of his chest crawling up her entire body. This is so wrong, wrong, wrong. He thrusts his tongue, bending and twisting and writhing it within her, sliding along her walls. His heavy snout pushes against her folds, her clit. He tongue-fucks her until her back is in a beautiful arch, her eyes shut tight.

He pulls back when he feels her walls clamp down, hears her let loose a wretched cry as he forces an orgasm from her. How ashamed she sounds, how broken. His tongue slithers from her slowly, and he swallows her cum with relish. "I will do as I please. I am Sahloknir," he brags, like his name is some title gifted from Alduin. He flicks her clit once more, pleased. He loves how her flushed body thrashes then, loves gazing up at her from between her legs. Her eyes are ablaze, crystal tears welling against the fire.

"And I will kill you, you sick, disgusting abomination." The venom in her voice! He nearly shivers, spreads his wings. He feels so alive.

He makes a reverberating sound; the laugh, Aetta realizes, sounds throaty and harsh and evil. "Not if I break you. Roll over."

Sahloknir's arrogance is thick now, even more so than Alduin's, and she hates him even more. This haughty demeanor has risen only from his pathetic assault, and she knows he will soon turn back into a sniveling slave. How could this, this thing best her, take from her something not even scores of bandits and Thalmor and Forsworn ever could. And she will kill him for it; oh she swears.

When she does not roll, only glares defiantly, he takes it upon himself to repeat the command one last time, pulling his wing from her thigh with a single scrape of his claw. Her eyes widen when she looks down at him, and he rolls his hips to press his huge member against her foot, emphasizing. She is so afraid, he thinks triumphantly.

But he becomes too absorbed with his wants and he celebrates a victory he has not won. She rolls over slowly, pressing her bare breasts into the rough rock, her nipples red and stinging. She keeps her palms flat, elbows bent as she lowers herself onto her stomach. He is watching her, following her alien form. It is not attractive, far too small and smooth and pale and soft, but it is intriguing.

With a deep breath, Aetta throws her foot back with as much force as she can. It nearly catches him in the eye and he roars and pulls back to avoid it. She runs then, scrambles. Her fingers and nails rip and bleed as they tear desperately at the ground to gain leverage. He sees her, her thighs clenching as she rips up off the ground and sprints.

A game of cat and mouse he has played before, and her body is far more worn and tired than his.

She bolts across the battlefield, her bare feet crunching autumn leaves and fallen arrows that cut. Delphine is nowhere to be seen, and oh gods, she remembers. The Grandmaster was just there, what, ten minutes ago? How long has it been? What did the Delphine see? Where is she? Aetta was sent to prove she was Dragonborn, and instead she is humiliated and raped by the very beast she came to slay.

Aetta leans dramatically to her side, almost tripping, to scoop up a heavy chunk of limestone. She turns mid-step and hurls it at the dragon giving chase, but it thuds uselessly off his golden hide. He is not flying, not running, simply following her with a slow, purposeful precision, twisting and turning as she races.

But then she sees why. He stands at the base of the clearing, right in the middle of the path. Normally she would just run past him, Shout, maybe slide between his legs. But she feels used and dirty and scared and she never wants to go anywhere near him until she has him collapsed and bleeding out.

She makes a decision, rash and stupid, and spins to run in the opposite direction. Towards the cliff's edge.

"Hiu dreh ni filok![You will not escape!]" Sahloknir roars, catching her plan before she can cross the large clearing. He takes to the sky, circles back and just as she springs her legs to leap off the mountain's side, he falls before her. She screams, falls back on her hands to catch herself and sprint again, but he tumbles forward before she can.

Her body skitters across the dirt, but she ignores the sores, bruises. All her instincts rage Go go run! and she takes off again before she can think. She hears his wings flapping as he descends behind her, and then she crashes.

He lands atop her, his chest colliding with her body and she falls to her stomach. Did her ribs just crack?

"Tahrodiis kest,[Treacherous temptrest]" Sahloknir cries. "You will obey!" A wing tip brushes along her side and under her, lifts her up to her knees. She feels his length slide against her, over the cup of her ass and between her thighs. She's so weak, her face buried in the dirt, arms like jelly. But she will not be taken ass-up like some sultry bar maid. She raises herself on shaky arms, locks her elbows so she can take on some form of decency, even if she's about to be bred like an animal.

