With the release of Skyrim, I finally decided to write some Elder Scrolls fiction (which I've been meaning to do since I was sixteen and playing Oblivion) This was a request on the Skyrim Kinkmeme for some Farengar Secret-Fire/Dragonborn action. I just couldn't resist. It was my first attempt at writing smut but I hope the OP enjoys it.
"tbh, his elitist attitude is apparently really attractive to me? So either genders for the Dovahkiin (I'd prefer F but anything goes) and some awkward needy sex in his little mage-office, with him adding in snarky comments. Bonus for the Dovahkiin being really straightforward about what he/she wants and triple bonus if he/she somehow finds a way to shave Farengar's silly muttonchop beard while he's sleeping or w/e!"
It was just another late night in Dragonsreach.
Farengar reached for his teacup, his mouth set in a frown as he poured over the various piles of documents and tomes laid out upon his desk. Decrypting the Dragonstone had been considerably more difficult than he had first anticipated. The mage released a heavy sigh and took a sip from the chipped cup, trying to make sense of the ancient code. He had translated a few paragraphs that mostly spoke of a "World eater" and managed to obtain the information on a dragon burial site for Delphine but that was it. His studies had run aground rather spectacularly. This small, utterly unassuming tablet had gotten the better of him and the thought enraged Farengar more than he cared to admit. He had never been one to back down from a challenge and he was certainly not going to start now. The mage sighed deeply and ran his free hand over his forehead.
All this just for the Dragonborn.
The source of all his disquiet.
Farengar looked over his teacup, thinking briefly of the little scruffy Breton; a whelp of a girl who had only just discovered that she was Dragonborn. Truly the gods had a sense of humour when they decreed that she - of all people - be the Dragonborn. Still, he considered, at least she was pretty and had half a brain – unlike the rest of the brutes and drunken louts she lived with in Jorrvaskr. Dragonsreach held the only Enchanting workspace in the entire city so more often than not, Farengar would find the Dragonborn in his office; leaning on the counter with intense concentration. They traded barbs and he was pleasantly surprised to find her mind was as quick as her tongue. Brains and beauty rolled into one finely packed package. He had entertained himself with countless fantasies of shoving her on the desk and having his wicked way with her, to make her cry so loudly that the Greybeards could hear from their perch upon the Throat of the World.
With a smirk, he wondered briefly what it would have been like to bed a living legend.
Pushing the wistful thoughts aside, the mage set the cup back down and concentrated on with the task at hand. Not even toying with thoughts of the Dragonborn seemed to lift his spirits. He was exhausted. His hands hurt. His back was sore from sitting in a chair all day. His half-eaten dinner lay near his trinket box, long since gone cold. So frustrated was the mage that he was half tempted just to set his desk on fire and call it quits. It would have been all too easy. Farengar looked longingly at his staff. The weapon was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room next to a cloak rack – tempting him more than any spirit demon.
Farengar growled and rubbed his tired eyes. Clearly, he was not going to get any more work done in his current mental state. It was late, much later than he had realised. The mage was certain he was the only one still awake in Dragonsreach, apart from the Night shift guards that wandered past every so often. Even Irileth had retired before him. He suddenly found himself need of a stiff drink and a good sleep.
With a yawn, Farengar closed the leather-bound book, shuffled papers together into an semblance of order then locked the Dragonstone away in his desk. He stood up and his bones clicked together in protest. Apparently he had been sitting there longer than he thought.
He was just about to plod through to his cupboard of a bedroom when he heard the sound of the heavy doors of Dragonsreach opening with a loud groan that pierced the silence of the castle. Farengar paused, listening intently. He heard the sound of boots pattering against the marble floor of Dragonsreach. The footsteps were fast approaching his office. The mage tensed wearily and toyed with the idea of jumping out the nearest window. He was not entirely sure he could handle with another petty problem or question from one of the city's dense residents. Could these matters not wait until morning?
"Good evening Farengar."
