#I had to pause Skyrim to take a moment to laugh
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I love it when video games let me punch racists and they go down in one hit like a sack of bricks
#that was so fucking funny oh my god#I had to pause Skyrim to take a moment to laugh#I punched with a powered up swing Rolff once. ONCE! and he was down#churchy talks
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[Seventeen]
Part two of my Ralof/Hadvar quickburn. Read part one here!
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Hadvar hated Helgen.
Not because the people were unpleasant or it was an ugly town. In fact, Helgen was nearly as picturesque as Riverwood. It sat nestled in the center of Falkreath Hold behind tall, fortified walls, close enough to the Throat of the World that Hadvar never felt too far from home, but deep enough into the massive pine forests that venturing there always felt like a journey.
No, Hadvar hated Helgen because anytime he and Ralof visited, Ralof would always abandon him for Ingrid.
It was in Hadvar’s opinion—a well-informed opinion at that, seeing as he was Ralof’s best friend and knew him better than anyone else in Skyrim—that Ingrid was a terrible match. Holding a conversation with her was like holding water in a leaky bucket. Hadvar had tried talking to her, tried to get along with her, for Ralof’s sake. But it was useless. She had about as much depth as a mud puddle. Plus, she wasn’t even a promising shield maiden. He’d always thought Ralof would find himself a woman fit to be his equal—someone courageous and true, strong in battle, with finely-honed wit and a spine of Skyforge steel. But instead he was fixated on Ingrid.
She giggled at even his worst jokes while leaning forward onto her knees, the dip of her neckline exposing the cleft of her soft, ample breasts. Hadvar would always avert his eyes. Ralof did not. Her father was the innkeeper, and she’d sneak them bottles of mead from his collection. She was good for that at least.
And thus, as with almost every trip to Helgen these days, Hadvar found himself alone, a bottle of mead as his sole companion and sorry consolation prize. Just before sunset he climbed atop one of the guard towers, finding the post empty. He trudged over to the edge and leaned against the stone wall, gazing down at the town’s inhabitants. The market stalls in front of the main keep were closing down for the evening, vendors rolling up their wares and shuttering their stands. Life continued on with or without him, and in that moment he felt profoundly unimportant.
Hadvar turned away and slid down the wall to sit on the ground, pulling the cork from the mead bottle with his teeth and spitting it out. The act made him feel like a hardened bandit. He took a long pull, grimacing at the sweet burn it produced just behind his sternum, and smacked his lips. He wondered what Ralof was up to? Probably had his hands up Ingrid’s skirt by now…
“Oi, no loitering milk-drinker!” came a gruff voice from the stairs and Hadvar jumped, eyes going wide as he jerked to look.
It was Ralof, ascending the stairs with a shit-eating grin and a bottle of mead tucked beneath his arm.
“You should have seen your face!” he laughed.
Hadvar’s heart thudded like a war drum against his ribcage and he scowled. “What are you doing up here? Where’s Ingrid?”
Ralof waved a hand, wrinkling his nose as he walked over. “Bah, her father is making her help out at the inn tonight. I think he’s onto us…”
“He didn’t catch you two—”
“Nooo. I’d be a dead man walking, are you kidding?” He let out a knowing laugh before lowering himself to sit down next to Hadvar. Their shoulders brushed as he shifted to pull the mead from beneath his arm. “What are you doing up here?”
“I was bored,” Hadvar said. He took a bitter pull from his mead. “I don’t know why you drag me to Helgen with you when you always end up running off to get your hilt polished.”
“You sound jealous,” Ralof said with a smirk. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll find you a nice girl. I think Ingrid’s got a friend—”
“I don’t want a nice girl,” Hadvar spat with a scowl, hunching over to rest his forearms against his knees. His ruddy brown hair curtained around his face.
Ralof paused for a moment, seeming thoughtful. He twisted the cork from his own mead bottle before taking a quick drink. “A… nice guy then?” he offered, sounding unsure.
“What!?” Hadvar sat up so fast he sloshed mead onto his pants. “No! That’s not what I meant!” He could feel heat pooling in his cheeks, his ears so hot he was sure they’d sprout flames.
Ralof raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Hadvar let out a frustrated growl. “What I mean is… I just—” He exhaled sharply, letting his head fall back against the stone wall to look up at the sky. The sun was beginning to fade, leaving a soft cloudless gradient of pale blue and yellow. “I just miss the way things used to be, is all. There’s all this talk of—of another war and…” He groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands before taking another swig of mead.
“If there is another war, then we fight,” said Ralof.
Hadvar looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then down the neck of his mead bottle. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple.” Ralof shrugged and took another swig. “If the Empire wants to lick the boots of the golden elves, they’re welcome to do so. But they don’t get to drag Skyrim into their mess. And they don’t get to rip our gods from our hands.”
Hadvar continued to look into his mead bottle, rolling the neck between his palms. “...I just don’t think it’s that simple,” he said finally.
“This topic is going to ruin my buzz,” Ralof declared.
Hadvar scowled. “What do you want to talk about, then?”
“Nothing.”
So they sat in silence, each sipping their mead intermittently. Someone down on the street below let out a bellowing laugh, the large wooden gates creaked open and closed as caravans left the fort, the night time summer insects began to whirr in the treetops.
“Y’know,” Ralof said after the silence had stretched on for an appropriate amount of time. “Sven told me that he plans to start courting Camilla.” He let out a snort. “That skeever-brain with a sharp girl like her.” He nudged Hadvar’s shoulder with his own. “She’d do better with someone like you. Y’know… You and your honeyed words.”
Hadvar made a noise of disbelief. “Honeyed words?”
“Aye. You’d make a proper bard, I think.”
“That mead must be poisoned. It’s turned your brain to troll fat.”
Ralof laughed. “This is some of the best mead around. Be grateful.” He reached over to clink the neck of his bottle against Hadvar’s. “Skol.”
“Skol,” Harvard repeated automatically, his tone flat.
“Eyes to the sky, Hadvar,” Ralof said after a beat. “We’re not fighting today, right?”
“...I s’pose not.”
“Then we leave those worries for the future.”
They sat in silence for a bit longer, their shoulders pressed together, and Hadvar leaned against Ralof more than was probably necessary. After another moment, Ralof rolled forward onto his feet and pushed to stand.
“Come!” he declared. “Enough moping.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the inn!” Ralof reached a hand down. “Away from all this gloom.”
“Just leave me up here,” Hadvar said, ignoring Ralof’s outstretched hand. “I’ll just ruin the mood.”
Ralof sighed loudly, then reached down and grabbed one of Hadvar’s wrists. “Up, damn you. Enough of all this.”
Despite everything, Hadvar let himself be pulled to his feet. The two of them descended the tower together and headed back towards the inn. The front door had been propped open to let the fresh summer air into the longhouse, the sounds of a jaunty tune filtering out into the street along with rhythmic clapping and singing of the patrons. Ralof threw an arm around Hadvar’s shoulder, beginning to sing along as they stepped up onto the front porch. Hadvar couldn’t help but smirk, looping an arm around Ralof’s waist.
“You sound like a dying cow when you sing.”
Ralof made a rude, wet noise directly into Hadvar’s ear, and Hadvar shoved his friend away with a laugh, wiping the saliva off with the palm of his hand.
“We can’t all have the gifts of Dibella, y’know,” Ralof argued, rosy-cheeked. “She should have given you a pair of tits to go with that singing voice of yours.”
Hadvar gave him a rough shove but smiled. “You’d like that, I bet.”
Ralof downed the rest of his mead and threw the empty bottle over the side of the porch before shoulder checking Hadvar so hard he slammed back against the side of the building, knocking the air from his lungs.
“You oaf!” he wheezed. “Watch—”
Ralof was directly in front of him, pushing right up into his space, his hands twisting the front of Hadvar’s shirt. Neither of them moved, barely a breath apart. Hadvar’s heart pounded so loud he felt it in the soles of his feet. Ralof was looking at him, his gaze unsteady with drink, blue eyes twinkling with the flicker of torch light. Then he smiled, fierce as a saber cat, and planted a firm kiss on Hadvar’s lips.
Hadvar sucked in a breath through his nose, his eyes going wide. Impossible, he thought. And before he could think further, it was over, and Ralof was pulling away, still smiling. He swaggered away like a pleased tomcat, jerking a hand over his shoulder to beckon Hadvar after him.
“You coming inside or not?”
Hadvar’s entire body buzzed with arousal and confusion, his chest threatening to split open with the ache of it all and his pants tightening in an unwanted and embarrassing way. Ralof disappeared into the inn, leaving Hadvar alone. He reached his hand up to trace his lips, numb with disbelief. Had he…? Did he feel…?
Hadvar stumbled into the inn after him and then the night went on as if nothing had happened. The bard continued to play, the patrons continued to sing. Ingrid eventually found her way into Ralof’s lap, and Hadvar got drunk enough to lead the entire room in a call and response of “Come Now Ysmir”. He caught Ralof’s eye in the middle of a verse. He was staring at him from overtop Ingrid’s shoulder, his expression raw, transfixed, as if nobody else in the room existed.
Hadvar smiled and continued to sing.
#ralof/hadvar#topsy writes#skyrim#skyrim fanfiction#skyrim fanfic#elder scrolls#tes v skyrim#tesblr#hadvar/ralof
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TES Summerfest Day 5 - Devotion
A day late, but I really like the prompt devotion and I already had a little bit of something I was working on with it so... enjoy some @tes-summer-fest fun!
Words: 1162
Characters: Dragonborn (gender neutral reader), Nebarra, Khash
Notes: Based on my fic Destiny Waits for No One
"It's you...."
A rasping voice jolted you from your thoughts, and you turned to face a wizened old man that you were almost positive you had never met before in your life... or at least what you remembered of it. "Hello, Sir. Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" You said, despite the cold, the snow had stopped last night.
He let out a soft, incredulous bark of a laugh, and it wasn't until he stood and took a step closer that you noticed his milk-white eyes. "Walking among us once more...."
The man reached out his hand, your gaze immediately darting to your companions. "I apologize if I've forgotten, but have we met before?"
His robes were that of a priest, a necklace of Talos around his neck, and he gave you a gentle, kindly smile, deep laugh lines and crows feet accentuating his expression. Slowly, he felt around, fingers finding your face, gnarled with age as he read your visage. "Yes. I... I had heard whispers of your return, the howling in the wind... the rumble of the thunder. I have known you my whole life, and even if you do not remember your humble servant, I could never forget you."
You let out an uncomfortable laugh, but you didn't pull away. Surely you couldn't be as old as he thought you were, but if he claimed to know you... maybe just maybe... "Then perhaps you can answer the question that haunts me every night...."
He gestured to the small bench he had been sitting on, shuffling and leading you by the hand.
You helped him sit, allowing him to brace himself on your arm before taking the seat beside him. It was impossible to miss the way Nebarra inhaled, and you shot him a look. For once, he held his tongue, leaning against the wall. Questions welled in Khash's eyes, but the altmer placed a hand on her shoulder.
"What would you ask of me?" The old man posed, and you swallowed.
"Who am I?"
He seemed to pause, a thoughtful expression on his face. "... You have gone by many names through the years, though I think my favorite has always been Dragon-Made-Flesh, The Child of Skyrim... the great Dragon of the North."
"I... think you may be mistaken." You gave him a pat on his hand. "Those titles belong to someone else. I am not the person you think I am... sorry."
You went to stand, but his fingers closed around your wrist. "Dragonborn... you may not remember, but know that you enter Nirn once more to enact great and terrible things. Do not forget your faithful."
A lump caught in your throat, and you wrenched yourself from his grasp. "I- I have to go."
"Do not forget your faithful!" He called out after you as you ushered Khash through the snow.
"What was that about?" She asked once you were down the street.
"Nothing!" It was impossible to miss the way she flinched when you snapped, and you took a deep calming breath. "It was... nothing. Just a simple misunderstanding."
"I'll say." Nebarra pushed past you, knocking his shoulder against yours. "It's obvious the old coot doesn't know what he's talking about."
"I do not understand. What is the Dragon of the North? Even I know you are acting weird." Khash crossed her arms as she stared at you, faltering for a moment, "You are acting weird, right?"
Your aldmeri companion placed a hand on her shoulder, "Yes. Your dragonborn friend is acting weird. Constantly. But moreso than usual...." He scoffed, "Dragon of the North, that crazy old bastard thinks the 'Great Dragonborn' is Talos."
You hated the way the words fell from his lips and twisted in your gut. The bane with which he said it made something in you ache.
"Why would he think that? You are not Talos, right?" Khash turned to you, and despite the bitterness on your tongue, and the scream in your throat, you closed your eyes and forced a smile.
"No, I am not Tiber Septim." You kept your voice level, but you could see a shiver pass over her.
Nebarra snorted, "I bet you wouldn't even use a Numidium on a dragon."
You narrowed your eyes at him, "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"So he really was just a crazy old man?"
"Most Talos worshippers are." He gave her a pat, facing you down. You could feel his sneer despite his impassive helmet, "We all ready to go, Little Dragon? You're not forgetting any of your true believers?"
You were going to punch him.
It was Windhelm, no one would bat an eye if you just decked him; He was a high elf. But he was also goading you, and if you gave in that meant he won. So you stuffed your hands into your armpits for warmth instead. "Shut up.…” You licked your lips, immediately regretting it as you felt the chill in the air. “At least… at least I give them hope. Do you know the meaning of the word? Hope? Do you ever hope? Do you even know how?” You peered into the eye slits of his helm, catching a glint of gold in the shadows. “And before you say, ‘Yes, of course I know how to hope, I hope you stop talking haha’ or some other stupid, witty remark, I want you to just… think for a moment. Because you must have once. I hear you muttering under your breath sometimes.”
For the second time that day he was silent.
“I know you don’t believe that Talos was a god, and I’m not sure that even if he were he should be worshiped, and it’s… overwhelming to be compared to someone like that, be they god or man; But at least they have the courage to have faith in something. To have hope.” You sighed, feeling the weight of it all sink in. “And that’s a powerful thing.”
You held his gaze for a good moment, and when he didn’t respond, you turned to Khash, “C’mon, let’s see if we can stock up on supplies and get back to the inn.”
She nodded, though her eyes flitted to the uncharacteristically quiet mer every so often.
It didn’t take long, and packs laden down with your spoils, you let your young ward run ahead of you into Candlehearth Hall. A hand on your shoulder stopped you from following her in.
You cast a glance over at your companion.
Nebarra’s voice was low as he spoke, “I do know what that sort of devotion to a cause is like. And I do have a hope; Just one…. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
With that he shouldered past you.
“Now, time for some wine!”
The door swung shut after him, and you swallowed, feeling both the snowflakes beginning to land on your nose, and the overwhelming realization of just how alone you were.
#nebarra#khash the argonian#ldb#dragonborn#the elder scrolls#skyrim#tesfest23#thunderous applesauce#destiny waits for no one
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For the dragon asks, let's do ice!!
AH thank you so much for this :D I do have a couple solid ones for this prompt (: (:
Ice: share a snippet where a character is taking a risk.
I'm picking a snippet where two characters are taking a bit of a risk.