He continues grinding, taking his time to revel in this moment. She's crying in earnest now, has given up on begging and has little left in her to be strong. Tears and saliva dribble down her chin. She's sobbing as he growls and pants above her.

He sits back on his haunches, rubs his length between her folds, against her clit. She still startles when it brushes that bundle of nerves, still dips her back into a smooth curve he only wishes to trail with his tongue and talons.

He finds her very core, feels the heat despite the cold winter air, feels her slickness. In his mind, he imagines her aroused, on her back, legs spread lasciviously. She calls to him, begs him and he mounts her as she cries his name.

A tempting fantasy, but there is something so much more intoxicating to have her beneath him, begging No! instead of Harder!, pulling away instead of embracing him. This isn't just about sex; it's about domination, battle, victory. He's going to show this false-dragon her place, going to conquer her for Alduin. For himself.

She is trembling and he loves it. She breathes hard, trying to calm herself, shoulders sticking out from the pressure she's exuding on her arms to keep herself up. He can see them as bony thorns, can see scales ripple over her flesh. False-dragon!

He gives another slow roll of his hips, a test and a taunt. The head tapers just enough to slide in. Barely.

With a cry he thrusts forward, falling onto his wings. There is a blood curdling scream and the harsh scraping of knees dragging. He feels her tear around him as he buries as much of himself as he can, though it is only inches. Her walls bleed and the coppery perfume only eggs him on. She's so hot and tight and wet. Burning, clenching, bleeding.

She convulses, frantic. Her sweat-slick skin slides easily beneath his belly. He smells the stench of bile.

But he does not care.

"Stop! Oh gods, please, Sahloknir, stop," she begs and he should feel pity.

But he does not care.

He wants to turn her over, see the way her stomach bulges around his length. Maybe he will injure her, maybe she will die.

But he does not care.

Another agonizing scream and he stills, purring, moaning, absorbing her pained cries and the musky scent of mating. He is hungry, needy. He grunts, thrusts once more and the fluids and blood and torn flesh make it a little easier. He feels electricity, feels hot waves coil deep in his belly, feels her dragon soul calling out. It is dark with pain and torment, too, but it cannot help but recognize one of its own, cannot help but to flow heat between them.

He leans forward, lets his neck bend as pleasure racks over his old bones. He closes his eyes, enjoys the darkness so he can focus on the feelings: the delicious friction as he runs his length into her, the ecstasy as her muscle ripple around him.

He cannot press any deeper, has already breached her cervix and beat against the back of her womb. He can tell from her guttural moans that it has bruised. He can tell from the way she has collapsed that it is not meant to be opened. He pulls back, slams forward again. His hips strain as he thrusts, his wings trapping the Dragonborn though he knows she will not run this time. She has fallen almost limp, her body swaying in delusion. She relaxes completely, hoping it will take away some of the numbness and torture.

He takes up a violent, fast rhythm. He had not even mated dragons with such ferocity, such pure, primal need. He impales her, over and over and over, feels her wet walls clench and try to push him away. Every time he just tears into her again, his huge girth half as wide as her hips. Maybe they will snap. She is so small, so tiny and fragile. She is breaking, ripping apart as he takes her savagely.

She grows silent as he continues. He'd question her consciousness but he can dip his neck, sees her staring forward with big, cold eyes. Her heavy breasts sway; her mouth is agape and silently gasping with his every move. He feels a strange want in him, wants to taste her lips and tongue with his own.

Mortal or dragon, she's powerful. She's beautiful.

She tries to fight it away, the pain is just too much. She might pass out, but she holds, steadies, focuses. She imagines she's far away from here, in Riften. She stops for a chat with Madesi, compliments his fine wares. That necklace, yes the gold one with the little opal stone, may she buy it? And then she's walking back to the Bee and Barb, loaded with arrows and potions and food. What good are they to you now, Aetta? but she pushes the dark thoughts down, grinds on.

There's Marcurio, her favorite pack-mule. She loves his sense of humor and sarcasm, rather close to hers; loves getting into heated battles of knowledge and condescension. She gives him 500 Septims, a small price for a skilled follower, and he laughs about some adventure they last had. Come on you dork, follow me.