To his mild surprise, the midnight visitor was not an irate farmer or peasant but rather the Dragonborn herself. She stood in the threshold of his office with a little smile upon her face, as if she belonged there. Farengar let his gaze drop and his throat went unspeakably dry. She was dressed leather trousers that looked too form-fitting to be legal (he'd have to have a word to the Jarl about that), leather boots and a white fencers shirt that was at least one size too small. An embodied blue bodice completed the look. The fabric hugged every inch of her form and left nothing to the imagination (and Farengar prided himself on his imagination) It was not the sort of ensemble that she often wore. Heavy steel armour and Nordic boots were more her taste; the garb of a warrior.
This however... Farengar swallowed, feeling the blood rush into his eardrums. He tried to still his hammering pulse, drawing on the calm and tranquillity that he had honed through years of practicing magic.
It didn't help in the slightest.
Instead, the mage simply plastered on a sneer; the one he knew she was accustomed to seeing him wear. "Here to use the Enchanting station? In case you haven't noticed, it's a little late and you're not competent enough to use it unsupervised," Farengar said, making sure he sounded thoroughly unpleasant. He never used her title of Dragonborn – well, not to her face at least. To use her official title would imply that he respected her and he could not be having that. He had a reputation to keep.
The female didn't seem the least bit bothered by his bad attitude and stepped into his threshold. Farengar simply crossed his arms and tried his best to look unimpressed. The leather greaves however were not making it easy for him. Did she even realise how she looked in those trousers? Probably not. "Sorry, I just got a little lost tonight," she replied with a little smirk that Farengar wasn't entirely sure he liked.
"You got lost between the Bannered Mare and Jorrvaskr? You are even more hopeless than I initially thought you were."
"By the Nine, you are rude."
"And you're whore. The gods made none of us perfect." The statement was an out-and-out lie of course but he was Farengar Secret-Fire after all.
"That is such a cheap shot. You know perfectly well I am not a whore."
Farengar gave her one of his daedra-may-care smirks, the sort that got all the young ladies worked up into a frenzy. "No? That shirt seems to suggest otherwise – which by the way looks fantastic on you. Could you wear it for the Jarl tomorrow when I submit my requisitions form?"
The Dragonborn placed her hands on her hips. "You should know by now that flattery will get you nowhere with me."
"On the contrary, flattery will get me anywhere I want to be with you."
"Is that so?"
"And what brought you to that conclusion?"
"It's obvious. All I have to do is say something clever or charming, and if it makes you blush, then I know that you're flattered."
The Dragonborn looked as if she might have been offended by his words, then she gave small laugh that made his belly shiver. She stepped a little closer to the mage, close enough for the mage to catch the faint scent of pine. By Talos, she smelt good. All natural. "You're such a frightful tease."
"I endeavour to do my best." Farengar surveyed the female for a moment or two, trying to decipher why she had suddenly shown up in his office at such a late hour. "What are you doing here? You look as if you should be dancing on a table in the Bannered Mare. You could do that here I suppose but I'm not a generous tipper," Farengar remarked, throwing the bait out for her.
To his great disappointment, she didn't take it.
Instead, the Dragonborn's lips curled into a smile that made his legs tremble beneath his robes. "I think you know why I'm here," she drawled out, stepping up into his personal space. She was so close that the mage could smell the scent of pine tree more vividly. With the desk behind him, Farengar could not even step back. He was trapped, and the mage did not like feeling trapped. Her muddy brown eyes watched him with such intensity that he did not dare make a move. That look spoke volumes. For once in his life, Farengar did not know what to do or say. His thoughts raced each other. Was it a cruel joke? A prank from Sanguine perhaps? Had he just fallen asleep at his desk?
Meanwhile, the Dragonborn took advantage of his sudden lapse of indecision to slid her small hand onto his lower abdomen. Her fingers sprawled across the coarse fabric of his robes, kneading the skin through the thick fabric. Farengar gave a shudder. He could feel and hear her breath against his neck – hotter than any flame. "I'm afraid I do not. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?" Farengar forced himself to scowl – which was considerably difficult due to the fact that the Dragonborn was stroking his stomach muscles. It was a game of Chicken, a game that would only be won by either shaming or intimidating him enough. The mage could not allow her to think she had won so quickly – she would never let him live it down.