From Chapter 17 (upcoming) of The World on Our Shoulders
She sat with her back to the corner and read while she finished her drink. Her face felt a little bit warm from the beverage. It didn’t seem like much, but perhaps Sujamma was stronger than mead, after all. The peace was nice, but was interrupted faster than she’d hoped. The chitin-clad mercenary had invited himself into her space again. She sighed and put down the book.
“I’m sorry if this sounds a bit rude,” she started. She shifted a little in her chair. “But I’ve had quite a long trip from Skyrim. I’m content to sit here in peace without conversation, if you don’t mind.”
“So I can tell,” the mercenary drawled. He had pulled his scarf back up over the lower half of his face before he’d sauntered over. He propped his elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his hand. He stuck out his other hand in greeting. “Teldryn Sero, blade for hire. Best swordsman in all of Morrowind.” She eyed his hand for a moment and then relented with a sigh. She shook it. He tried to play the part of the charming gentleman, albeit one who forgot he was wearing a scarf, and pulled her hand up to kiss the back of it through the fabric. She resisted rolling her eyes.
“Nyenna Hemlock of Whiterun. Mage,” she said, opting to omit the Dragonborn business, knowing full well the revelation would cause even more chaos and disruption of her peaceful evening if everyone in the tavern found out. “Are you really the best swordsman in all of Morrowind?” She raised an eyebrow, unable to resist questioning the man’s improbable statement.
“Would you care to find out?” he said, somewhat suggestively. Nyenna leaned on her own hand and narrowed her eyes. Bold, really. But she’d seen this sort of nonsense before. It would be better to switch tactics.
“What is your fee?” she asked. A question for an answer. She’d learned the trick from Farengar, who almost always employed the strategy when he was mostly annoyed by stupid inquiries. Teldryn snorted from under his scarf, apparently amused by her answer.
“Five thousand Drakes,” he said casually. Nyenna’s eyes widened and she laughed sarcastically.
“An inflated sense of self, I see,” she said dismissively. He cackled at her comment. She grinned. “Is that why you’ve been unable to find another patron, despite the full tavern this fine evening?”
“Honestly? I’m worth the price. You’ll find I’m full of surprises,” he said, leaning in closer. “Tons of tricks up my sleeves.” He was doing that thing with his voice again, trying to be sultry or something. It wouldn’t work. It made him sound…rather desperate, didn’t it?
“I’m sure you are,” she said after a second. “But honestly? I’m going to be just fine. Thank you for your…ehm…offer.” He leaned back in his chair.
“Well, if we won’t be working together,” he started and paused, as if reconsidering what he was about to say. “Would you care to walk with me? I could use the company, and it’s difficult to hear myself in this place.” Nyenna had just said she was enjoying the peace she’d found before. It seemed to have slipped the mercenary’s mind.
“Why me?” she asked, confused. Teldryn Sero laughed quietly to himself.
“How often do you think any of us get to talk to interesting outlanders, sera?” he answered, using her question-as-an-answer tactic back against her. She paused and tapped her chin. There could be a downside to this. Likely, he’d be expecting more from her for the drinks he’d bought. He could be wily and untoward and she’d be getting herself in trouble going anywhere with him. But she could Shout him down and stab him before he even knew what hit him, mercenary or not. He’d not be expecting it. But the other side of that would be if anyone else heard about it, they’d know instantly who she was. This mercenary was persistent, and perhaps a bit overconfident. It was probably not the best idea, but she reasoned that if he wanted to talk, maybe she could get a little more information about the route to Tel Mithryn, or about this Neloth character for her trouble.
“I’m not that interesting,” Nyenna lied. She sighed. “But sure. I’ll walk with you.”
#AskMareena#MareenaWrites#The World on Our Shoulders#Nyenna#Teldryn Sero#idiot mercenary for hire#(:#LDB/Teldryn Sero#Skyrim#Elder Scrolls#skyrim fic#skyrim fanfic#skyrim fanfiction#fic#fanfiction#fanfic#fanficblr#writeblr
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~ About dinner ~
Fandom: TESV: Skyrim
Pairing: Taliesin x Bosmer oc
Warnings: Suggestive comments
Summary: Some cultural habits really should be discussed early on when traveling together, yes?
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"Sooo..."
Sanyon waited for the other elf to continue over the relaxed clatter of eight hooves. ...Taliesin remained silent, as if he already knew that the Bosmer hated to have to worm something out of someone like this. From Peaches back he finally shot him a slightly annoyed look. "What."
Of course all he would get was an unnervingly patient expression instead of an answer - a chance to remember his manners perhaps. ...Slightly narrowed eyes seemed satisfying enough though.
"Do you follow the Green Pact?"
This caused a raised eyebrow once again. "Why? Afraid I might take a culinary liking to you and try some without your outspoken consent?", he asked back - inappropriately sweet, and with a demonstrative peek to the southern altmeri regions placed upon Naomi's saddle. He was sure the man would get what he meant.
What did he expect in return? An annoyed huff maybe, or a sour face from a freshly baked Ex-Thalmor who got badly flirted at by a lowly cousin without any decency ("no decency at all!").
The first thing of notice to Sanyon was the circumstance that he obviously felt slightly driven to pay back each and every comment that got under his skin so far. It was ... refreshing, to be honest.
The second thing made the Bosmers eyes shine. In his imagination the most 'positive' reaction had been a smooth comeback that would've left himself speechless again ... but not a flabbergasted and blushing Taliesin.
After a moment of recollection the green eyes narrowed significantly, voice a beautiful blend of both 'snobbish' and 'seriously impressive'.
"I'll just say this once, so you better listen closely: Before I even consider becoming dinner of any kind, I expect one myself alongside a bouquet of appropriate flowers. And just for you: They have to be self-picked." A short pause followed, accompanied by a quick look up and down the smaller elf. "...Or at least self-grown."
And there was the comeback. Sanyon felt his face shift until it fit the complicated mix of 'feeling sorry', 'being proud about successfully annoying someone who deserved it and probably will deserve it again soon' and 'trying not to grin and be more anoying than intended'.
The wood elf held the stern look over lovely flushed cheeks for a few silent moments. Naturally he didn't even think about telling the disgruntled mer that he might be content with him as breakfast too.
Soon Peaches got a soft pat on the neck, a quiet command to keep going, and gone was the redhead, down and through the bushes that framed Lake Ilinalta, ignoring the furrowing dark brows.
About a minute later the mildly grumpy looking Altmer got a snap against the boot. The stubborn glance down from Naomi's back revealed his companion walking alongside them - and not only offering an apologetic smile, but a single red mountain flower.
"The dish I missed the most while visiting Valenwood was actually apple cabbage stew", Sanyon stated in a calm voice, instead of just answering Taliesins previous question with a simple 'No'.
"Hmph." The sound seemed rather ungracious ... but the flower changed hands in the end nonetheless. "Remember that when you intend to ask me about my preferences. Regarding food of course."
"...Of course."
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((I laughed so hard after reading that apple cabbage stew is Tallys favorite food in Skyrim. Just days beforehand I thought about what 'Sanyon' would tell him when questioned about the Green Pact - the scene started with a casual conversation and the statement that exactly that dish was his own favorite, then changed to him making a demonstration out of eating a flower or other edible flora to nonverbally make his point. That, by the way, ended in Taliesin openly suspecting that Sanyon might try and poison him (because I imagined him not knowing about young spruce shoots being edible and actually tasting delightfully sour) and Sanyon replying that Bosmer may be somewhat resistant to poison ... but he never ever would risc Petrichor getting a belly ache from feeding on a poisoned corpse he himself had produced. Ahem. I like the final version a little bit better. ...But just a little. Maybe the bit about the shoots comes up another time.))
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Cuddles with Kenma
Yeah, this is literally just a quick fluff piece with Kenma!
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You slammed the front door shut and sighed. It had been a long day and all you wanted to do was lay down and sleep.
You had gone to a family gathering and your family had been constantly asking questions about your personal life, spanning from your work in college to your relationship with Kenma and why he hadn’t attended today. Like yourself, Kenma wasn’t the most enthusiastic when dealing with your family, especially when they wanted to comment on whether you had gained weight.
But in fact, Kenma had a meeting that was supposed to run late, so he was unable to join you at the park for the get together celebrating your grandma’s retirement.
You set your purse on the couch and made your way into your bedroom, surprised to see your fiancé laying on the bed playing what looked to be Skyrim. He glanced towards you and paused the game as he took notice of how tired you looked. Social gatherings always seemed to drain you and it seemed that this event was no different.
“Hey, come here.”he murmured, stretching an arm out to you. You unbuttoned your blouse, thankful that you had a tank top underneath it, then curled into his side. He kissed your temple and asked, “That bad, huh? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.” You tightened your arms around him briefly and replied, “Don’t be, you had a meeting, sweetheart. Your jobs are more important than some stupid family gathering.”
“You look so tired, kit. At least if I would’ve gone, you might look a little less drained.” Kenma offered up, kissing your cheek. Your eyes fluttered shut at the tenderness and sniffled, muttering, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m already starting to feel a little better. Go ahead and play, sweetheart. I’m just going to watch.” He hit resume and continued to walk up the mountainside that he was on currently.
“What quest are ya workin’ on?” you asked, face half smashed into his chest as you watched him play. He hummed at the question and replied, “I have to go find the Greybeards. Guess I’m the Dragonborn.” You snickered, delighted that you had played this game much sooner than he did, and warned, “Don’t forget about the troll up top. You could have Lydia fight it or just go around the crest.”
Kenma muttered a quiet thanks and continued to march up the mountain, determined not to die. You settled into the silence then relaxed against him. The soft sound of the game’s music began to lure you to sleep and you watched through half lidded eyes as Kenma circled around the top of the mountain to avoid the frost troll on the passage. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead then you began to doze off.
When you woke up, Kenma had jostled you awake, murmuring, “Hey, kit, you wanna get some take out? You hummed in agreement and asked quietly, “Can we?” He nodded, kissing you on the top of your head, before attempting to roll out of bed, only for you to cling to his waist. He paused at the sudden grip then glanced over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, murmuring, “I can’t order take out if you’re wrapped around me. My phone is across the room.”
“Use mine then? I wanna cuddle, Ken.” you insisted, pouting in hopes that he’ll relax against the pillows with you. The blond gave a quiet laugh and twisted in your hold to pull you into his lap. You sighed, content with the position that the two of you found yourselves in, then he asked, “Where’s your phone so I can order us food?” You waved your hand towards the end table and he rolled to the side to snag the device, huffing with the effort.
You continued to wrap around Kenma, insisting that you were not moving until take out arrived. It was nice to have soft and quiet moments to yourselves, without any interference from family or any outsiders.
Honestly, you didn't need anything more.
#kozume kenma x reader#kenma x reader#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu drabbles#hq drabbles#kenma drabbles#kozume kenma drabbles#kozume x reader#kozume kenma fluff#kozume kenma imagines
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Play Me a Song
(Teldryn x Reader):
Knowing Teldryn, his poor lung capacity would never let him play a wind intstrument ;-;)
WARNING: VERY MUSICAL✨
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I awoke in the early hours of the morn, eyes stinging from the lack of sleep. Solstheim was a crazy and dangerous place. Even with Teldryn keeping watch, I was still far too on edge to to drift off into a peaceful slumber.
I sat up ever so quietly and glanced at my snoozing companion. I was careful not to wake him as I crawled out of the tent. Luckily the ash was soft under my weight, letting me move around without so much as a rustle. I smiled while watching his chest rise and fall as he slept. Who would've known a mercenary could look so peaceful?
I shuffled over to my satchel and retrieved my flute from the front pocket. I had spent so many years with it that it had become a part of me. I brushed the pads of my fingers over its edges. There wasn't any harm in playing a little song, was there? I took a stroll along the beach until I was a fair distance from camp. I soon found a small mound of ash and took a seat. There was no way I'd wake him from here.
My gaze lingered over the ocean. The orange glow of dawn glimmered over Solstheim's waters, it was almost enchanting for such a dreary island. And with the Red Mountain's shadow looming overhead, it made the view all the more beautiful. I soon found my inspiration for the song that I wanted to play and started immediately.
It wasn't anything truly special. The chords started off jumbled at first, but eventually flowed into a slow and steady rhythm. The more I played, the more creative I felt. Oh, perhaps I'd jot the notes down once I got ahold of my journal? I had to pause my playing due to my throat growing dry. After clearing it and licking my lips, I was ready to begin again. That was until something, or rather someone stopped me from doing so.
"That was some performance," I heard Teldryn voice from behind me. "Sweet Mara," I shrieked. He really had a way of sneaking up on people, well me mostly. I couldn't exactly say the same for our enemies. "My apologies. I wanted to say something earlier, but I didn't want to interrupt."
"Uh, how long have you been standing there?"
"Meh. Long enough," he sighed, dropping down next to me. A hot wave of embarrassment flushed over my face in realization. "I'm sorry," I mumbled. "Was I being too loud?" The mer puffed out a chuckled and patted my shoulder. "Nonsense. Waking up to peace and quiet is one thing, but waking up to a pretty song is another. Say, how come you never told me you can play?" I fiddled the instrument in my hands as I searched for a good explanation.
"I guess it just never crossed my mind. It's kind of embarrassing, to be honest," I laughed. Teldryn discarded my words and said, "embarrassing? How could such a talent be embarrassing? You should think about joining the Bards' College. They'd be fools not to accept you!" My cheeks became hotter with every compliment he gave me. "I-- well, I remember wanting to join as a kid, but I don't know. Playing in front of people has never really been my forte. Something about it takes the passion away-- if that makes any sense."
The Dunmer tilted his head at me. I cursed that helmet of his for not being able to show me what expression he was making. I assumed it was something kin to amusement. "Then does only one person still count?" he asked. I shook my head in denial. "No, not really... it's just been ages since anyone's heard me play."
"In that case, why don't you play me song?"
My eyes grew wide at his sudden request. I hoped that it wasn't anything too complicated. I knew that he was fond of music from Morrowind, but I had little expertise in that area. "What song would you like me to play?" I gulped. I prayed to the Divines that I wouldn't dissappoint him. "Oh, nothing major. Just the one you were playing earlier," he stated. "Really? But... that was just a sample." Teldryn shook his head. "Sample or not, I wanna hear the rest of it. It was very beautiful." He truly knew how to flatter a girl, that much was for certain.
With quivering hands, I brought the mouthpiece to my lips and began to blow. My fingers danced across the midsection of the flute almost like magic. I was very nervous that Teldryn might stare, but much to my surprise, he kept his gaze locked onto the horizon. The waves rocked gently against the shore, syncing with perfectly with the melody. This is what I loved so much about music. For once, the rest of the world seemed to freeze in place, and the only thing in motion was this very moment. It was able to grant me a taste of what freedom truly felt like. Boy, did freedom taste wonderful.
Teldryn's shoulders slackened to where he was now resting on his elbows, still keeping his sights on the vast beyond. I didn't need to see his face to know that he was smiling. When the song drifted to an end, he exhaled a sigh and returned to a sitting position. Without a word, he then stood up and dusted the ash from his trousers. "You'll have to play for me again, sometime." I watched speechlessly as he turned around and started back to camp. "Let's get a move on! We have a lot to do," he called. I rose to my feet and followed after him, grinning to myself all the while.
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My search history contains nothing other than Skyrim fanfictions, slutty Pyramid Head, and now pictures of labeled flute parts.