Where is that smile, her mocking witticisms, her strength? And where is he, huh? Where are her companions, where is Lydia, where is Delphine? When is the village coming? Please, just this one time, can someone save her?

Sahloknir is growing more ragged in his pace; the smooth scales of his stomach and chest graze her tired back. He thrusts into her with haste, at odd angles that only further push into her body, makes stabbing aches rise in her stomach. She squeezes her thighs together, moans from the stinging. Maybe she can get him off a little faster if she just mewls and moves for him.

So she does, forces ragged, hoarse moans from her mouth. Knuckles white, she pulls the very last saps of energy to twirl her hips. She pushes back to meet his pounding hips and he slows down, pleased. A little of the pain ebbs away, but he is quick to replace it with humiliation.

"Motaad, norok gein,[Shudder, fierce one.]" the dragon purrs, his voice smooth with desire. She obeys, shudders and clenches her walls. The vibrations bring him undone, and he roars to Oblivion as he climaxes, his mind blank, his stomach white-hot, his hard, solid length exploding and softening within her. He is on shaky knees now.

She feels his hot seed jet inside her and coat her back, ass, and legs when he pulls away. Still more cum dribbles down her thighs, leaks from her gaping hole as it struggles to tighten again.

"Good, Dovahkiin. Be still." He speaks with such affection that she wants to fall apart.

She stays on unsteady knees, does not want to face him. Her sex is throbbing, her stomach aching, her entire body in so much pain and tiredness. She feels that slimy tongue again, following her backbone and curling around her neck. Then she feels his teeth graze her shoulder. Her hair dances on his warm breath. "Just end it," she whispers, but her voice is lost as it scratches out of her ripped throat, as it bubbles through the saliva and bile in her mouth.

"There, kill the dragon!" Delphine. Delphine Delphine Delphine. She hears Sahloknir roar, take to the sky. She hears more cries, the beautiful orchestra of a mob, and the whole ground shakes as her saviors attack the beast.

She falls then, rolls to avoid landing in her own blood and puke and sweat and tears. She closes her eyes and drifts away.

It is Delphine who awakens her with a gentle shake. She is in furs, Sahloknir's seed and her own fluids washed away. But she is still on the battlefield and she looks up with tired, confused eyes.

"Dovahkiin," she hears him whisper. Her heart jumps and her eyes dilate. She feels like a rabbit before a hungry fox, and she feels herself speared on his huge length. He is above her, beside her, within her. Everywhere in every way and she can't get it to just stop stop stop.

She panics and screams and tries to rip away but Delphine holds her convulsing form.

"Steady, Aetta." And somehow the Blade's voice is enough to calm her, snap her out of it. Her bottom lip trembles on contained cries.

"I thought… I thought you might want to… Well, here," the older woman replies, pressing something into Aetta's shaky hands.

The Dragonborn looks down, gazes at the object. Then she looks to Delphine, sees the soft smile, the encouragement in her eyes. She sees the disgusted pity too but chooses to ignore it.

She gulps, then nods, rises. She crosses the clearing to Sahloknir, who is pinned on his own grave. A wing is torn away, his hide is littered with cuts and blood pools beneath him. Arrows stick from his skin, burns creep up his side. His chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm. His eye, it rolls to follow her. The gaze pierces her soul. She is enraged to see no desperation; he will not beg for mercy.

"Slay me," he tempts, blood dribbling from his sharp but useless fangs. He cannot lift his head.

She stops. The blade is heavy in her hands. But she prefers this over her bow. She will watch the life leave his eyes.

She raises the sword and with all her remaining strength thrusts it into his neck. The skin splits, the wound spurts blood. She opens him as he opened her. His eye grows darky and glossy; his chest stills.

His flesh burns away. When the soul rises, she lashes out at it, as though slicing and beating it will do any good. When it flows into her, mingles with her soul, she gains more strength and more rage, he will always be a part of her, and she falls mindless. She slashes and hacks away at his corpse, her sword impaling and splitting his scales and bones. She whacks and whacks and whacks until the blade itself grows blunt shatters and she takes the hilt and pounds it against his skull, into his eye socket.

When she finishes, her hands are red and sore and shaking. The skin is pressed down flat against her bones, the knuckles pure white from the pressures. And still she is not satisfied, is not happy. Will she ever be?

She lies on the barren earth and howls.