"I saw the way you look at me Farengar. Did you think I was so stupid that I wouldn't notice?" The Dragonborn didn't sound upset or mad – rather she sounded almost teasing.
Farengar's eyebrows lifted in disbelief. He was convinced he was dreaming. Any moment now and he would awaken in his bed, aching and unsatisfied. He might as well be truthful. It would never be said that his mother raised a liar. "Let me see...Yes, I thought you were really so stupid that you wouldn't notice that I was wished to have my filthy way with you."
She pursued her lips at him, that devious little glimmer in her eyes that sent shivers down his legs. "I thought as much. I have never bedded a mage before. I imagine those magic tricks can be very useful."
The mage chuckled to himself. How like the Dragonborn to be so utterly bold and shameless. "And I have never bedded a Dragonborn either. Life is teeming with great mysteries."
The Dragonborn clicked her teeth. "Care to change that? We could think of it an experiment. You like experiments Farengar, do you not?"
An unbridled image of the Dragonborn on his little office, leathers around her ankles reared in his mind.
Farengar liked experiments very much.
Wasting no time, the mage slid a hand around the back of her head and kissed the Dragonborn so roughly that their teeth clinked together. His mind screamed in triumph when she kissed back with just as much fire and heat. Clearly, the Breton had been after this for quite some time. There was no delay, no hesitation with either party. He experimented further by nibbling her bottom lip, just testing the waters briefly. The Dragonborn gave a soft sigh in response, opening her mouth and letting him in. Their tongues tangled for a moment or two in a throaty, heavy duel. She tasted just as he thought she would – fresh and cool like the sky after a rainfall.
Rain and pine.
So that was what legends tasted like.
The inconvenient need for air pulled the pair away from each other. Farengar stared at the Dragonborn, his breathing harboured. The Breton looked up at him; eyes hooded, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. Her eyes held a heat that he took great satisfaction in knowing that he had ignited. He drew her up again, kissing along her jaw and entangling his fingers in her long tresses. Her hair – the most vibrant shade of ginger he had ever seen – felt surprisingly soft and clean beneath his fingertips. He delved into her mouth again, tasting the rain once more. Her breath hitched a notch and the Dragonborn pulled his mage hood down, drawing herself closer to him so that they melded together. Farengar could feel every curve – every pore even – through the fabric of his robes. A jolt of desire – stronger than any lightning bolt – surged down his belly and rocked his very foundations. He responded by gliding a hand down her waist to her hip then curving round to her rump. Bretons were famous for their soft, rounded features. The Dragonborn had inherited all the best from her heritage.
They moved across the room with their mouths entangled together, neither refusing to break the hold. Farengar crushed the Dragonborn against the door of his more private office, effectively trapping the small Breton between heavy wood and muscle. She responded with a little moan and hooked one of her slender legs around his waist, pulling his hips against hers in a desperate need for contact. Farengar broke the kiss for a moment to fumble behind her until he found the catch. With her breath heavy and hot against his ear, it took a great deal of restraint for the mage not simply take her right then and there in the hearing range of the guards. She would be so furious with him afterwards if he did – which made the temptation all the more greater.
Eventually, Farengar managed to get the door open and the pair stumbled through into the darkened room that was his study. A flick from Farengar's wrist lit the candles in the room, bathing the room in an orange glow. He wanted to see the fire in her eyes for the entire duration of their coupling. The mage guided her back until his knees were brushing against the legs of his desk. He slid his hands up her leather clad thighs and then lifted the Dragonborn upon his desk amongst the books and paper. She wasted no time in coiling her lithe legs around his waist and tugging him forward. "On your desk? I didn't realise you were so very liberal Farengar," she breathed before giving his ear a nibble. Her core pressed against him in a taunting grind and Farengar realised with some irritation that they were both still clothed.
"Oh you have no idea how many times I've seen this in my thoughts. You've proven to be quite a distraction." he answered, glancing down at her heaving chest. The fabric of that too-small shirt strained against her breasts, just begging to be cut loose. Farengar smirked. It would simply not do to keep such beauties confined. "And you are entirely overdressed for this occasion."