My mom would be, and probaby is, very concerned.
#ya like jazz? *plays flute*#skyrim#teldryn sero#solstheim#skyrim x reader#elder scrolls#tesblr#drabble#one shot#dunmer
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The Shake Down
Russ 'Little Troll' Fenrenson was the Nord you hired when you wanted to send a message.
"I hear you've worked up quite the bill at the Ragged Flagon" Russ said as he leaned in on the smaller imperial. His red hair was grungy from traveling. He had skipped bath day intentionally. The brick shit house of a Nord was more intimidating when he was radiating a potent stench.
"It can't be that high" The imperial said. He had his back to the wall. The stormcloaks had won the civil war, and all over Skyrim his kind had to put up with this.
"It's gotta be pretty high if they sent me to make you pay up." Russ leaned over the smaller man. He rest his left forearm on the wall behind him while keeping his clenched right fist on the other side of the imperials head. His skin was light, but with all the dirt in his skin you may have thought he was a tall red guard from a distance. He was wearing his troll leather vest. Nothing was under it. The cold never bothered him, and he loved to show off his arms. For the imperial this meant that on one side of his head was a clenched fist, and on the other Russ' ripe and furry pit. The winters chill was in the air, but it could have been the middle of a blizzard and Russ' pits would still be as juicy as a rotten snow melon.
"I'll pay. I'm getting my coins together. First thing this week I'll do is pay." The imperial tried to duck under Russ' fist, but when the meaty Nord punched the bricks, he juked the other way into Russ' pit; getting a full sniff of the pungent bouquet wafting from the gnarled patch of red and orange hair, and wincing a bit from the smell.
Russ saw the man's unfortunate position and grinded. He had two long braids in his beard, and when he smiled wide they made for the perfect frame for his yellow teeth. "You like that?" He said, his tongue running across his teeth. "Take a good long drink of what a real Nord smells like." The imperial paused, but when Russ locked his piercing hazel eyes on him, the imperial knew it was no jest. "Do it" he said, leaving no room for bargain.
The imperial closed his eyes and drank deep of the Nord's revolting odor. He could taste it more than he could smell it. It was salty and sour. There was a subtly heat behind it, like an compost heap in the height of summer— so many unidentifiable stenches, and not a single one pleasing.
"Like it?" Russ said.
"It's very," The imperial said. "Very strong. Just like you natives"
Russ bent his arm in and smeared his Pitt drippings on the man's face. He laughed loudly. "Nice way of putting it. I think it smells like a dead horkers arsehole myself. But if you love it then consider that some free perfume." He laughed again, inadvertently flecking the imperials face with spit. "Sorry. Here let me dry that off for you." He pulled down his head and summoned a deep belch from the darkest pit of his guts. He puckered his lips and blew it slowly into the imperials face, the deep bellowing rumble, like distant thunder, rolling just inside his throat. He had stopped at a shady ale hall— The Giant's Scraps— and had his fill of curried goat legs and sour brew. Add that to his stale onion loaf rations and you had yourself some punishingly offensive breath. The imperials eyes watered. Russ pressed his forehead in on the man's. "You should be thanking the nine that I had just let rip my afternoon beefer a few moments before I saw you, or else it wouldn't be my breath you're choking on cow-chucker."
Russ reached down and grabbed the Imperial by the groin and squeezed. The man gave out an audible, and high-pitched eek.
"You have till noon tomorrow to pay back everything you owe to the Ragged Flagon, plus a hefty bonus to them for picking such a fine and upstanding Nord like myself to deliver the message. Understood?"
The imperial nodded.
"If I hear that you didn't pay back every last Talos' forsaken septim: one night I'm going to appear at the foot of your bed and I'm going to spend do long popping your little snowberries between my finger that you'll think I'm making it a career" He squeezed his grip tighter.
"Yes. Very. Very clear." The imperial was on his tip toes now, his voice so high pitched that only dogs and wolves could hear the sheer terror in his voice.
Thankfully Russ was enough of a dog himself. He let the man go. He dusted off the Imperial shoulders a d straightened his collar. When he was satisfied with his work he leaned in close, putting his mouth to one of the imperials ears: "Run." He said softly.
The imperial took off like an imp out of oblivion.
"I fucking love this job" Russ said. He pulled out a flask of fermented mammoth milk and rinsed his mouth out. He let out a belch. The imperial was yards away, but Russ knew he heard it. Hell, he could probably smell it.
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Did I forget to post this in February? Yes.
Am I going to ignore that fact and post it anyway because why not? Also yes.
Tagging @vilkas as she helped me with the headcannon that all Khajiit, like a normal cat, do the butt wiggle when preparing to pounce.
Azirina laughed as she saw Farkas playing with the children. Her heart was elated, soaring like a dragon as she watched them. She hadn't known a love like this since the destruction of her tribe back in Elsweyr. The sailors who brought her to Skyrim had been close. But they could not match the sensation that filled her heart right this very moment. She smiled as Farkas moved over to her, sitting on the grass beside her.
"Something on your mind, love?" He asked her. She shook her head, her hair swaying like her tail and her earrings catching the light.
"This one is merely considering how lucky she is, my moon." She replied, pressing her forehead against his. He chuckled as his eyes closed, taking in the moment.
"Mama, come play with us." Lucia called, pulling them from the moment.
"Of course, starlight." She replied, standing and dusting down her dress. She walked over to their children, ears back as she looked at them. "What game shall we play?"
"Let's play tag!" Blaise cried.
"You're it, mama!" Lucia added, the two of them starting to run from her. She lifted her skirts slightly, chasing after them. Farkas chuckled as he leant back on his arms, watching his family. He could feel an elation in his heart that was unlike anything else he had felt. One he only ever encountered when he was with the companions before. The feeling of family.
He watched as Azirina crouched, having cornered Lucia and Blaise. The two children laughed as she prepared. Farkas smiled, his eyes moving along her frame until movement caught his gaze. As she crouched, her rear wiggled near enough constantly. He gulped slightly, watching the movement. It was almost hypnotic.
"Papa, what are you looking at?" Lucia's voice caught him off guard, making him jolt. He looked to see the three of them looking at him, concern clear on their faces.
"Nothing, sweetheart." He replied, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. He caught Azirina's eye, noting her mischievous smile.
"Starlight, sunlight, why not go and buy yourselves a treat from the market, yes?" Azirina suggested, handing them a small pouch of gold.
"Ok, Ma." Blaise said. The two of them ran off as she turned to him.
"Forgive this one if she is mistaken but, you were just caught staring at her rear end, yes?" She asked him. He looked at her, mouth open to explain how she was mistaken and he had merely been watching her play. But when he looked at her eyes, he found himself unable to deny it.
"Yes. But it wasn't intentional. Your wiggling caught my attention." He explained rapidly. She paused before laughing.
"Oh, you mean the adjustments this one was making?" She laughed. "All Khajiit do that when they are about to pounce. It is our way of ensuring we are essentially guaranteed a successful strike." She began to explain.
"All Khajiit do it?" He repeated.
"Yes. However, it is more noticeable when we are kittens or in those that are of the alfiq persuasion. This one believes some nords refer to it as "The Khajiit butt wiggle"." She smiled at him. He blinked at her in a stupor, making her laugh again. As she laughed, he couldn't help but join in, his arms wrapping around her.
A love like this one was one she had not experienced for many moons. But, as he held her in his embrace, the sound of their laughter mingling with the joy of their children, there was only one thing she wanted. This moment, right here and right now, to last forever. And she would do all in her power to make it happen.
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Special Guest Appearance
(That's the title of this one)
Warnings: NSFW, Dom!Levi, a smidge of tail action, MC uses she/her pronouns with female genetalia, slight masturbation, mentions of demon in heat, let me know if I need to add more! 💜
"Hey there Deviltube, L3 here and welcome back to another video. We're going to pick up where we left off here playing Skyrim. If you remember we were-"
Marcie mouthed the words with a practiced ease as she lip-synced his signature intro, dangling her legs outside the rim of his tub bed. Her eyes roved over her own device as she played through the same quest he was currently livestreaming. He had told her before that he didn't mind if she'd made an appearance during one of his streams, but she knew this was his passion and didn't want to distract him from it. Besides, playing along with him always made her feel giddy, gave her a sense of happiness she couldn't explain.
Today, however was a little different. After his last livestream, Marcie had pulled up a walkthrough to read ahead through the next quest. She still wanted to play it through with him but this time, she wanted to make an appearance during his livestream.
It had been almost a full month since his last heat and now that he had Marcie, well it was a little easier for him to get through it, but Marcie also knew he dreaded the heat cycle. It made him insatiable and dark, rough and driven by lust and the pure primal instinct to mate. Marcie couldn't help the bolt of pleasure that danced along her spine, pooling in her lower abdomen remembering how he had been with her. She licked her lips, fighting back a moan, as she felt the ghost of his tail coiled around her throat, his cocks penetrating both of her holes at the same time. Her blue eyes fixated on her screen, set in determination and she squeezed her thighs together just slightly, already feeling her arousal dampen her panties. Today would be an interesting livestream indeed.
"What do you guys think, should I fast travel to the Greybeards or run there?" Levi panned his camera to the area surrounding him and his eyes caught some bandits in the distance, "or should I go kill those guys and steal their horse?" He paused for a moment to rummage through his character's inventory as the comments flowed in, all his viewers casting their votes.
That's when his nose picked up a scent, light at first but unmistakable as it whirled around his senses, embracing him. The scent of sweet oranges and subtle notes of peppermint mellowed out by eucalyptus and tied together with lemongrass; it was the ambrosial scent of his human's arousal.
Orange eyes could see her legs swaying over the edge of his tub in their peripheral vision, he caught the movement as her legs moved closer together and get smell became more potent.
Levi snapped out of his trance when he felt his mouth begin to salivate and turned his attention back to the game. He saw a prominent blush spreading out across the bridge of good nose, painting his cheeks and a light pink in his livestream camera feed. The pupils of his eyes narrowed into slits but only so briefly he thought he'd imagine it. Shaking his head, he faked a few coughs and cleared his throat, hoping it would dispel the blush and felt a stirring in the back of his mind.
"H-hey," his voice cracked and he cleared his throat again, reaching out to take a swig of his energy drink. "Guess I'm going to go steal a horse," his laugh was forced but he quickly found himself delving back into the game.
Marcie was biting her hand trying not to laugh. Watching his face, his real time reactions in the corner of the steam, oh he was going to punish her for what she had planned. She smiled, practically humming in anticipation. Bandits had not spawned in her game so she led her character over to where his would be on his playthrough and paused to wait for him. Making as little sound as possible, Marcie pulled her shirt up and over her head and placed it on the blankets next to her. Levi engaged in combat with the bandits and took the opportunity to pull her legs down and tug off her jeans as well, leaving her with just her bra and underwear on.
The full scent of her arousal washed over him, no longer held back by the denim. He paused his game mid fight to catch his breath. Comments poured in, some asking if he was a noob for chickening out of a fight, some asking if he was okay because he looked feverish. His eyes cut back over to the tub and noticed her legs were not hanging over the rim anymore. Listening for a moment for any indication she was doing something indecent in his bed, Marcie noticed Levi was looking her direction on the livestream and held up her hand, giving him a thumbs-up signaling she was okay. Hesitating, he turned back to his game, face felt like it was on fire. The red stuck out against his normally pale face.
"Sorry about that," Levi saw he was sporting a small pout and changed his expression to a small smile, sheepishly looking into the camera, "I guess I'm not feeling too well today but I still plan on carrying out the rest of this mission." Talking helped him shift his mindset back into gaming mode and soon he was making his way to the Throat of the World on horseback.
A few hours had passed, Marcie found herself lost in the game as well until she'd heard the words she'd been waiting for. While reading the walkthrough, she memorized the key phrase for when she would act out her plan. Levi had a knack for letting the cutscenes play all the way through, soaking in the dialogue and cinematography like a long-awaited movie.
The voices droned on as she saved her game and put her console to sleep. Peeking her head above the top of the tub, her lips spread in a conniving smile; the mischievous kitty about to eat herself a canary. Readjusting her breasts to plump them up in her bra, she crawled out of the tub and slunk down. His attention was solely focused on the monitor, watching the Nordic heroes battling against Alduin's forces, eyes sparkling as he watched the scene unfold. She almost felt guilty for what she was about to do. Almost.
Marcie crept and crouched to hide behind the file cabinet under his desk, successfully concealing herself. Her nerves fluttered, she debated giving up and returning to the tub. But then she felt the ghost of his claws running down her thighs as his tongue, his forked tongue, made her see stars between her legs. Her breathing shuddered as she steeled her resolve and crept closer, crawling on her hands and knees under his desk.
Levi had been entranced by the cutscene. The graphics, the cinematography, the dialogue, the lore, it all fascinated him. The rich lore of the Elder Scrolls and here was the moment he saw the three heroes go against Alduin and witness how the World Eater was cast forward into time.
He almost missed the spike in Marcie's arousal. The scent was stronger this time, he choked back a whine. His leg started to bounce in frustration as he felt his own arousal start to stir. Levi bit his lip as he felt his pants tighten around him, he could feel another part of him start to wake up as well, after having slumbered for almost a month. His grip tightened on the controller as he shifted in his seat, spreading his legs wider to add a little more friction and pressure to his semi-hardening erection.
Marcie could feel the smile that stretched across her face, smug and victorious. She could fell herself start to drool and she inched closer. He was reacting to her. Reaching her hand down to her own apex, Marcie ran her fingers through her folds biting back a sigh and played with her clit and watched the tent in his pants twitch and rise.
Levi sucked in a breath, releasing his lip, a vein pulsated along his neck as he grit his teeth together. She was teasing him now. She had to have known what affect she had on him. The screen blacked out as it shifted to a loading screen. Taking the moment to roll his chair back, Levi arched his body, turning to look into the tub bed. He felt his heart stop when it was empty. He clearly still smelled her, but where-
Oh.
She smiled innocently as they made eye contact, raising her hand to her mouth and sucked on the fingers that were previously rubbing against her folds. Marcie groped her breast before pointing up, indicating his game had finished loading.
Levi's mouth was gaping, his face was burning red, his erection straining against his pants. His eyes slowly followed where she was pointing and he scrambled to pull himself back to his desk and turned off the camera.
"S-sorry everyone," he gulped, ignoring all the comments flowing in, "uh, technical d-difficulties," Levi cleared his throat, "let's p-pick up where we left off." Marcie snickered silently as he tried to keep his composure and placed her hands on his knees, gently squeezing his thighs. Levi shifted into his demon form instantaneously and Marcie licked her lips as his tail cracked against the tile floor.
This was supposed to be the moment in the game where he was to fight Alduin. He had spent days level crunching so he could be prepared. Oh, he was going to punish her. Levi smiled deviously and paused the game.
"I swear, some people in this house are really inconsiderate, I'm sorry, I have to go yell at Mammon again," his tail was thrashing around behind him making crashing noises to accompany the lie. Muting the microphone, Levi rolled his chair back slowly and leaned forward to grip Marcie's chin and pulled her up to meet his face, a wicked grin spreading over his lips. Marcie gulped and licked her lips in anticipation.