The Dragonborn dipped her hands to tug at the ribbons on her bodice but Farengar pushed her fingers away. His way was much more efficient. He unsheathed the steel knife attached to his belt and in one deft movement, the mage sliced through the ribbons. The bodice gave way and the Dragonborn gave a squeak of protest as Farengar tossed both the knife and ruined bodice aside.
"That was expensive you know," the Dragonborn complained.
Farengar simply raised an eyebrow - an expression he knew she hated. "Really? It looked dreadfully cheap," he retorted, trailing a hand up and down her back in a lazy manner.
The Dragonborn shivered and tried to pretend she was irritated with him. Farengar wasn't fooled. The red blush upon her cheeks was all too obvious – even in the dull orange lighting of his office. "It was a nice colour."
"I shall buy you another then." By Talos, he would buy her one for every day of the week if it meant she would wear them for him. It would be a good investment of his money.
"Couldn't you have just magicked it off or something?"
"And where would the fun in that be?"
The Dragonborn her mouth to say something else when Farengar silenced her protest with quick but shearing kiss; forcing the words back down her throat. Using his Nordic height advantage, he pressed her back against the dark oak wood and went for the buttons on her shirt. His fingers trembled against the cotton of her shirt, pulling them free. Soon enough, the fabric gave way and freed her breasts from the confines of her shirt.
She was exactly how he imagined her; all curves and toned skin that made the mage want to drop to his knees and thank whatever god was listening for gifting her to him. He took a moment to thumb one of the dusky pink pads gently just to test her reactions, trying to ignore himself twitching under his robes. The feel of her was utterly intoxicating and he cursed himself for not approaching her sooner. A soft moan escaped the Dragonborn and she arched into his hand, eyes closed as he continued his administrations. In the haze of lust, Farengar briefly marvelled at his sheer luck.
A legend straight from old Nordic tales was lying half naked on his desk, wriggling against his fingers.
All that power and coiled strength utterly docile beneath his hands.
He dipped his head down and rested his nose against the crook of her neck and inhaling the scent of pine that was almost overwhelming. Farengar could not decide if it was some kind of perfume or if it was just all her. Either way, it suited her greatly.
Slowly he inched his way down her sternum, nipping and kissing his way down to her breasts. Each nip and lick earned the mage a little gasp from the Dragonborn. He was practiced and kissed in places that he had actually thought about – and he knew she knew it. Each touch was measured, methodical. The Breton's fingers tangled in his dark hair, the pads of her thumbs stroking his skull in encouragement. Farengar smirked against her skin and when he reached his goals, he showed no mercy.
Keeping a hand upon one of her soft mounds, the mage tongued the other rosy peak. He swirled her nipple with his tongue, teeth grazing the hyper sensitive flesh ever so gently. The Dragonborn wriggled and arched beneath him with an audible hiss, utterly helpless against the mage. Farengar smirked against her warm skin and wondered briefly what other sounds he could pull from her.
The mage was struck with inspiration.
She had wanted to bed a mage after all. Farengar did not want to disappoint her.
His thumb kneaded the other breast gently and very carefully, Farengar allowed some of his magicka to leak out through the pores of his thumbs. He murmured the words of the spell, quietly so not to tip off the Dragonborn beneath him. Tiny little shocks of magic pulsed across her exposed skin, the magnitude controlled and precise as expected from an experienced mage. He did not expect his spell to actually hurt the Dragonborn – after all, Bretons had a natural resistance to magic.
It had its intended effect.
The Dragonborn let out a strangled gasp and tossed her head to the side, ginger hair sprawled out on his desk. The mere sight of her on his desk looking flushed and feverish nearly undid the mage right then and there. "This is isn't fair," she whispered through harboured pants, breathless from his magic.
Farengar grinned. He was never one to play fair. "It's perfectly fair. You wanted to bed a mage did you not?"
She didn't respond verbally. Instead, the Dragonborn surprised him when she sat up abruptly and gripped his dark hair again. She yanked the mage up to her all-too willing mouth, plunging her tongue down his throat. Glorious, leather clad thighs squeezed around him like a vice, causing his already aching loins to jerk. Farengar let out a growl that was really quite unlike him as he fought the Dragonborn for dominance. Her clever little fingers, nimble and quick, slipped beneath the collar of his robes to stroke the skin hidden by fabric. The Dragonborn pulled away to nibble down his neck and the sudden sensation of her warm, wet tongue made him groan. "You taste like a Kro," she whispered huskily, nuzzling her nose against his skin. Another jolt of arousal in hearing her speak Dragon tongue sent tingles down his spine. If he wasn't careful, she could bring him to breaking point with the power of her voice alone. Farengar distracted himself by reaching down to tug her leather boots off. They slipped away with ease and landed on the floor with a soft thump.
All the remained were the unspeakably tight leather pants.
The Dragonborn pulled back to look at him, eyes hot and expression mischievous. "Now who is overdressed?"
"I can remedy that," he replied and tugged the cord belt from around his robes loose. The Dragonborn wasted no time in pulling his robes from his shoulders and pushing them down his arms until he was clad in nothing but boots and a pair of breeches. The Breton looked at him with mild surprise, as if she wasn't expecting a modestly built Nord to be hiding under the fabric. It was a reaction Farengar's instinctive male ego took great pride in. Her hands swept across his shoulders, around the back of his arms then over the plains of his chest. The Dragonborn hummed with appreciation. "Who would have thought that this was hiding beneath your robes?"
"Never judge a book by its cover my dear," Farengar replied before he set to work removing the leather greaves that had driven him to distraction one too many times. The lacings at her waist came loose easily, even though Farengar's fingers trembled with utter desperation and need. The Dragonborn wriggled around for him a little, allowing the mage to a thumb into the edge of her greaves and peel them right down her legs. Farengar felt his heart stop then start again when he realised that the Dragonborn had not even bothered to wear anything underneath. "No underwear? You are a little succubus," the mage remarked, trying to keep his voice from trembling and failing entirely.
"Oops, guess I forgot to put them on," she replied with a saucy grin, looking utterly shameless.
Farengar simply stared for a moment, his blood churning in his ears. The object of all his fantasies was sitting right there on his desk, naked as a jaybird and he had no idea where to start first. He had simply too much choice. So much spanning, quivering flesh.
She looked at him with those hooded eyes. "What's wrong? Are you afraid of me?"
"Of you? Certainly not."
She looked at him with those hooded eyes. "Prove it then."
And the mage did just that.
Farengar unbuttoned his trousers, grabbed her hips then proceeded to sink in right into her core. The heat of her nearly made him pass out. She was everything he thought she would be and more; hot, wet and utterly intoxicating. She felt better than a hot bath after a long day, better than a hot meal in an empty stomach. He gave a satisfied groan that echoed with the cry of the Dragonborn and hilted himself right into her. The Breton curled her legs around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as he could go. Her fingernails dug into his back as the mage pulled out of her then sunk himself deep again, hitting every single nerve on the way down. Both parties groaned loudly as the mage repeated the movement. Spikes of pleasure sheared through them both. The Dragonborn sunk her teeth into his shoulder and Farengar responded with a thrust that was harder than the others and shook his entire desk. Something rattled in his desk but he barely noticed when the Dragonborn ground d her hips into him, pushing him in further and adding to the beautiful friction. More books fell from their rightful places and hit the floor but neither of them paid the mess any heed.
Magic crackled against her skin as Farengar began a rhythm, moving in and out of her. The rhythm was distorted, broken, yet their flow was never completely destroyed. It was like two opposites that fit snugly together - two mismatched pieces of a puzzle that just happened snap in place precisely. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. She met each one of his thrusts with a fierce buck, whispering something in the Dragon tongue that Farengar could not understand but only made him push into her harder. He felt her inner muscles squeeze with every thrust, her walls clenching around him. Desire tightened in his belly and the mage was suddenly claimed with the urge to reach between their joined bodies to press against her little bundle of nerves. He found her and released another pulse of energy. Magic crackled from his fingertips, literally shocking the Dragonborn into a climax.