"You're going to sit in my lap, and I'm going to edge you until I've decided you've had enough." She nodded enthusiastically and he shook his head, and let out a deep laugh "You underestimate my power."
In normal circumstances, she would have snorted at the reference but with her current state of arousal and the way he was devouring her almost-naked form with his eyes, his words sent shivers down her spine.
Levi rolled his chair back and Marcie climbed out from under his desk. He raised his hips and commanded her to take off his pants.
"You should be wet enough to take all of me, right kohai?"
Marcie bit her lip and twirled a stand of her hair around her finger, saying, "but you're so big senpai, I don't know if my tight pussy will be able to take all of you, but maybe if you fucked my throat first?" Her lower lip jutted out in a pout and he groaned, the arm rests cracking under his grip.
Levi released a dark chuckle, cocked his head to the side, and smiled sadistically. "You haven't earned that right. You know where the lube is, go get it." She pouted but obliged, pulling open one of the drawers and took out the bottle.
"Good girl now hand it over," he outstretched his hand and Marcie whined. He was denying her of touching him, he tutted in response as she held it out to him. "You should have thought about that earlier. You have to earn the right to touch me," Levi coated his erection with enough lube and tossed the bottle onto the floor. "Now, turn around and come sit on my lap."
"Yes senpai," Marcie did as she was told, sticking her ass out further than necessary before lowering herself down, releasing a shuddering moan as his size stretched her out. The lube made it easier for him to slide in but she was still met with resistance and struggled with his size, riding him shallowly to coax her muscles to loosen up.
Levi growled, his tail cracking against the floor as he felt her walls squeeze him. It had been awhile since they were last intimate, and he could tell with the way her heat constricted around him. Leaning forward, a claw traced the fabric of her bra before twisting, slicing right through the fabric. His hand reached around and groped her plump breast as she had done earlier, his other hand moving down her body.
His fingers ghosted over her skin, feeling the flesh ripple and twitch under his delicate touch. He bit into her shoulder as his hand reached her apex, his fingers rolling themselves over her sensitive nub and lapped his tongue against the love bite.
"What's wrong Marcelline," he palmed her breast, toying with her nipple and teased the skin on her other shoulder, "I thought you wanted this yet you're struggling. Try to keep quiet as you take the rest of me or I'll have no choice but to shove my tail down your throat." The tip of the appendage slithered around her thigh before coming up to flick against her clit as emphasis. Panting and biting her lip, Marcie continued rolling her hips in slow and shallow thrusts, moving as much as he'd allow. His nails dug into her hip painfully if she moved too much.
Rolling them back to the computer, Levi switched out his headphones, opting for a single earbud so he could hear her and the game, and moved his mic to the other side, away from Marcie but still able to talk into it. He'd have to read the comments later, but he lost a few viewers.
'I bet if I turned the camera back on, the viewer count would skyrocket.' Levi mulled over the thought but she threw her head back onto his shoulder as she fully seated herself on his lap and he could see her face; eyes clouded in lust, breasts rolling around to match her panting, cheeks burning bright red, mouth hanging open, was that drool? No, only he was allowed to see her like this. No one else deserved to lay eyes on his precious Marcie.
Levi gave her breast one last squeeze before returning his hand to the keyboard. "Not a single peep. If you make a noise or try to move, I will only play longer." He kissed her shoulder, "you understand kohai?" He smiled as she nodded.
Shout-out to @kawaiizard for helping me beta read this 😭 I appreciate you 💜
#obey me#obey me mc#obey me oc#obey me levi#obey me leviathan#om! swd#om leviathan#om levi#levi smut#obey me smut#om smut#obey me levi x mc#levi x oc#Levi x mc#n/sfw
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As far as Lyris was aware, Llonvyne sat asleep. None the wiser as the cart bounces over the third series of stones, shaking everything except where she continued to sit, completely still. Not a hair seemed to move or sway in time with the cart, West Skyrim bound. Unnatural enough that even the driver turned, that look out of his eye not unfamiliar to Lyris.
So she does the next best thing she can think of: kick her leg out, catching Llonvyne in the knee.
Her reaction was immediate, a deep hiss and hands that wrap around the offended appendage, and. For perhaps the first time, Lyris realised something. Just the manner with which her companion seemed to cuss her out, mouth too wide, lip pulled too far back.
“Why do you have fangs?”
Out of the three of them, later, Lyris would not be able to recount who was more personally taken aback by the question. The fact that she had said it, that the driver had been listening, or the sudden and short laugh from Llonvyne, at the first question that popped into her head.
Laughter that was cut off with a, “Oh, wait, you’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. You have fangs!”
“I can’t tell if you never realised or like—”
“‘Never realised’—Llonvyne, you’re a—?”
Lyris doesn’t mean to shout. Oh, no, fuck it she does. If only because Llonvyne was laughing again, the kind of laugh that had her holding her sides, tipping back there was the imminent threat of falling out the cart. For one moment, Lyris considered sending her over the edge, forcing her to run to catch up.
“We’ve—we’ve known each other for years! What, how… you seriously never noticed?”
“I—no? I just thought you were,” one long pause, when Lyris realises what she was about to say was going to sound ridiculous out loud as it did just to herself, “polite when it came to eating. And sleeping, always taking the nightshifts… ah.”
It’s the way Llonvyne opens and closes her hand, much in the way she did to the stray cats that were hovering around Riften. “Come on, come on, say it. Out loud~! What am I?”
Without missing a beat, Lyris crosses her arms over her chest, looking forward down the road now. “A fucking annoyance.”
Llonvyne falls quiet, as quiet as she could be, chortling to herself, hands behind her head as she grinned wider now. More obvious. Never blinking, which just added to the remarkable and added annoyance Lyris had begun to experience in the place of shock and horror. Except, she notices then how the driver was huddled, head dipped low, and she became distinctly aware of the third party privy to their conversation.
“I’ll pay you double for the silence.”
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Moving Mountains | Ch. 1 | Skyrim x Fem!Reader
[Interactive | Readers Vote]
Word count: 2,700
Content Warning: Depictions of violence
───── ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─────
You find yourself in the courtyard of a palace made of smooth gray stone. Its spires graze the twinkling stars emerging in the green-tinted sky. To either side of you are aged trees. Their gnarled, leafless branches reach toward the twilit heavens. Their roots dig into lush grass that creeps into the stonework of the walkway.
You can't place the scene, but it's stained with an uneasy familiarity. Your feet recognize the stairs beneath them as you begin your climb to the palace doors. They are a stately pair - tall, with ornate filigree designs, standing in proud opposition to each other.
You reach out and take hold of a sturdy handle. It's cold to the touch - a sensation so vivid it could burn your palm.
With an uneven breath, you pull.
───── ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─────
White light sears your bleary eyes.
Groaning, you pinch them shut. The glow taunts you through your eyelids. It flickers in spots, giving you the image of sunspots shining through a verdant canopy. Leaves dance in a cool breeze. Goosebumps prickle your bare skin.
Your head aches as you're jostled. A throbbing pain resonates through your muscles. Wheels click on a cobblestone road. You're certain you're on a carriage, and almost as certain that one ran you over.
This isn't right.
You force your eyes open.
They're flooded with harsh morning sun.
Blinking away the discomfort, you begin to take in your surroundings.
You are on a cart, just as you suspected, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Behind them are towering evergreens. Birds sing among the needles. A light frost clings to the branches. Stray snowflakes meander through the air. On the road before you are more carriages with strangers clad in identical armor sitting in the backs. Carts slip off around the bend toward a destination unknown.
Unknown.
There are a lot of unknowns right now.
How you got here, for example.
You go to search the dustiest corners of your memory just to find that there are no corners to search. No dust has settled because there's nothing for it to cling to. Every stretch of your mind comes up blank. Where you were before and where you're headed... Nothing.
All that's left are the clouded memories of a dream.
Your stomach twists into a knot.
You need to focus on the things you know - on certainties.
First order of business: do you know your name?
(Y,,,,N)?
(Y/N)?
Sure.
Sounds good enough.
You're more confident about that than anything else right now.
Your name is (Y/N) and you're somewhere you don't know, on a carriage headed somewhere you don't know, surrounded by people you also don't know. The strangers share a grim expression that only makes your sinking feeling grow deeper.
You move to rub your temples and massage away the headache and racing thoughts.
Your hand is caught.
Your heart goes still.
You look down to find your wrists bound with an intricately wrapped leather strip. It digs into your flesh with each tug against it.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn't happening.
Panic threatens to seize you. It festers in your gut. Your breathing is uneven.
You look to the man across from you. He looks to be in his late twenties, with wavy blond locks falling to a square, bearded jaw. His eyes are round and prominent, a striking blue and steadfast. He's clad in armor made of supple brown leather with a muted blue sash displaying the emblem of a bear, same as most of the others.
"Where are we?" You croak out. Your throat is dry, but your voice is familiar. It's a small shred of comfort.
"You're in Skyrim, lass." He replies. He bears an accent that marks him as a Nord - a term you recognize.
"Skyrim." You repeat. Another word you know.
You're relieved you still seem to hold some functional knowledge of the world. You're in Skyrim, the snowy, northernmost province of Tamriel. It's a land of harsh frost and cruel beasts, with hardy people and hearty mead. These are all facts - little things that make such a surreal moment feel more concrete. And yet none of these details paint you a portrait of yourself. Frustration seeps in alongside anxiety.
"You were wandering near the border." The stranger explains. "Lost, confused, naked... Seems like you have a few more of your faculties back now, eh?"
You glance down at yourself. Whoever captured you had the decency to dress you, if that's what you want to call it. You're clad in rough burlap rags with dirt clinging to the fraying fibers.
"Well, I'm clothed. That's something." You reply.
"Good. Still got your sense of humor. You're going to need that." The man says.
His words unsettle you.
"How'd I wind up a captive?" You ask, tugging again at your binds. You're aware of the futility but there's little else for you to do.
"You got tangled up in the fight when the Imperials ambushed us. Couldn't get out a damn sentence but you took down two men. Can't say I've ever seen anything like it." The Nord's voice holds a hint of humor. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Same as that thief over there."
"Damn you Stormcloaks." The thief spits. Your attention is drawn to him. He has a lean frame and gaunt face with grime coating his skin. Greasy brown hair frames wild eyes better suited for a caged animal. "Everything was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."
"Stormcloaks?" You inquire. It's the one word that escapes your recognition
"You really are in a state, aren't you?" The blond man replies with a crinkle of his brow. "I was sure everyone had gotten wind of our rebellion."
"Yeah, I don't think I'm gonna be the best gauge of that one." You say with a trace of a smirk.
"Shut up back there!" The driver barks.
A tense silence settles over the cart.
It's broken by the thief, who asks in a hushed tone, "What's wrong with him, huh?"
You follow his eyes to the man in question. They're locked on the Nord to your right. He's an imposing man with a mane of wild, deep blond hair pulled back from his face. It's adorned with braids, fastened with carved beads and leather knots. He has steely eyes beneath a stern brow. His nose is prominent and slightly crooked, giving the impression he's had it broken a time or two before. He wears fine robes adorned with chainmail - attire that indicates both his wealth and his status as a warrior. A gag is tied around his mouth.
"Watch your tongue." The Nord in front of you commands. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" The Thief nearly chokes on the words. "You're the leader of the rebellion... If they've captured you... Oh, Gods... Where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
Sovngarde, a Nord's afterlife,
If what he says is true - if you're headed to your death - where is your soul headed? Will you be granted an afterlife, or be met with an abrupt nothingness? Or will your lost and confused spirit be bound to mundus, cursed to wander for an eternity?
Plenty of options, and very few appealing ones.
"No! This can't be happening! This isn't happening!" The thief's voice wavers. His eyes dart about the carriage, cycling restlessly from face to face. He seems to be looking for an out you could assure him doesn't exist. His desperation is palpable.
Your heart is fluttering. Your palms begin to sweat. You don't know what life you led until this point but you can't begin to piece together how it led you here. Is this what you deserve?
It's impossible to say where you've been, or where you're headed. You can't even tell how long you've been in Tamriel. Your exact age is as murky as everything else. You can ascertain "adult" but how much of an adult is unclear. You feel as if you've been around for a while though the more you settle into your skin you feel that your body is still comparatively young.
You bring your eyes up along your bare arms and take in the pale scars dotting them.
Your skin tells stories with ghosts of burns, cuts and gashes. Though the details are lost you can make out the meat of them: no matter how long your body has been around, it has been through a lot. You seem to have a knack for getting into trouble, or a history of dangerous work.
The Nord in front of you speaks up, pulling you from your thoughts.
"Hey... What village are you from, horse thief?"
"Why do you care?" The thief snaps.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
The thief hesitates. His face contorts before softening, with thin lips curled into a frown. "Rorikstead... I'm... I'm from Rorikstead..."
"What about you?" The blond man asks.
You pause to think on the question.
Yet you keep coming up blank.
You were found wandering at the border? Which one? Southern makes the most sense - this area doesn't share the lush, mountainous terrain of High Rock. It closer resembles the Jerall mountains, with steep hills and muted greens. You could be from Cyrodiil, but something in your bones insists this answer is unsatisfactory.
Sitting on the question too long you stammer out, "I uh... I have no fucking clue."
He laughs - a genuine chuckle with a glimmering smile. "Good an answer as any. I suppose it won't make much of a difference soon."
The carriage rounds a corner and a small village comes into view. It's surrounded by a sturdy stone wall with a broad wooden gate shielding the houses from the road. A figure on the covered walkway above calls out to the man leading the caravan, "General Tullius, Sir! The headsman is waiting!"
"Good." A gruff voice barks. "Let's get this over with."
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh... Divines, please help me!" The thief pleads with closed eyes, head slumped and shoulders shuddering.
Entering the gates, you pass the man who led the string of carriages. He seems to be in his fifties, with cropped gray hair, though his toned arms tell you he's still in good shape. His face is austere with near-black eyes boring holes into the Altmer across from him. The golden skinned elves wear dark robes and gold armor.
"Look at him," the Blond man growls, "General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves."
"Thalmor." You barely recognize the word on your tongue. You're unsure what it means. The most closely related term you can conjure is "laughing stock".
"What's their deal?" You ask.
His brow furrows. "I don't know what happened to you but whatever it was, it really did a number on you, eh lass? The Thalmor are with the Aldmeri Dominion, here to 'unify Tamriel'. Serves better to rip her apart."
Okay that sounds like... New information.
You close your eyes and take a deep, steady breath.
This, you have decided, is all bullshit.
You struggle to keep your attention outwards, away from these prying thoughts.
"This is Helgen," The Nord continues. His expression grows heavier with each turn of the wheels. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here... Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."
Juniper berries. Piney, with a hint of a peppery bite.
This trivia is useless.
Above you looms a tower. A flag at its top proudly flies the symbol of the Empire - that dragon that rings so familiar. You know it well, but you do not feel loyalty. It is simply an icon of a frail nation.
"Funny... When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe." The Nord sighs.
"Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?" A young boy chirps above the murmur of the townsfolk. The people have gathered in the streets and on their porches to watch.
"You need to go inside the house, little cub." His father replies.
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."
"Inside the house. Now."
"Yes, Papa."
You wonder for a moment - who were your parents? Are they worth remembering? You wait for a melancholy pang and are met with apathy. This, somehow, feels worse. You try and focus on the present - it's the most you have right now.
The carriage draws to a halt in the town square, in the shadows of the ominous stone towers. In the clearing the headsman stands by his block. His axe gleams in the sunlight, drawing your eye back no matter how you try and avoid it. Beside him is a priestess wearing golden robes and a solemn face. She's likely a follower of Arkay, here to give you a proper sendoff to the grave.
You're not sure how much stock you put in the Divines.
At the moment, you'd say not much.
"Why are we stopping?" Beads of sweat begin to trickle down the thief's forehead, leaving trails of fair skin behind. It reveals his flushed cheeks and betrays his terror even further.
"Why do you think? End of the line." The blond man gets to his feet. He's tall with broad shoulders - the quintessential Nord. Looking past him at the others, you'd say he's right at home in this crowd. It seems to be a requirement for a position as a Stormcloak. How the Imperials threw you in among them is beyond you. You're pretty sure you put even less stock in the Legion than the Gods.
You get to your feet on rickety legs and follow the men off the cart. On the ground, you can hardly see past the group.
In the gaps between heads and shoulders you see what looks to be an Imperial Captain in heavy steel armor standing beside a leather clad soldier with auburn hair and an uncertain look. In his hand is a thick tome.
"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time." The Captain's voice holds no remorse. If you aren't mistaken, it seems to be dripping pride. Your lip curls at the sound.
"Empire loves their damn lists." The blond man says in a hushed tone.
The Imperial soldier begins to read from the pages in front of him. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
Ulfric remains silent as he joins the crowd congregating by the headsman's block. He walks with his head held high. He must know he'll die a martyr. If he's a true leader, his fight should last long after him, whether or not it's in the right.
"Ralof of Riverwood." The soldier reads.
The blond man gives you a nod and heads towards his fate. A strange loneliness sets in. For the first time since waking you don't have a companion - or at the very least a voice other than yours to drown out your thoughts. To talk over the terror creeping up your spine.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
The thief's eyes are that of a cornered beast. Frenzied, he looks to the block, then back to the Captain. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"
Before she can reply, he runs. His legs carry him toward the gate at an uneven pace. They look as if they'll give out beneath him. "You're not gonna kill me!"
"Halt!" The Captain's shout echoes off the buildings surrounding you. Her demand falls on deaf ears. "Archers!"
There is the pluck of bowstrings in near-unison. Lokir cries out as arrows bury themselves in his back. He collapses to the ground, blood running down his side and staining his burlap rags. He wails one final time as his arms give out beneath him.
He falls limp on the cobblestone.
"Anyone else feel like running?" The Captain asks.
She's met with silence.
The auburn haired soldier's eyes wander to the book, then back to you. "Who are you?"
───── ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─────
╭━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╮
Q U E S T I O N S
╰━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╯
1.) What race are you?
✶ Argonian
✶ Breton
✶ Dark Elf
✶ High Elf
✶ Imperial
✶ Khajiit
✶ Nord
✶ Orc
✶ Redguard
✶ Wood Elf
2.) Any last words when you're at the headsman's block?
✶ "I'm not a rebel!"
✶ "Your grip on that axe is sloppy. You sure you've done this before?"
✶ "Fuck you."
✶ Nothing. I'm going out with whatever dignity I have.
✶ Nothing. But I spit on the executioner.
POLL CLOSES: 01/31/2021
#fic: moving mountains#skyrim#skyrim x reader#the elder scrolls#tesv#interactive story#interactive x reader#reader insert#x reader
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The Secret
Reader X Dreamwastaken
Summary: You and Dream decide to finally tell his fans you guys are dating.
Word Count: 828
You smile gently as you watch the stream, your boyfriend’s shouts blasting through your earplugs. You wince slightly and turn down the volume. Today is the day that you and your boyfriend, Dreamwastaken, are going to announce your relationship. Rather than wait for some fan to ask the question, you eagerly donated $50 to him 15 minutes earlier with the note “So, tell us the truth, are you single?” You had owed him money anyways so you weren’t worried about the amount. You bite your thumb nail, waiting for your donation to come through. Finally, a ding popped up with your username. The monotone voice read your question outloud and the chat went crazy.
Dream laughs, “Thank you Nightmare for the dono.” His voice suddenly goes serious, “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you guys. I am not single. My girlfriend, Nightmare, is on the stream with us. Nightmare, do you want to unmute yourself and say something?” He asks and you bite your lip, grinning hard.
You unmute yourself and clear your throat, taking a deep breath to build the anticipate...then you finally speak. “Hi y’all! My name is Nightmare.” You wait, watching the chat speed past you. “So, I’m not really sure what to say…” Suddenly an idea pops into your head. “Actually, Dream you sit back and relax. I’m going to take over your stream and answer chat questions. Let me just turn off auto scroll really quick here…”
Dream wheezes slightly, “Alright, whatever you say.”
You smile, looking at your phone propped up in front of you with his face on it. You and him always like to Facetime whenever he streams so that you can watch his reactions. “Okay, let’s see here. How old are you?” You read of the first question you stumble across, “I’m (age). What do you look like? Well, I have (color) hair, (color) eyes. I’m (height).”
“Hot.” Dream adds in, making you laugh. Your wheeze sounding similar to his.
“What do you play? Well, I’m also a Minecraft streamer, but I build instead of speedrun. So two very different set of skills between Dream and I.
Do I think I could beat Dream at Minecraft? Absolutely not.
What do I all play? I play a lot of Minecraft, Sims because I can build in it, Prison Architect, because I can build in it.” You giggle slightly at the theme. “And Skyrim, which I guess is the only odd ball because you can’t build in it.”
“How did Dream and I meet? Well, we actually met through SapNap. So, I was featured on SapNap’s channel a few times, I don’t know if y’all remember, but once during a video Dream called in the middle of it and we all chatted for like 45 minutes. Afterwards, Dream DM’d me on Twitter and it kinda blue up from there.”
You pause to read the chat, seeing an influx of ‘simp’ comments. “They’re calling you a simp, bud.” You tell him, laughing.
“I’m not a simp guys!” He shouts, focusing on beating the ender dragon.
“No, he’s not. I’m the simp. Anyways, how long have you two been dating? A year and a half.
How much time do you spend together? A lot. I just got back from Florida today where I spent 3 weeks with him and Dream is coming up by me next Friday where he’ll stay for 2 weeks.
What do you do when you guys are apart? I miss him a lot.
What do you do when you guys are together? Dream has a soundproof room and I live alone.” You giggle at the dirty context of the answer.
Dream wheezes, “Okay, Night, you’re banned from answering questions on my steam!”
“Okay, okay, let me just answer one more question and then I’ll be done. What do you like most about Dream? His money, next.” You joke and you hear Dream’s loud laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Is it a cop out to say everything?”
“Yes!” Dream protests.
You sign and think for a moment, “Okay, then I really like his humor and his laugh. I know that’s two things, don’t come for my throat. But I just really like it when someone doesn’t take life too seriously and is able to laugh at themselves. Plus Dream’s laugh is just so funny, I’ve never laughed harder than when I’m with him.”
Dream finally kills the ender dragon and starts yelling. You smile at him, watching him through your phone as he excitedly dances. “Alright everyone, that’s all the questions she’ll be answering today. You’ll probably see more of her on the stream now that the secret is out. I hope you guys understand why we waited so long to tell y’all. Have a good rest of your night! Love you all!” Dream ends his stream and sighs, looking at you through the phone.
“I told you that was going to go well.” You poke at him, smiling widely.
#dreamwastaken#dreamwastaken fanfic#dream#clay#dream fanfic#clay fanfic#dream team if you see this#no you didnt#but also hi im 19#dream appreciation#dream team
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The Elf and the Prince
okay so i mentioned about this scene before and i wrote it a while ago but i want to share it now !! it was kinda inspired by the 'dawn' music from skyrim, by that i mean i heard the music and this scene appeared in my head and i nearly broke my arm running to my laptop to write it,,,,
tw: death
---
"Never did think I'd meet my end in battle," the prince rasps, his voice weak and quiet against the silence of the hilltop, "Thought I'd at least make it to forty, you know, have a few kids, die peacefully in my sleep."
"It's not like you to be sentimental, Galeren." the elf counters, her voice low and weak too.
For a moment, the darkness blinds Prince Galeren, and he reaches out blindly to find his friend. The elf, weakened from the plague that is destroying her body, drags herself across the rocks, the sound of her armour scraping against the stones the telltale sign of her movement.
"Things are different when you're bleeding out, Tanelia, I don't have your healing Elven blood...not that its helping you now" Galeren attempts a laugh, but the pain of his wound proves too much, and the noise comes out more as a cough than anything else.
"Easy." Tanelia hums, coming to a stop by the prince's side, "I'm here now."
The moonlight reflects off her polished armour, casting a brief flash of light on the rocks they sit on. Overhead, the last remnants of the stars fade into darkness as dawn approaches.
"Do you think we'll make it to dawn?" Galeren asks, his breathing shallow, "Remember when we used to watch the sunrise from the top of the castle? It'll be just like old times, watching the sunrise again."
"And I would tell you about the sunrises back home...that would be nice to see again." Tanelia sighs, "I'll have to make do with this one."
Galeren looks at her then, one brow raised despite the situation. The signs of the plague in her are clear, her aquiline face is gaunt, her eyes have lost their sparkle and sunken into her sockets, and even her pointed ears seem to droop a little.
It's a strange plague, this one, targeting only the elves and leaving the humans alone. Seeing the elegant, powerful elves succumb to the most debilitating of diseases is an odd sight, but it is the least of their worries now.
Galeren looks at his companion's armour, admiring the smooth carvings on the shining metal, and the swooping design of the breastplate - the armour is the complete opposite of his own, which is dulled with years of wear and of simple design. For a moment, he closes his eyes, and he could almost be back in the camp, surrounded by his men and safety.
But that is all gone now, he left the men to fight off the assassins, and he did well with the help of Tanelia... but with the elf struggling with the plague the fight was long and hard. They may both be trained warriors but the fatigue of war caught up to them, and soon Galeren found himself pulling an assassin's sword from his midriff.
The assassin did not live long after that, but by the time Galeren felt the sting of his wound, Tanelia had already fallen to the ground.
"Don't fall asleep on me now, Prince," Tanelia says, her voice so, so quiet.
Opening his eyes, the prince attempts to sit up from the rock he rests on, only to feel another trickle of blood slide down his stomach. Blinded by pain, he pauses, and Tanelia can only look on helplessly.
The plague saps at her energy as the seconds pass: she does not have the strength to help her prince.
"Stormguard, I need Stormguard," the prince pleads, attempting to stretch out to reach his axe, which has remained abandoned in the grass at his feet, it's sharp blade still stained red with the blood of the assassins.
Unable to help, Tanelia casts a glance to the side to see her own weapon, the ancient sword Soulrapier, in a similar position. The movement of her eyes sends a jolt of pain through her head, the likes of which she has never experienced before; they told her the plague would hurt as it sapped her life away, yet nothing could have prepared her for the pain she sits in now.
"Tanelia- I can't reach it, can you-" Galeren cuts himself off as he looks at Tanalia, whose pain must be showing on her face, "I'm sorry."
"What for?" she gets out, only now realising just how dry her throat is.
Slowly, Galeren shuffles backwards, leaving a trail of wet blood as he goes. Now he can rest his back against the upright stones behind him, allowing him to sit up to survey the valley below.
"I don't know."
Silence falls over them for a moment, the only sounds they hear is the rush of wind through the forest to the east, and the distant hoot of an owl overhead. Again, Galeren finds himself looking at Tanalia.
He's looked at her many times, from that first sunrise they shared together when she first came into his father's employment, to the endless nights of secret meetings in the castle gardens, and finally, to now.
"You'll stay with me until sunrise, won't you?" he asks, breaking the silence once more.
Somewhere behind them, a fox skitters through the bushes, fleeing from the scene of death it has stumbled upon. For a moment, their attentions are purely on the fox, and although neither say a word about it, it is clear they both dream of being the fox, able to flee from the dangers and ignore the war and the plague that have ravaged the land.
"Of course, I swore an oath to you, Galeren, I swore to remain by your side until my dying breath, and stay by your side I will," the reply comes, each word sounding fainter than the last, "You're not afraid, are you?"
Galeren pauses. To tell the truth, he is afraid. He's afraid of what will become of his army and his kingdom once he is dead, he is afraid of how long his body will fester before they find him, but most importantly he is afraid of being alone in those last moments.
It is selfish of him to hope to die first?
"No," he says after a moment's silence, "Are you?"
"You're a rotten liar, Prince, always were." Tanalia resists resting her head on his shoulder, although that is what she wants most now.
"I know." Galeren smiles, despite the tears pricking his silver eyes, before repeating, "Are you?"
"I am not afraid of death itself, the Dread Mother will greet me in the afterlife," she mutters, "I am afraid of never seeing you again, elves cannot pass into the afterlife of man."
The statement hits the prince like a tonne of bricks. He had always known that one day he would walk the forests of the afterlife with those he had fought with on the battlefields, but the knowledge that his most trusted companion of all time will not be there, will never be there...
He had let himself forget that death is the end for him and Tanalia.
"I won't forget you, you know, I'll always remember you, for as long as I roam those eternal forests you will always be in my mind." Galeren looks at his companion, who stares blankly at the valley below.
He cannot see exactly what she watches, but those elven eyes of hers can see better in the dark than he can, he only wishes he could share the sight with her. After that, they both fall into silence, watching the mist around the mountains turn paler and paler as the stars fade and the moon sinks lower, until eventually dawn arrives.
At the sight of the sun's first light passing over the distant horizon, Galeren can't help but feel a smile as he feels the warmth of the sun for what he knows to be his final time.
"Beautiful sunrise, isn't it?" he asks, moving his gaze from the sun to his elven companion. He finds her with her eyes closed, her mouth parted slightly, but her chest is still.
She is no longer breathing.
"Tanelia?" he breathes, "Tanelia?"
She remains still, her life gone.
"No-." he hums, the word coming out as a choked sob as he reaches a hand to her face, "Tanelia please don't leave me yet. I- I can't be alone here."
Her skin is cold.
Sucking a deep breath, he drops his hand and turns back to the sunrise. By now the sun's light has begun to touch the entirety of the vast valley before him. In the distance he can see the fires of his army's camp, no doubt they will be sending a search party for him sometime soon...he only hopes he is long gone by then.
If he had the strength to plant one final kiss on her brow he would, instead he settles for taking her chilled hand in his and clasping it to his chest. The pain of his wound has faded into little more than a dull ache, and Galeren knows his time is up.
Eyes shuttered against the sun's light, he watches as an eagle soars overhead, letting out a warning cry to its prey. With Tanalia's hand clasped in his, he sucks in one final breath and leans back against the rocks, facing skyward as his vision blurs to the point of blindness.
Then, he is gone.
#writing#my writing#idk what im on about#its kinda sad be warned#wtw#extract#there's probably grammar mistakes but#sh
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ysmir teaches amun-shae nord sign language
Ysmir makes sure to move his hands very slowly, so that Amun-Shae can keep up in reading them:
I am Wulf.
Amun-Shae sits very still, the only perceptible movement a soft quiver of her hand, where her thumb rubs the fabric of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Then, even more slowly than his, slower than clouds creeping across the sky, she extends her hands out from her wooly nest and signs in return:
I thought Ysmir.