She came with a hoarse cry, his name upon her lips. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard in his life and it was what helped him reach his peak. With a throaty moan, he spiralled into ecstasy and spilled himself inside her. He slumped down against her damp belly, his heart beating so fast that it was almost humming. His vision swirled and while he felt completely boneless, he felt utterly satisfied for the first time in what seemed an age. In the afterglow the Dragonborn stroked his hair gently, threading out the tangles she had made. So rhythmic were her movements that Farengar felt his eyelids droop and it took some willpower to stop himself from falling asleep against her warm, damp stomach.
A few quiet, long moments passed before Farengar could summon up the strength to move. He glanced up at the Dragonborn and found her smiling warmly at him. Her hair was a mess, her skin was still damp and there were marks all over her body that he had proudly left with his teeth. In the orange light of his office, he had never seen a more beautiful creature. She was positively glowing and for the first time, the idea that she was a Dragonborn suddenly seemed plausible.
The mage managed to stand up onto shaking legs then helped her up from his desk. He bent a moment to find his robes and her clothes. He handed the Dragonborn her own bundle. "So did bedding a real mage meet up to your expectations?" he asked, throwing the robe back on lazily. Farengar simply had to know if he had spoiled sex for her with non-mages. He sincerely hoped so.
The Dragonborn blushed cranberry (which he found highly amusing considering that not fifteen minutes ago, she was sitting naked on his desk without a care in the world) "It did. That trick you did with a shock spell was amazing. I may never go back to a non-mage," she replied, doing a few buttons up on her shirt. "What about you? Did you enjoy bedding a living legend?"
The mage reached out and brushed a lock of sweaty, ginger hair out of her eyes. It was an act of tenderness that he knew she probably wouldn't expect – which made it all the more sweeter when she looked at him with surprise. "Technically, I didn't bed you. I had you on my desk. There is a subtle difference," he remarked with a smug grin.
"Oh really? Then I suppose I haven't really bedded a mage then if we are going by that logic"
"It would seem so."
She gave him a little smirk with the glint in her eye that had his loins twitching again. "I think we should remedy that."
"I concur," Farengar replied, mirroring her facial expression. He took her hand, reached down for her boots then lead the Dragonborn out of his office and straight into the room that housed a bed and a chest of drawers. As soon as the door was shut, the Dragonborn was pressing him back onto the single bed in the corner. She shoved him back onto the mattress, straddling his hips. "That beard, however, has got to go," she stated, pulling at the drawstrings of his trousers.
Farengar however paid her no mind as he was too busy working her shirt off again. He had absolutely no intention of getting rid of his beard but simply nodded.
Such trifles could be dealt with at a later date.
Lydia sat at the Jarl's breakfast table, nibbling on white bread with jam. It was only just after seven in the morning and she was already bored. Her Thane, the Dragonborn, had no real use for her since she was the Harbinger of the Companions. They were warriors twice Lydia's skill and were willing to follow the young Breton to the ends and back (the twin brothers Farkas and Vilkas more so than any) Lydia didn't really blame the Dragonborn. After all, the Companions had been fighting by her side long before Jarl Balgruuf had assigned her a Thane. The Breton trusted her shield-siblings and they rarely left her side.
Thus the housecarl was often left with nothing to do but wander around and help Irileth occasionally. It got terribly boring, terribly quickly.
It was on that morning when Lydia witnessed the most peculiar event. The court mage Farengar Secret-fire came storming out of his quarters in a truly terrible mood. He was so furious that he was practically spitting fire – quite unlike his namesake. The court mage did not even acknowledged a very confused Jarl Balgruuf sitting at the table with her. They exchanged a glance, neither party knowing what to say. Farengar simply swept through Dragonsreach, breathing flame and Nordic curses. The only word that Lydia could pick up was Dragonborn.
It took Lydia a few moments to register that Farengar's beard was completely and totally gone. Either he had chopped it off himself or it had been shaved off without his permission.
Judging from his terrible mood, she supposed it was the latter. Lydia could not understand why he was so upset - personally, she thought but he looked much better without it. However, the dark haired warrior kept quiet as he stalked past.
The minute he was out the door, the entire hall erupted into laughter that shook the very rafters.