The signs are incredibly neat despite her obvious unfamiliarity. So soon after the invasion is not long to learn one new tongue, let alone two. Ysmir nods an encouragement and replies:
I am Ysmir and Wulf and Wulfharth.
Amun-Shae nods too. Why are you different?
She had used the plural you. Ysmir looks to the door with its beautiful Mourning-hold designs, and at the guard lurking outside.
Different, he inquires. Then, We are not Nords.
I see. What are you?
We are of Atmora.
Amun-Shae's brow draws together-- she does not know the word. Atmora, she repeats the gesture, getting it slightly wrong. What is?
Ysmir's hands flex in the air, a non-verbal ‘um’. North, he then signs. Frozen.
Skyrim.
Ysmir shakes his head no. Most north. Over the sea. Our home. Place of our birth.
What is? Amun-Shae signs again.
Ysmir glances once more towards the door.
Forests, he signs to her, then when he sees her lack of understanding-- Many trees. Wild. Spirits. Beasts. Great flowing rivers made of ice. Cold. Pause. Beautiful.
Amun-Shae makes a gesture which is not in sign-language, but clearly means to continue. She's leaning forwards, having drawn her blanket more closely around her, her face pinched with curiosity.
Our gods walked that land, Ysmir tells her with his hands. And there were dragons.
Amun-Shae doesn't know that word, but she repeats it poorly. Dragon.
Big beast. Flies. Ysmir thinks for a moment, and then extends his arms, flapping as if they were wings.
"Hawk," Amun-Shae murmurs aloud.
No. Lizard. Pause. Scaled thing flies?
"You had cliff-racers?" asks Amun-Shae a little more loudly, in awe.
Ysmir shakes his head. Big. Most big lizard that flies. He bites his lip, anxious and fretful for a way to explain; he adds King of Old Elves who is time.
Amun-Shae gasps. "Auri-el. No-- dragon."
When Ysmir smiles, she lets out a quick peal of laughter, then comes to her senses immediately, covers her mouth with her hand and slumps back in her chair. Too coarse to laugh at any joke made by one of the invaders. Ysmir bows his head in shame.
"Dovah," he whispers beneath his breath, causing the paper on the table between them to flutter.
Silence has always filled the room, but now it's a somewhat awkward one. Amun-Shae looks towards a window, drawing the blanket closer around herself.
"Why did you come?" Amun-Shae asks softly, her voice timid and defeated against the quiet between them.
When she looks back at him, Ysmir signs: Atmora froze.
Amun-Shae nods. "Your home is ruined," she says for him, "And so you take our instead."
All Ysmir can really sign to that is Yes.
The day is beautiful outside the window, only slightly breezy, so that the big broad leaves of a turmeric plant sway and whisper against the pristine glass. Amun-Shae watches them bend before returning her gaze to Ysmir. With a certain amount of effort, now, as if her limbs are weary, she raises her hands and signs to him: What for are you different?
Ysmir looks to her hands, and to the greenery outside, and then to her lined and sullen face. It was only a few years ago, that his kind murdered her husband before her eyes and took her city out from under her; he's impressed that she's learned so much sign in so little, with what a poor teacher the Jarl must be; he's impressed that she can move her hands from despair at all. To lose a home is a great and terrible tragedy. Such a tragedy might paralyze even the winds.
Ysmir contemplates this all, and then he signs back: Our ears.
Ears? Amun-Shae touches her own ears, to ensure that she's gotten the right words, but her face still betrays confusion even when Ysmir confirms it. Ears, she repeats thoughtfully.
"The Jarl Mem-Yet Chemua of Mourning-Hold," announces the guard from the door.
"I've come for Ysmir," explains the tall and formidable woman who wafts in. "Enough time with my pet. How goes the lessons?"
In Amun-Shae's presence, Ysmir cannot tolerate his fellow Atmoran's gaze. He makes to glance at the window, raises his hands to answer; he has not made the first sign, however, before Amun-Shae rises from her seat. Wrapped in her blanket as if it were her shield, she strides wordlessly to Mem-Yet, who towers over her in stature and soul. Undaunted, unannounced, Amun-Shae stands on tip-toes and reaches upwards, grazing the woman's cheek briefly with her thumb before she pushes aside the thick red curtain of Mem-Yet's flame-red hair.
"Pointed," Amun-Shae says in surprise, looking to Ysmir for confirmation of her discovery. "You men of Atmora have pointed ears."
And Ysmir only nods.
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Title: maybe not star-crossed (but daybreak)
Author: @fieldofsunflowers8
For: @emmakoneko
Pairings: Hinata Hajime / Komaeda Nagito
Additional Characters: Kamukura Izuru, Nanami Chiaki
Rating: M
Warnings: No specific warning applies beside the ones that could be applied in Danganronpa in general
Prompt: Hajime realising he loves Nagito.
Author’s notes: hi!!! this is my exchange piece for the komahina secret exchange!!! this was super super fun to write, and i really hope my giftee likes it! special thanks to my friend for looking over this and making sure it’s coherent :D have a good day, loves!
Hinata Hajime is not a romantic, but romance fills his thoughts anyway.
It’s an identifier that isn’t exactly of importance, of course. Romance on Jabberwock Island, specifically in the aftermath of the Neo World Program, is something privately kept by each individual pairing. Occasionally, it’ll be the subject of harmless speculation on the slow days, but overall, it is just… a part of life.
A part of life that most of them never got to fully experience.
A part of life that Hinata doesn’t necessarily need to have a piece of.
A part of life that he wants, all the same.
He isn’t certain if it’s the influence of Kamukura on him that makes him hesitate in the face of it. The other is a lull in the back of his head most of the time, diminishing everything to uninteresting, and yet seamlessly taking control when Hinata gives the slightest hint of needing help, slipping into the role of the Ultimate Talent easily. It’s a difficult dynamic, and it would be a lie to consider it a linear sort of thing– lines blur when you are made to become another person, and further, residing with that person in the headspace.
Hinata wonders if, before it all happened, back at Hope’s Peak Academy in the suffocating reserve course dorms, with little to hope for… he maybe pined after romance in a desperate way, if he wanted something to break the suffocating silence, if it would all really be any different to him now.
It’s not something he needs right now, which is what he tries to convince himself matters the most. He has enough overwhelming quiet, and even more overwhelming noise. He has tasks to commit to– even though all of the Remnants have awakened, there are Future Foundation members to call, emails to send, resources to manage, buildings to reconstruct, surgeries to conduct… it keeps him busy, to say the least.
(He hardly allows himself more than the clinical, repetitive process of healing. Not his own healing– that is far from the forefront of his mind. Rather, constructing robot arms and extracting rotting body parts and starting up chemotherapy. For the others. Not him,
never him.)
Prioritizing romance is selfish, in all cases. Putting it before himself and everyone on the island, losing himself in the want of something he isn’t even sure he could recognize, if he saw it in front of him, if he had a flickering chance of love… it’s selfish. Excess. A lapse.
However, there is still a kind of yearning he keeps in the back of his mind, in the endlessly swallowing part of his throat, in the throes of his heart. A sort of fixation, solely focused on a single individual, who keeps him awake through restless nights and sends him directly to the infirmary for more work, who leads him to discover new places on the island that the person tends to frequent, who leaves him with an unfamiliar warmth that his body rejects like a disease because love is not-
One that defies all his wants and needs, all his thoughts on relationships and the others, all his thoughts on the person whom he thought he hated more than anything.
One fixated on Komaeda Nagito.
And this is where his doubt is born.
–
The first time he hears the name Komaeda Nagito is in a time before the seeds of despair were planted by his hands, before The Project became more than just a whisper of Hope’s Peak conspiracy and research. He hears it from Nanami Chiaki, before she became just a program, before an entire class gave into despair at the sight of her death.
He hears it from her at the fountain. Their fountain, he has taken to calling it, because while they aren’t exactly the only people to come here, they are most certainly the two students who frequent it the most. Before, it was a place to admire Hope’s Peak from a distance (one he maintained out of respect, or maybe self-hatred, or maybe an amalgamation of both), but after meeting Nanami, the cynical tones of the setting were replaced with a sort of safe haven.
It’s now comforting, for him, to hear the sound of her game starting up against the sound of rushing water, leaves and blossoms fluttering around them as the sun lights up the campus around them.
In all honesty, it’s easy to get lost in the surroundings, in his own thoughts, especially when he has the space to. Nanami rarely presses any matter, unless it is something she’s particularly passionate about, so Hinata zoning out isn’t exactly an issue for her. It’s not like she doesn’t do the same. Which leaves them with a pretty nice relationship, because either of them are free to completely lose themselves in their thoughts without having to make small talk.
However, he does jar himself back to reality to pay attention to the game she’s playing– it’s a survival game, which is sort of exciting, because that’s the kind of video game he thinks he’d be best at– and listens to the soft breath she always takes before she starts to speak.
“Do you know a lot of Ultimates, Hinata-kun?” is what she asks, her voice as dreamy as usual.
It’s sort of a harsh question unintentionally, since it sort of nags at the parts of him that wishes he could be an Ultimate, would do anything to be an Ultimate, but he shoves that down and keeps his voice casual. (It’s not a big deal, anyway. Nanami affirms him of his worth a lot, and really, he should just… accept that things are the way that they are. But it’s really, really not that easy. Not when everything seems to loom above him, dangling promises of talent and hope).
“Uh, not really?” he answers tentatively. “I mean, I know Koizumi, and I sort of know Kuzuryuu because I’m friends with his sister.” Friends is probably not the right word for it, but being her friend is pretty much impossible. “And I know you, of course. But, I dunno about the others.”
“Mm,” she hums. She focuses back on her game for a while, and Hinata focuses right alongside her, but she ends up speaking again only a few moments later. “I was just thinking… a lot of my classmates would really like you.”
“Oh?” He leans forward, just a bit. “I don’t really know much about them, but maybe?”
It’s not really relevant, in any case, or possible, because I’m a reserve. So, why do I want to entertain this impossibility?
“Well, I can tell you about some of them.” There’s some passion in her voice, underneath the languid sort of pace her words take.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
She opens her inventory as sort of a pause screen, organizing all of the items while talking. “There’s Mioda-san. She’s… sorta loud, but she’s the Ultimate Musician, so that makes sense, I think. She’s really optimistic, she likes bright colors… reminds me of a dancing game… you’d get along with her, probably.” The idea that Hinata could be friends with someone like Mioda Ibuki is unsettling in a hopeless way, but he’s interested in the descriptions regardless. “She gets along well with Pekoyama-san, who’s the Ultimate Swordswoman. She’s really pretty and quiet; she’s defensive over Kuzuryuu-kun, too. Like a Skyrim housecarl, kinda. I remember Komaeda-kun saying something, once, and she was immediately at Kuzuryuu-kun’s defense. I don’t think Komaeda-kun meant it badly, though.”
Hinata tilts his head. “Who’s Komaeda?”
Nanami bites her lip, stacking some potions before saying, “He’s the Ultimate Lucky Student. He’s… sort of an outcast, I think, but he cares about the class a lot. I wish he would talk to us more.” She puffs out her cheeks in a cute way. “You might like him… but you also might hate him. Maybe.”
“Why would I hate him?” From what Hinata’s hearing, maybe dislike would make sense, but hate sort of implies he would have done something… really off.
“Mm… Komaeda-kun has strong views on talent and hope. It might annoy you, but…” she sighs. “I dunno.”
That’s a vague description, but it gives Hinata enough information to sort of… make inferences. Of course, Hinata sort of expected some Ultimates to view talent as superiority, and he knew that some of the adults believed it, but to hear it being an actual thing from someone his age… sort of sucks. At least the rest of the class seems to not agree with it.
But… is Hinata really sure of that?
In any case, he tunes back into the way Nanami continues talking about her classmates, about a sheepish mechanic and a princess she seems to have a slight crush on. He laughs along with her, listens with intrigue and fascination at some of the things her class has done and somehow not gotten expelled for, and feels the sense of peace grow overtime (alongside his quiet bitterness).
All the while, though, part of his mind thinks about Komaeda with a… weird sort of interest.
(And for some reason, Hinata wants to both avoid him as much as possible– which might be a bit harsh, admittedly– and also… maybe meet him.)
–
Hinata doesn’t sleep well.
His sleep patterns vary. Sometimes, he falls asleep in a random place– he’s been found on the floor of the dining hall and at the beach, once, both instances embarrassing– and stays asleep for the better part of a day, barely brushing below twenty hours as he restores his energy. Then, he pushes himself, neglecting rest for three days straight until he downright collapses again.
He tends to get nightmares, too. When he’s sleeping deeply and for a long time, it’s not enough to jar him. When he first woke up from the Neo World Program, though, they were relentless, leaving him paranoid and guilty constantly for all he has done to his friends– his family, now.
His family that he needs to stay awake to care for. His family he has to keep intact– physically and mentally.
(He remembers that, for a week, all he saw in his dreams was a burning warehouse.)
He doesn’t sleep well, working on restocking and labelling all the medications they have in the infirmary, and he finds that none of the others sleep well, either. Some sleep too much, some function on caffeine and nothing else. But there’s one other person on the island that varies with Hinata, not exactly the same but similarly.
Komaeda.
Hinata’s been monitoring Komaeda’s progress closely, almost closer than the way he fusses over the others. Komaeda’s health is precarious, even with the rotting flesh of Enoshima’s arm fully removed from his body, and one of the facets of his lifestyle that directly impacts his not-ideal progress is his shitty sleep schedule.
A simple example: he falls asleep at 4:00 PM, wakes up at around 7:29 PM. He goes to the dining hall, all of the other inhabitants having finished dinner and retired to their rooms for the later parts of the afternoon, and eats a worryingly small portion of dinner. He goes to his room, stays up for hours, and falls again the following day at 10:00 PM, successfully bypassing lunch and repeating the process.
It’s horrible in every possible way– it doesn’t do wonders for his prognoses and mental health, and Hinata doesn’t like the dark circles under his eyes that grow more familiar with each progressing day.
(It doesn’t suit his face. Because, well, Hinata can acknowledge that Komaeda is very, very pretty. But the shadows are… worrying. He still looks beautiful, but he looks more fragile than he’s ever been, even in the green pods, and Hinata wonders why he’s worried in a way beyond medical observation.)
However, there is one benefit to it, a meek silver lining that could hardly be considered one at all: Komaeda and Hinata end up accidentally interacting quite a lot. Komaeda follows lights– buildings with fluorescents open, signalling that Hinata is currently occupying them– and Hinata follows the soft sounds of Komaeda hanging out at the beach, throwing rocks into the ocean or tripping on some ridges and yelping.
The latter ends up happening when he exits the infirmary and sees in the distance a white-haired man face first on the beach shore, and he sighs in a way that isn’t fully exasperated as he walks over to help him out (maybe fond, maybe fond).
Komaeda tilts his face, his cheek still buried in sand, and looks up at Hinata. He decisively accepts his help, straightening himself out and brushing the sand off his pants with a smile. His voice is cheerful– far too cheerful for 5:00 AM– as he says, “Good morning, Hinata-kun! I’m so sorry you had to see me in such a disgraceful way!”
Hinata rolls his eyes. “You weren’t disgraceful. You just tripped. Also, why are you even out here?”
Komaeda’s lips curl slyly. “Do you even have to ask, Hinata-kun?”
“Ah.” Fair enough. “Well, you should, uh, try to get some sleep.”
“Will Hinata-kun get some sleep?”
It’s equally frustrating to talk to Komaeda and get him to do anything… and interesting. There’s also a bit of heat that wants to pour into his cheeks, something he fights with a poker face, at the idea that Komaeda cares about his sleep schedule. Technically, a lot of people on the island do, but it all comes back to the inexplicable feelings he has around the other. In any case, Komaeda’s due for an answer. “I was actually heading back to my cabin to do that.” It’s sort of a lie. Sort of.
(He was probably going to lay awake, staring at the ceiling again. Maybe he’ll think about the other, maybe he’ll think about everything else.)
“Can I come with you?” Komaeda asks.
Hinata squints. “… Why? How would that help either of us sleep?”
“It could be relaxing to be near another person,” Komaeda defends, his logic slightly flawed. “But I understand that being around me is absolutely dreadful, and I shouldn’t impose even the disturbing thought upon another person. I apologize for that, Hinata-kun! I’ll get out of your sight, now!”
“Wait,” Hinata finds himself saying before Komaeda can actually leave. The other stops and looks at him, a curious but not demanding expression in his murky grey eyes. It’s sort of cute. Hinata isn’t sure why, why he looks at the other in that way.
It’s with a defeated sigh that he says, “You can come with me,”
and Komaeda’s eyes light up in a way that’s really, really endearing.
–
The first time he meets Komaeda is a month after his conversation with Nanami.
Stress has settled onto his shoulders, making a permanent residence there, as exams approach at increasingly rapid paces and life-changing emails chase him forward, forward, forward. He finds little enjoyment in his spaces between classes, isolating himself up in his room and hardly having time to reply to any of his friends (not that there’s an overwhelming number of people on that list). Occasionally he takes a break, but these times just remind him that he has so much to do, so much to consider, his entire life might change with a few signatures and-
-he needs a breather.
He ends up leaving half-finished history homework on his tiny desk, nearly tripping over his laundry bin in exhaustion as he makes his way out of the dorms. He figures a small walk might do him some good, since he’s hardly seen the sun as of recent and it might be less intimidating to think through things when he has fresh air to breathe and the soft ambience of nature surrounding him.
He hums to himself for the first part of his walk, careful to stay out of the way of others, but he eventually falls into silence as the number of people around him dwindles. He’s tired– he’s so, so fucking tired– and he should probably be adjusted to fatigue and restless nights, since he’s not exactly new to overworking himself, but he hasn’t. Not fully. And God, he’d probably kill for a nap, for someone to hear him scream everything he thinks, to go to a completely different school for a few days and relax.
But would he even want that? Would he know what to do with so much free time? Would it even be okay, going to a place that would view him as equal, not endlessly lesser than another sector of the school? Would it even make sense to be worth something, when he has spent so long not being worth anything?
It’s in this rumination that he ends up near him and Nanami’s fountain, and he almost expects to see her there…
… but instead, he sees someone else.
The Main Course uniform is the first thing he sees, the red tie loose around the Ultimate’s neck, their jacket still buttoned properly. They must have been out there for a while, since their white hair, unruly atop their head, is slightly ruffled from the wind. Their grey-green eyes that remind Hinata of mercury he had seen in chemistry class is focused on the pavement, but looks up when Hinata’s footsteps grow closer. On their face, there’s a pleasant smile, one that Hinata finds strikingly pretty…
… one that disappears when they make eye contact with Hinata.
He can’t say he expected anything other than this.
“I thought reserve course classes were still in session,” they muse, which is an interesting conversation starter in any case. Paired with the way they were almost glaring at Hinata, it left him with… an unsettling feeling.
“They, uh, aren’t,” he replies eloquently. “They ended a bit ago.”
“Ah.” They smile, slightly, but it looks… more cold than friendly. “Can I get a name? Or should I just refer to you as ‘reserve-kun’?”
Hinata quickly decides he doesn’t like this person. “Uh, Hinata Hajime.”
They nod. “Komaeda Nagito.”
That name is… kind of familiar.
Oh. Oh. That’s the name of Nanami’s classmate. The Ultimate Lucky Student, who has strong views on talent and hope, if he remembers Nanami’s words correctly. Someone that Hinata would either like or hate– and it is strongly veering towards the later– someone who is a bit of an outcast. Someone who Hinata isn’t sure if he should have a lot of pity for, or none at all.
He’s heard more stories since, ones where Komaeda is a background character. He’s gotten the vague idea that aside from his unsettling opinions, he also tends to be an overall concerning individual, with a shocking inferiority complex, calling himself trash near constantly. It seemed to worry Nanami, which in turn worried Hinata.
But from the way this guy is talking, it doesn’t really seem like this guy feels inferior at all. At least, not compared to Hinata. Which is…
… not surprising.
Hinata isn’t really sure how to progress the conversation, especially one that started this oddly, so he figures he should make do with this new information, asking, “Oh, you know Nanami, right?”
“Nanami-san is my classmate, yes.” He tilts his head to the side and sits up a bit straighter. “You must be the reserve she’s friends with, then. In retrospect, I remember she’s mentioned your name once or twice. I thought she was kidding.”
Yeah. Hinata definitely doesn’t like this guy. “Well. She wasn’t.”
“So it seems.”
This conversation is going nowhere. “Well, I’m gonna go. And, uh. Finish my walk. So-”
Before Hinata can leave, Komaeda speaks up. “Don’t you feel awe, Hinata-kun, walking around Hope’s Peak, looking at a school filled with such hope and talent?” He punctuates those words, wrapping his arms around himself and looking up at Hinata. “Doesn’t it put you in your place? Knowing that you’re a stepping stone for hope, just here to further the Ultimates’ abilities? Isn’t it beautiful, so beautiful that you know you’re unworthy of it? Do you have another purpose aside from this, or do you put your value in mindlessly pacing the perimeter of Hope’s Peak Ac-”
“What the hell are you even talking about?” Hinata interrupts. This guy looks really worked up over the random bullshit he’s saying. He’s managed to get under Hinata’s skin really fast– which, yeah, Hinata has kind of a temper, but Jesus Christ.
This must be the whole concerning thing.
Komaeda just smiles wider. “You’re rather disrespectful for a reserve. Shouldn’t you be worshipping me? I mean, I’m utterly worthless in every possible way and deserve to be destroyed like the filth I am– but at least I’m an Ultimate.”
Hinata gives up, walking away from the other and running an agitated hand through his hair. He can hear Komaeda laughing raspily, still at the fountain, and it just forces his steps to go quicker.
(The most aggravating part of all of that is that it hurt. It shouldn’t– the opinion of a slightly-unhinged, annoying, pretty Ultimate shouldn’t hurt him. But it did.
Because there was some truth in that mess of shit he was saying. Hinata is inferior. Hinata would always be inferior to the Ultimates he looks up to– not as much as Komaeda said, but still. The whole being a stepping stone thing, he didn’t get, but… he is unworthy of this place. That much is true. That much hurts.)
He decides, without much hesitation, not to mention the encounter to anyone.
–
“Uh, make yourself at home, I guess,” Hinata says when Komaeda steps into his cottage, his eyes wide as he looks around the scene. Which is fair– Hinata hasn’t exactly had time to clean the place, and he’s sort of a restless sleeper, so it’s a shitshow of a mess, as of current. Komaeda’s room, from what Hinata’s seen, is a lot neater than this, so hopefully he isn’t all that judging.
(Not that Hinata really cares about Komaeda’s thoughts on his cabin.)
“Thank you, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda replies politely, sitting on the edge of the bed. Hinata sits beside him, and they both ignore the bed sheets that are tangled at their feet. “Once again, I apologize for intruding.”
“I invited you,” Hinata points out.
Komaeda frowns a bit. “Well, yes, but-”
“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here. I don’t exactly do things out of pity or kindness when I’ve been awake for over a day,” he states bluntly.
The other stares at him with a weird expression in his eye, something like understanding. “Ah.”
“Yeah.” Hinata kicks the sheets. “Speaking of.”
“Are you going to sleep, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda sort of teases, but there’s a level of seriousness in it. Hinata sort of hates the way the other makes him feel like he’s fucking up by neglecting himself (which is sort of an oxymoron in thought, but). It’s something Komaeda has always done– made Hinata feel like a fuck up, that is– but it’s sort of different, now, when it’s more of a constructive criticism than a blatant attack.
He’s not sure how he feels about the change.
“I was going to talk about you sleeping, actually,” he retorts, clearing his throat.
Komaeda smiles mischievously. “Did you invite me here just to watch me sleep? How flattering, Hinata-kun, but I assure you I would not be able to do harm to others or myself whilst asleep.”
“That’s,” he takes a deep breath, “not what I meant.”
“Ah, okay. Sorry for assuming!”
“It’s fine?” It sounds too much like a question to his ears, but. Whatever. “I just meant, like. I’m sort of concerned about your health.”
“This doesn’t seem like the mood to discuss this,” Komaeda observes.
Hinata blinks. “Was there a specific mood set by any of this?”
Komaeda looks unimpressed. “Hinata-kun, we’re in your room at 5:00 AM, spending time together. I don’t think this is ideal for a medical visit– especially considering how exhausted you are. I thought you were more trying to be a person than a doctor, right now.”
… There’s some truth in that. There’s some pain in that. Hinata doesn’t try to be inhuman in any way, but he knows, deep down, that it’s a difficult task to accomplish. Months of conditioning combined with the instinctual drive for survival resulted in Kamukura’s eternal boredom and apathy to manifest as a defense mechanism, one that Hinata employs in situations that aren’t necessarily defense-requiring. Like administering medicine, or investigating his own psyche, or trying to breach any topic with Komaeda.
He hates it, but it’s part of him, neither nature nor nurture. Just… a trait, forced upon him, one he has to adapt to.
“Hinata-kun?” Komaeda’s smile is thin. “I apologize for overstepping!”
“It’s fine.” He sort of has a headache. Maybe he should sleep. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Ah, Hinata-kun doesn’t have to apologize! He can do whatever he likes! I still appreciate him regardless!” he reassures enthusiastically, in an almost adoring way.
… And. The thing is.
Hinata has been viscerally aware of Komaeda’s attraction to him ever since he awoke from the Neo World Program. It didn’t take overwhelming amounts of self reflection and memory analysis to realize that Komaeda has had feelings for him, ever since the Despair Era, when neither of them were the person they are now or were before it all began. It’s present in Servant’s endless worship and Komaeda’s subtle (and sometimes, less subtle) affections.
It’s something that Hinata thought, initially, he could just… accept. The fact that the other likes him is simply a fact of life, like the fact that this same individual is still suffering from frontotemporal dementia and lymphoma, like the fact that the other has trauma neither of them can even begin to impact, like the fact that Hinata is privy to entirely too much about the other that he’s hardly aware of.
This is why his yearning and fondness for Komaeda, despite his conflicting thoughts of romance, takes him by surprise. The idea that Komaeda’s affections could be requited is a shocking concept to both of them, one that might be earth-shattering or simply a natural progression of their current behavior. It’s a thought that he keeps in the back of his mind, primarily, believing that not much can be done until Komaeda heals.
And yet, it surfaces in the quiet moments like this, where Komaeda has that energetically adoring expression, where the moonlight accentuates his face in a pretty way that will only get more beautiful with daybreak, where Hinata is just staring at him mindlessly. It surfaces like this, and Hinata wonders, to himself, if he loves the other.
If this is how it comes to him.
“Hinata-kun?”
Or maybe it’s just a lapse.
“I’m tired,” he replies, which isn’t a proper response but it is the only thing he can find himself saying, right then.
Komaeda nods and starts to stand up, “Ah, okay! I apologize if I bored you, I know I can tend to do that. I hope you sleep well, Hinata-kun-”
Hinata catches his wrist.
“Maybe,” he inhales. “You can stay? And sleep beside me?”
Komaeda’s face shifts, emotions spreading across his face like auroras, but they’re quickly stifled by another smile, one that seems a bit more genuine. “Ah, of course! Whatever Hinata-kun wants.” He takes the eagerness Komaeda exhibits while taking off his shoes and scooting to the center of the bed as confirmation that Komaeda wants this as well.
It’s odd how Hinata has the courage to ask something like that, despite everything.
Hinata draws the curtains closed, hoping that the sun won’t wake them up, and he slips beside Komaeda in bed. The other adjusts well to sleeping in someone else’s bed, all things considered, but he looks fairly stiff all the same. Hinata knows there’s nothing he can do to change his slight discomfort– anything he could do would be a bit too courageous, and he’s already expressed a lot of bravery considering that he’s more contemplative than rash, at the moment.
So he lays down beside him, facing the other who faces away, and he finds himself tracing the contours of his body (innocuous and entirely unrelated to medical concerns), the way his hair curls against his nape, how his hands lay at his sides. It calms him to study the other, and he wonders if that is love, if all of this is love, even if he has a thousand other concerns.
It takes a pathetically short five minutes before he says, “Komaeda…?”
“Yes, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda still sounds awake. He wonders if he was planning on sleeping at all.
He breathes out a soft exhale. “Can we talk?”
–
He does not see Komaeda again until after despair overcomes the world.
But by then, both him and Komaeda are separate people. The memories prior to the creation of himself– Kamukura Izuru, that being– are vague and only documented in a diary that Hinata Hajime struggled to maintain. And Servant, while not suffering direct memory loss of everything regarding Hope’s Peak Academy, does not appear to want to verbally recall anything regarding the school to Kamukura. This could be from lack of trust. This could be his nature.
They meet in a bloodied street, bodies scattered across the asphalt in an unpleasing way. From an aesthetic standpoint, it is disgusting, but Kamukura does not necessarily dislike it. He does not dislike anything.
He only finds this despair base.
Servant’s hands are dirtied from crusted blood, which is to be expected. His hair is awry, his face in a considerably tormented frown, and his attire is dirtied aside from his chain that drags obnoxiously loud on the pavement.
Kamukura clears his throat.
His face shifts drastically when he sees Kamukura, which is the most interesting part of his appearance, as of current, and he immediately drops to his knees. It is certainly an interesting display, yet predictable, and Servant’s voice is raspy when he says, “Kamukura Izuru.”
“So you have heard of me.” That is understandable. The only reason Kamukura is at this location, after all, is because Enoshima requested prior to her death that Kamukura take ownership of Servant. She had considered it a present to him, but Kamukura finds nothing to be a gift, especially when it is at her hands.
One of her hands is severed and attached in place of where Servant’s would be. Expectable.
“You’re the Ultimate Hope,” he breathes. “I- I have been looking for you-”
“How convenient,” he cuts off his likely obnoxious rambling. He does not want to hear about his godhood from the lens of a worshipper. “As I was looking for you.”
Servant’s face flushes. “You were looking for me? Ahaha, I’m sure you must be mistaken.”
“Enoshima stated that in her death, you were to be my property. Transitive ownership.” His face twists at the sound of her name, which is not necessarily expected, but can be easily explained retroactively. “You are mindlessly idling, as of current. You plan to travel to Towa City, but have not done so yet. You have killed seventeen people directly in your time of being a Remnant of Despair, but you are growing bored.”
Despite his wide eyes and droll expression, Servant is clever enough to catch on. “You would like me to travel with you, Kamukura-kun? I warn you, I am useless in every possible way and unworthy of your presence.”
Kamukura glares at him. “I will determine that.”
“… Understood.” Servant hesitates before standing up, and there is shocking amounts of excitement in his expression. “I apologize for being overeager, I’ve never travelled with someone like this before. Someone like you before.”
“That is to be expected,” Kamukura says as he begins to walk, stepping over corpses with grace as the Remnant beside him trips and stumbles, babbling about despair and hope and talent all the way.
From there, an attachment forms. They continue to travel in this manner, relocating from place to place with little but each other’s companionship (and what they can find, in this cataclysmic scenario– assorted piles of canned vegetables and month-old water bottles). Along the way grows learning, basic answers to questions that benefit both of them only slightly, though prove to be boring, as Kamukura does not have a favorite color or movie or food. But the basis of small talk leads to a more expanded exploration of morality, of death and life and the liminality of such matters, philosophy and physics and their prediction for where the world will be.
Kamukura discovers, then, that Servant is not capable of matching him in intelligence. However, he nears close to having this ability, exhibiting his cleverness in a distinctly separate way than how Enoshima enforced her analytical prowess upon her victims. It is refreshing, to have this difference. It is refreshing, by extension, to have him.
That is how the evolution of their relationship begins.
Sexual ties between them have been present from the start. Servant is poor at concealing his overwhelming attraction to the other, and Kamukura has curiosities he was not interested in exploring with Enoshima. Thus begins tumultuous, albeit safe to an extent, exploratory intercourse, which Kamukura finds not particularly boring.
Then becomes an inherent domesticity in residing together, in sharing beds (although, Servant only allows himself to sleep beside Kamukura if he is particularly in pain, that day. Kamukura does not necessarily mind if Servant continues to sleep beside him, but it is a matter of principle that is tedious to undo, especially with no distinct want to commit effort to it). Along with sleeping together, there is having meals together, defending each other from robotic Monokumas when it becomes necessary, and even reading together.
It is all not particularly interesting. It is all not particularly boring. It exists in a grey area that Kamukura struggles to define.
He dislikes struggling.
There is a particular day, once, that he would consider lucky (were he to indulge in this thought towards Servant, the other would likely break down) due to the numerous realizations had. The primary one, and the most convoluted one by far, is the realization that he is perhaps infatuated with the other.
It comes whilst Servant is asleep, his body bare aside from the marring of bruises and hickeys, thin sheets layered in dust resting atop him. Kamukura observes him from where he sits at the edge of the bed, admiring the way the red sky highlights Servant’s body in an almost rosy way, porcelain skin glimmering with red contours that made the Ultimate Artist in Kamukura transfixed. Part of him desired to reach out and trace his body on impulse– and it would not be the first time he sought touch out of poorly placed impulse. However, he refrains.
A small part of him– a romantic, likely, in all but practice– finds that touching him may, perhaps, detract from the natural beauty he exudes. It is not like Kamukura is anything other than manmade.
This is a thought that crosses his mind often. Rather, the latter is. However, with Servant in his life as a catalyst, the frequency of such thoughts rapidly accelerates, and he finds a sense of permanence in the other. Something he is rather interested in exploring, given the time. There are many, many inquiries he would indulge in, given the time.
They are not given time.
He had prepared an injection in advance, one to make Servant unconscious for approximately 48 hours. It is enough time to execute a procedure that would remove Servant’s memories of Kamukura, a similar procedure that he will attempt to repeat on himself (he has done thorough research into lobotomies due to his experiences. Even without this research, it would not be a particularly difficult task. However, his emotions pose a hindrance). He is aware that he should inject Servant now, as, according to his predictions and intuition, he has confidence in the fact that the Future Foundation will locate them within that period of time.
He would like to evade them. He knows he is able to, that he has a capacity to outwit them, that Servant would heed every command necessary to guarantee their survival. After all, there is no certainty in the prospect that the Future Foundation would keep them alive.
Despite this, Kamukura is… curious. He is intrigued as to what the Future Foundation will do, once they capture him and Servant, and he knows that they cannot evade the Future Foundation forever. They will grow bored.
It is regrettable, he thinks as he injects Servant with the serum, stroking his hair for purely selfish purposes as he does so. It is regrettable that they did not have infinite time together. However, Servant is dying to his own illness, and Kamukura is dying, metaphorically, to the boredom that he can not fully stave away, even with his agreeable companionship. It is poetic, in the same sense, that they will be captured and perhaps be executed before they could fully breach the barrier of worship and love, something Kamukura is not certain he could attain.
In all senses, it is over, and Servant will not remember him by the time he awakes in the grasp of the Future Foundation.
(A part of Kamukura recalls their first meeting with feigned nostalgia, remnants of the emotion that must have existed before his creation, and he wonders– or, cynically, he hopes– that he may meet the other again, and finish the life they began.)
–
Komaeda rolls over and smiles, slightly sleepy. “What do you want to talk about, Hinata-kun?” After a pause, he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” he says with a little too much force. “I’ve just had some. Things on my mind. That I want to talk about?”
It’s sort of a half-truth, because it feels wrong to say that it’s been something on his mind. Because it has been, and it has been for a while– but he hardly knows if what he’s feeling is love, if it’s worth indulging in this when he has so much to work on. If he can even be certain of his thoughts at all.
But he wants to talk to Komaeda– maybe to get perspective, and finally decide.
So, he closes his eyes and starts talking. “I was thinking about the simulation, and before. More specifically, us.”
He can hear the bitterness in Komaeda’s voice when he says, “Ah. How I betrayed and belittled you?”
“Not exactly.” But it’s part of it. “… You said in the simulation that you were in love with me, right?”
There’s a pause. One that’s long enough that Hinata almost wants to open his eyes, but he needs to isolate himself in his thoughts temporarily, dissect the words and his feelings and come to a conclusion. It’s something he’s good at (but love isn’t survival games, or class trials. If they were, he would have figured this out a long time ago, back when Nanami was still around).
When Komaeda eventually speaks, it’s brief but telling. “… Yes.”
“And. You didn’t like me much before all of that, but… as Servant, you-”
“Worshipped and admired Kamukura-kun, yes.” He sounds almost nervous. Komaeda rarely sounds like this, and it’s almost enough to stop pushing. “… Why do you ask? Don’t you already know this, Hinata-kun?”
Hinata sighs. “Yeah, technically. But I’ve been thinking about it more, and…” he opens his eyes, now. Komaeda’s face is vacant– no smile, no frown, just a straight line that wavers if he stares hard enough. His eyes are filled with emotion he can’t uncover, emotions he doesn’t want to uncover. But… he watches them carefully regardless, makes note of how they shift. “We’ve had an interesting relationship, throughout all our time knowing each other. In our one encounter back at Hope’s Peak, we didn’t get along, and things in Despair were… intimate, yet twisted.”
“That’s one way to consider it,” Komaeda says, and it isn’t quite hatred in his voice, but something close. Something Hinata knows not to take personally.
“And. I’ve been thinking about where it leaves us, now. And– I mean, it’s something in the back of my head, but not really. Filling all my thoughts? It just sort of came up while we were sitting here, before I said we should sleep, and sometimes I think about it when I’m not working around the island. So it’s sort of…” a dormant thing, has been in the back of my mind forever because I put it there, because I didn’t want to accept that I like you, because I’m too afraid and I know you are too, but there’s something about you, something about this, and I’m curious to know where it goes- “Yeah.”
Komaeda nods. “I see.”
“I think you know where I’m going with this.”
There’s a silence. Then- “I’d rather not.”
“… Rather not what?”
He already knows, but he wants to hope, wants to hope that Komaeda will allow himself this, despite everything. And yet…
… “Rather not believe what you are implying, Hinata-kun.” And the bitterness is directed at him this time, but Komaeda has always tore at him claws to hide something else, whether it be personal insecurity or infatuation or fear. Hinata thinks it might be all three, now. “You are aware of my love for you, how you could use it to your benefit, how you could disregard me and I would-” his breath catches.
“Komaeda?”
“… hardly complain,” he finishes. “I would hardly complain if you used me, because it’s you. You’re aware that you could make this so easy– and you aren’t even certain of this. I’ve been certain ever since I knew you, even when I hardly knew anything about you, even when I stayed with you to wake up on that island, I knew. But you don’t, and you could make it so easy and just give up on me, because it’s not like I would love you less or hate you more, but you’re acting on impulse. You rarely act on impulse, so why are you…”
There are tears in Komaeda’s eyes.
“… When I first met you,” Hinata starts. “I thought you were pretty. An asshole, but pretty. In despair, Kamukura was interested in you, and he was bored of everything else, even her. And he knew your worship, and that was the most boring part of you, to him, because he didn’t like being treated like a god, not by you. And… and in the simulation, I remember the betrayal I felt when I knew one of the only people I trusted turned their back on me. And- and when I saw your corpse-”
Komaeda shakes his head, but Hinata doesn’t stop. “-When I saw your corpse, I was so fucking pissed, because you’re smart and fucked up and I almost missed you that trial, despite everything. And despite everything, now when I woke you up, when I had to run into the infirmary and out of it and had to do all those fucking psychodives to get you out, I thought it was worth it.”
“Hinata-kun.”
“I thought– I knew, and I know– that you are worth it.”
And even though Komaeda’s stare is intimidating, and even though Hinata’s so uncertain of everything right now, he’s confident in that.
He’s never been more confident in anything, actually.
–
When Hinata wakes up on an unfamiliar island, with an aching head and endless questions about his surroundings, he’s greeted by a stranger, with a slight smile on their face. They had slightly tostled white hair, cloudlike and wispy, that falls just above their dim green eyes, and they have a slender yet alluring physique that Hinata almost finds pretty, in his dazed state.
After they confirm that Hinata is awake, they introduce themself. “… I’m Komaeda Nagito. Nice to meet you.”
Hinata accepts the hand he offers him and stands up, brushing sand off his pants (why are they at a beach?) and replying, “Hey, I’m Hinata Hajime.”
Komaeda leads him around the island, introducing him to all the others that had left him behind, unconscious, on the beach (he can’t really blame him. He’s still embarrassed about how he just… passed out. At least Komaeda isn’t judging him for it). He offers his own quips and commentary about the island, one Hinata finds insightful, if not slightly odd at times, and he begins to develop a trust for the other.
Sort of. Because, well, it’s not like he can really trust anyone, when they all woke up on a random fucking island with no idea of what’s going on, aside from some random shit a rabbit tells them. But, for as weird Komaeda can sometimes be and the weird situation they’re in, he establishes him as trustworthy early on. Someone to rely on, even when everything goes to hell.
(And littered in there, far enough in the back of his head that he sort of forgets about it, he is sort of infatuated with the other. In a super base way– because he’s a teenager, c’mon– but, still. Komaeda’s pretty, and he’s friendly, and he thinks there’s some significance in that.
Of course, everything changes when the first murder occurs. When the trial happens, and truths are revealed. When everything spirals downwards for the rest of their ‘island vacation’, and Hinata realizes that Komaeda should have never been trusted at all.
… But he can’t bring himself to hate him, despite everything. Even when he’s faced with his corpse.)
–
There is a long silence that fills the room, after his admission.
It’s understandable, considering that Komaeda… has never quite had anyone stay by his side as long as Hinata has. He’s probably never considered the possibility of requited love or care of anything, has never been able to reconcile with the idea that Hinata wants to stay despite the fucked-up mess of trauma and disease his brain is filled with. He probably finds himself vacant, like Hinata does, sometimes, like every quirk about him that makes him distinctive and worthy of love is completely null, and that he is cursing Hinata by being around him this long.
It’s more fucked up than Hinata can sometimes conceptualize, but. As he said, it’s worth it.
Hinata breaks the silence, knowing that he should be patient with the other, who has had his mentality partially shattered in a brief period of time, but slightly worried that the progress they’ve made would fall at a stalemate in complete silence. “… Komaeda?”
“Hinata-kun.” His voice is both empty and emotional, and it leaves an ache in Hinata’s chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand, still. I’m not…” he trails off.
“You are worth it,” Hinata insists, because he knows the way that Komaeda thinks, knows where his mind is going. “We don’t have to do anything, or be anything, if you don’t want to. I just… thought you should know, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, so. Thought it was worth saying.”
“Worth,” Komaeda echoes quietly. His laugh is at the same volume, raspy and choked. “I… I really like you, Hinata-kun, but I can’t let you endanger yourself.”
Hinata shakes his head. “Your luck can’t affect me badly, remember? I’m lucky too.”
“It has in the past. Before you remember. When me and Kamukura-kun were together, and how bad luck and consequent good luck would follow us around. He thought it was interesting. I knew we weren’t safe. And we weren’t.” He sighs, and Hinata wants to reach out and brush his cheek with his fingertips, ensure that he isn’t just a ghost. “If I hurt you, Hinata-kun-”
“You won’t,” Hinata argues.
Komaeda raises his voice, slightly. “But if I do, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Knowing that you chose to have something with me, despite all your responsibilities and all the risks I bring to you just by existing… it would kill me, Hinata-kun. I’m already dying and I’ve done it once, but… it would really, really kill me. I don’t think I would be able to lose you. I don’t…” He looks so tired.
Hinata reaches out, then, and intertwines their fingers. Komaeda doesn’t push him away, and he takes it as a good sign. “You aren’t going to lose me. And I know we can’t be certain of what’ll happen in the future, but… I think we deserve something good. So much bad shit has happened, and we’re healing and everything, but I think we also deserve to find something like… hope. In each other. Y’know? And, obviously, it’s only if you want. I’m not gonna, like, make you date me, or something.” He squeezes his hand. “But, I don’t want you to keep yourself from someone you want– something we want– out of fear. We’re not going to die, Komaeda. And even if we did… every second that led to it would be worth it.”
Komaeda’s eyes flutter shut. It hurt to see the pain in his eyes, but his scrunched eyebrows and shaky lip is almost worse. “I… I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you want to do?” Hinata asks gently.
“I…” he cuts himself off, thinking in silence as Hinata rubs circles into his palm. Eventually, his eyes open, and his expression is tentative and a bit scared, but Hinata can see some hope in it. It’s almost enough to make him smile, but he fights it off and waits for Komaeda to finish. “I… I want this. But, I don’t deserve it.”
“You want it,” Hinata reminds him softly, “and I want it. So, I think it’s okay for us to have, yeah?”
He hesitates, but eventually says, “… Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he repeats, and then he gives him a slight smile. “I can work with maybe.”
Komaeda responds with a fleeting smile, one that makes Hinata let go of his hand and tug him forward into a warm embrace. Komaeda’s face nestles into the other’s shoulder, and he can hear a muffled voice whisper, “I love you, Hinata-kun. I really do.”
A weight he thought would permanently be on his shoulders disappears, and he breathes out a long sigh of relief as he tightens his grip on Komaeda’s waist. And, with a voice that echoes himself through all of the years of knowing Komaeda, through the stress and irritation and curiosity and trust, in a journey that was just as much his as it was theirs, he says, “I love you too.”
Even after everything.
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